Early Warning

Richie felt that he could go either way, depending on the girl. He was a little lonely, so he could imagine himself making something permanent, living in Brooklyn, an upper-floor apartment where the plumbing worked and the cockroaches were more reticent. He could imagine himself talking to this girl and making jokes, and going out to breakfast and seeing movies and taking the subway to work every morning. And not introducing her to Michael. On the other hand, there was nothing wrong with the system they’d come up with, and they could have dated every night if they felt like it. There were that many girls.

New Hope was about an hour and fifteen minutes away. The town was full of restaurants and shops, and all the houses were fixed up, with paint jobs and gardens. Michael said this was mostly because the queers decided they needed a nicer spot than Woodstock, and a closer one, too. This was how New York worked — money went to the Hamptons, hippies and Jews went to the Catskills, queers went to New Hope and Fire Island. In the back seat, Michael was making out with Marnie. They were laughing, and she said, “I should have worn jeans! Keep your hand in your own pants, Michael!”

“You know you don’t mean that.”

“I do. Shit!” She sounded actually annoyed.

Richie tapped the brake pedal, and the car lurched. There was a moment of silence. When he looked in the rearview mirror, Richie saw Michael hoist himself upright. A moment later, he put on his seat belt (Richie could hear the click), and then Marnie put on hers. He and Ivy exchanged a glance and a smile. Ivy’s lips formed the words “Mission accomplished,” and the two of them laughed, but softly.

Inside the Prelude, the sight of men with their arms around one another, dancing together and sometimes kissing, sort of shocked him, and when he looked again, there was the even odder sight of very, very tall women with narrow hips in high heels and heavy makeup who he realized after a few minutes were men in drag. Twice, they had seen shows of dance numbers on the stage. The dancers were beautiful and skilled, and when they bowed at the end, they pulled off their wigs and revealed their bristly heads. They got rounds and rounds of applause. The flashing lights and the pounding music made these sights all the more strange; it took him maybe fifteen minutes every time he came to stop staring and start having fun. No matter how well dressed Marnie and Ivy were, he and Michael got the stares. Ivy started laughing as soon as they walked in the door — she loved the outfits the cross-dressers had on that she herself didn’t have the figure or the nerve to wear, and she loved the dedication with which some of these guys had taught themselves wonderful old Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly moves. She kept poking him and pointing. The music was disco, but the dancing, often, was American in Paris. She got so pleased that she kissed him, saying, “Oh, you are sweet, Richie.”

He danced and danced, making sure he partnered with both Ivy and Marnie, until he collapsed at a table and ordered a Heiny. Michael liked Stoli and grapefruit juice. He said it was nutritious.

At one-thirty, Richie was ready to go — after five Heinies, he was still okay to drive, but he didn’t want a sixth. Ivy was sleeping against his shoulder, and Marnie was dancing with a tall woman in heels who needed a shave. Right then, the Donna Summer song came on, “Last Dance.” He didn’t know where Michael was until he heard his voice. Three queers on the dance floor were having an argument Richie had heard before: “He’s mine, he’s going home with me,” followed by “No, Tommy, this is my new friend. I’m leaving with him.” Then another voice, saying, “You want to come with us?” Then the first voice, rising, “I brought you! You called me because your transmission is fucked! I paid the cover!” Then Michael’s voice, “Yeah!”

Richie eased Ivy’s head onto the table and stood up. He was a little off kilter. Michael’s voice shouted, “All right.” It was Michael’s I’m-about-to-punch-somebody voice. Richie made his way through the hugging bodies on the dance floor. They were in the back corner. Michael’s jacket was off, and his shirt was unbuttoned, but the three guys (all dressed as guys) were ignoring him. One was shaking his head regretfully, and another was putting his arm around the head shaker’s waist. The third was between Michael and his friends; just as he opened his mouth, Michael pushed him toward the other two and exclaimed, “Act like a fucking man, you faggot!” The guy fell forward, and the other two caught him. Michael ran at them and managed to grab one of them before Richie knocked into his twin and bumped him aside; then he closed his fingers around Michael’s upper arm and pushed him across the dance floor to where Marnie was petting Ivy’s hair. He said, “Let’s go to the diner. I need a cup of coffee before we head home.”

“Fuck you,” said Michael.

“Oh,” said Ivy. “Me, too. Me, too. Can we have a pancake?”