Kiel and Barnaby (Lad)

Dear Lad,

° I was sitting there in the side room at Café Chanel, my mind as empty as the derelict building that was backdrop for Natalie Wood's downward spiral in This Property Is Condemned. A little earlier I had been wondering why you resist my cogent reasoning when I assert that Chanel serves espresso martinis, the cups dipped into vinegar instead of vermouth, else what could explain the sourness? Bitter coffee can happen to anyone, but sour must be intentional. A little after that I had been gazing at my dried coffee scum where there was nothing to be seen but a set of outstanding eyes. I naturally supposed they were meant to be cat eyes, but they certainly weren't Asia's. Maybe some Persian was to cross my path today. Persian cat.

° My mind was empty and my eyes ready for his entrance, Kiel's. He strode into the crossvineroofed pergola, all blond as he was, surveyed the crowd, then threw up his hands in delight and scurried over to a table where he embraced a very handsome and wellgroomed exfootballernowbankertype male and kissed him on the neck. At least I reckon it was his neck, the urn of speckled coleus was partly in the line of sight. The exnowtype male pulled back, reddened, neck and all. The postcoedal woman across the table from him had a look of sudden Whatthe! on her features. After a monologue and some solo laughter, Kiel dashed up the steps and approached the bar. Exnowtype and his wifeorgirlfriend began to gesticulate, she mostly with her Dietrichwaxed eyebrows, and pretty soon she flounced out the front of the pergola, he following with his tail dragging behind him.

° Naturally I have no idea what they were discussing, miao!

§

° Kiel joked with the multipierced, streakybluehaired barista, ordered nothing, then came into the side room, where he sat under the No Smoking sign and lit up. "You don't mind," he stated flatly.

° "Not in the least," I replied the way I would. For one used to inhale more secondhand smoke in a doctor's waitingroom than now one will encounter in a workingclass sportsbar in a score of years.

° "Kiel."

° "Giac."

° He then commenced to come on to me. Or, if you prefer, to flirt with me. I do not say this out of vanity--though it was rather gratifying--for I was almost entirely dispensable. If I hadn't been there he'd've been flirting with the female barista; and if she'd left the room he'd've romanced the faucet in the sink. I hardly know if aggressive is the word, simply permanently "on." Reminded me of Tallulah, only with more copious testosterone. His hair, young as he was, was thinning at the temples, his legs and arms were freshly depilated; his shorts were weekendy, his 1950's boy's pullover shirt, raffish with magenta piping, had brownish stains along the waistline that I hoped were tobaccospit. Slender, wellfavoured. Just finishing last night's hangover, looking to start tonight's. Just furious with last night's trick, looking--.

° Tallulah.

° "Look, your friends are leaving."

° "Friend." He snuffed the first cigarette and lit the next. "Honestly, Giac, I just don't get this bi stuff."

° I didn't think he was asking me to enlighten him.

§

° Pretty soon he was tired of flirting at me, went to the bathroom, joked with the barista, looked out the window at the mixedsex pickings under the pergola, returned, resumed flirting at me.

° It was about then that the Eyes appeared. Barnaby.

° "O look, here's Barnaby, fresh from Church." That might well be, for his polo shirt was clean.

° "Not Anglican, I deduce. Unsuited."

° "Apostolic Church of God."

° "Do tell," I replied in amazement.

° Barnaby had the largest, brownvelvet eyes you ever did see off a Bamber or a chocolate lab. Not especially handsome, older than Kiel, brunet. But yes, Eyes. I silently congratulated my coffee scum. Mischief accomplished.

° Not a word.

° "Barnaby, this is Giac." To me, "We live together." Not a word. "Barnaby's fortytwo."

° "No," I said loyally.

° "Show him your driver's license." And he did, I could've recorded his number had I been wearing a miniature mysteryshoppertype camera. If it had been working. And if I'd had the faintest desire to.

° Not a word.

° He did glimpse up at the No Smoking sign, but not a word.

° None needed, Kiel was at once on the defenseattack, "O for crying out loud, what a goody goody." He snuffed the second and lit the third.

° I was beginning to feel a little near groundzero, I could hardly wait.

§

° Bimeby the barista, emptying the trash in the hallway, smiled a request whether Kiel or Barnaby wanted coffee?

° "God, all I want's a bloody Mary. And Gomer here doesn't drink coffee."

° "Not drink coffee? How ever does he practise divination then?" I didn't say this, but I thought it.

° "Or smoke either. Do you think you could just say something?"

° "You obviously don't want to hear anything I have to say." O boy, here it was!

° "Well not if you're going to be all drablike and everything. Christ! Sad in the morning sad at noon sad at night, God it gets old."

° Barnaby's eyes began to well up with tearfluid. Well not really, his eyes were too large for his tear glands to flood. He did, however, look as if his feelings were hurt.

° "O well that's just f------ it then, hell I'm out of smokes. Could you see me one, Giac?"

° "Sorry, I don't smoke."

° So off he went.

° I was sorry I don't smoke, 'cause if I could've supplied him with fresh fags, no telling how the drama would've developed.

§

° "So, y'all live together?" For in the absence of coffee scum, there's no alternative but straightforward prying.

° "'Live together'? He moved in with me a year ago, and now he won't leave."

° I pondered that. I'm still pondering that. When they were casting the new Alexander (the Great) flick, no one thought of me for the lead: I often bewail my own infirmity of purpose. Yet I can dominate any dog and accommodate any cat. And I can't help but think that sometime in that year of misfitification--.

° I found myself humming, mumbling the lyrics:

"When I get home I'm gonna change my lock and key;

When you get home you'll find an awful change in me."

Yes, on what occasion in life does Bessie Smith fail us?

° And then he just let it all out, every Nietzschean resentment, every callous and corn, every--all he left out was what had drawn them together in the first place.

° "Yes," said I, "I can see that somebody like Kiel, who, as it were, takes charge consummately, would be very refreshing for you, for you are somewhat laid back. You have beautiful eyes," I added by way of taradiddle.

° "Yes, smoker and nonsmoker, drinker and nondrinker (not even coffee!), outgoing and introverted, yes, one can see the attraction.

° "But, Barnaby, mightn't it have been enough for you, as a nonswimmer, just to dive off the high board into the deepend of the pool; did you really need to fly to Acapulco and hurl yourself off the cliffs? Well just look at the time, brunch will be over before you know it. So pleased to meet you. Say goodbye to Kiel for me. Such beautiful eyes!"

§§§§§

° So here you are, my little Lad, Tallulah and Zasu Pitts; or, since you don't have the faintest idea who Zasu was, Scarlett and Frank Kennedy, for he was, in her own words, "una zitella." (For "old maid" is a term enlightened males have abandoned. In English.)

° Or at least Hammer and Nail, only that overestimates the invulnerability of the Hammer.

§

° What makes a Man a coquette? What makes a Man an old maid? What makes a Senator in his whitecollared wedgewoodblue dress shirts prissy? What makes a President snarly and bitchy? What made the celluloid Cowboy lisp?

° As long as you focus on the Woman inside the Man, you'll find you know the answer.

° But if you imagine that Women are from Venus, and Men Are Not, you're just asking to be fooled.

° Affectionately, Giac