Xak and Cherie (Lad)

Dear Lad,

° Of all the movies I've seen lately, it's De-Lovely I'll never forget. And the reason why is because it was advertised in print and in ether for 10:05, and postponed to 10:50 by a curt message on the locked plateglass doors. Folks were sputtering, and yanking the doorhandles, for it was in the Octave of Bastille Day. Half an hour later, when the doors opened, sturdy sorts lined up for the manager, just to give her a hiding.

° Yes, her. For Xak was hiding out behind one of those multiple doors labelled "Private;" it was pure chance--Destiny, let us call it religiously, since it was Domenica--that put me in a position to sight him at all as he rushed across the hall to a new lair. It was worth the luck. Xak, you know, looks exactly like Piers. Or at least the way Piers would look if he lacked those waifboy eyes that make you want to shelter the child in him from all harm. And at least the way Piers would look if he looked like he'd just now recollected that the Sun was up and that, come high noon, Saturday night would definitely be over. And at least the way Piers would look if instead of having someone who knew what she was doing highlight his hair he'd taken a Home Depot fivefortwobucks paintbrush and painted six blond stripes across his head. Even the suit, spotless and wrinklefree, looked wallowed in.

° Xak looks like a peach mushyripe, attained and attainable, I never saw a more attractive male in my whole life. That's just me.

° If I'd been angry over the delay, I'd've pursued and tonguelashed him, I kindof think he'd like it . . . .

° But I wasn't, angry, 'cause I'd spent the wait chatting up Cinema Guy, who was no Xak, but--he wasn't bad for a safetyguy of a certain age. Mad, cinemamad, even compared with me. For he intended to skip brunch for a 1:30 of Before Sunset which would allow for translocation in time for the 3:00 of Lost Boys of the Sudan. He knew all the dope on Dogville, but I flummoxed him all the same, 'cause I got Grace's point: "Some things you just have to do yourself." The Antipassion of the Christess. (That afternoon he stroked my arm in the lobby of the Art House, so he'd forgiven my passionate von Trierism.)

° Inside he sat under a potlight and read the New York Times till dark fell--and resumed during the ten minutes while the broken film was repairing.

° How well insulated he was from any incursion into his environment, only a cell phone could've rendered him deafer, more withdrawn from his present . . . .

° Well I wouldn't skip a meal to see Michelangelo paint penes on the reredos of the Sistine Chapel. Trattoria Coloreproibito brunch, buttermilk pancakes so highlyrisen the cook must have a degree in analytical chemistry. The coffee, the richest I've found in Overton, gone bitter; my fault; no, Xak's fault; no, the typographer's fault; no, nobody's fault, 'cause the culprit most likely is dyslexic, and that's not his fault . . . .

° Cherie waited table. Talk about friendly. Talk about a bare midriff. The night before, a customer had insisted she was a transvestite, "You certainly don't look like a woman." That's cold. In fact, scrawny and breastless as she is, she looks very womanly indeed, the curves are understated, but they're genuine.

° "You sure don't look like a woman." Yes, that's very cold. It's worse than when I answer the phone and the sex of my tenor voice is mistaken, there I can just play the part. But Cherie, in person . . . .

° She sat down with me bimeby, I told her how disappointing De-Lovely was--she had no more idea who Cole Porter was than a fleatale, made me think of the review that identified him as an early twentiethcentury pop singer--she told me of her fave movie (a Gibson flick, but definitely not Gospel), of her marriage and divorce and continued amicability, of her chocolate lab, of her work history, of her future plans, of--well about then another table required attention, isn't it always the way!

° A table of six twentysomethings. Immediately upon being seated, I had categorised and ranked the guys according to looks, just for practise. A blond, open faced, with attractively receding hairline. A scruffy Bad Boy, offering and asking for it. A loquacious and invisible Fatman. A remarkably handsome Iranian, well dressed, trimbearded. A brunet, who looked better from behind.

° And the one who looked like you. That is, as much like you as Xak looks like Piers.

° They talked of pop music and popular music and contemporary music. They went to the bathroom by ones and ones.

° The middleaged threesome at the next table talked of real estate and zoning regulations.

° The elderly male couple at the next table talked of--well they'd been together so long there wasn't much left to say.

° If a single hand was held, a single glance exchanged--it was like being back in the convent in Trastevere.

° (Yet I take your point, it was all very relaxing somehow. Sex checked at the door, at least till Happy Hour, and maybe even then. These guys seem so confident that in Overton Supply equals Demand, that they have the leisure to be friends first. In Pope no wonder guys get desperate. And think of small towns, and out in the country.

° Though surely by two a.m. the Xaks still become tutto cazzo, I somehow hope so.)

° And yes, he smiled and spoke as I was leaving. The ultramale manager, blond hair freshly shortened, muscles bulging against a by no means tight shirt.

§§

° You understand, of course, about the table of six. The order of ranking . . . .

° See the genuine you as soon as possible . . . .

° Affectionately, Giac