Ready for Battle

One summer during university I was able to make some extra money working for the theatre in my home town.  They were staging a modern version of Romeo & Juliet, under a tent.  I was hired as a hand, hauling, moving, shifting things.  The tent itself was a large nylon affair, with two openings opposite each other that let in the aggressive early-season mosquitoes.

Years before, after a college program in Journalism, I worked at that same theatre in public relations.  Wanting more, I decided to get a degree, but the theatre would call on occasion.  As I had finished my year in April, by June I was starved for cash and took this small bit of labour to tide me over.

It was a two week run, and as is wont in the theatre, everyone who had taken part was invited to the opening night - even a lowly hand like me.  I had been given a fistful of tickets, but at that point had very little money and no one in my life, so I went on my own. 

The lights dimmed in the tent and then one heard the roar of large engines.  In the dark, headlights flashed on at those opposing openings.  Two cars came barrelling at each other, crunching together in the middle of the tent.  Then they reversed and separated.  The lights came up as the Montagues and the Capulets jumped out of their mangled vehicles.  Talk about an arresting opening.

Various members of both families were armed with bats and knives.  The bats were twirled and swung.  Headlights were smashed.  Voices were punctuated with knives pointing at faces.  A few of the men were standing on the hoods of the cars, throwing insults.

One of these men, with bravura stance, in military boots, was Alphonse.  He was on the hood near the lamps, and had a few lines among that din of voices - but of which family he belonged I can't now recall.  His hair was long, curly, and dark brown.  He was swarthy.  Even from the bench I was at I could see the dark shadow of his beardline on his clean-shaven face.

I remember it was a warm summer night and we were packed like sardines, being bitten in the dark.  I was in shorts, so I was happy when it had wrapped up for the night.  As much of a novelty as it was, I had seen my share of Shakespeare by that point, having been employed in the front office.

And so began the after party, opening night.  I was able to pick out familiar faces and chat.  I saw Alphonse move around the room.  I had my eye on him, but he was so engaged with other cast members and scattered congratulations that he need not talk to me.  I recall glances, but gleaned no messages from them.

And why, in fact, would we talk at all?  He was in the cast, I was hired labour, my job done until tear-down.  But the food and booze were free, so I lingered until the lights came up sometime after midnight.  There were only a handful of people still there, but he was there.  And then he was next to me with a half empty plate and a smile on his face.  There was a stem of grapes among the picked over meat and tired cheese that we both reached for at the same time.  He got them and we laughed and shared them.  Close to him now, awkwardly talking, I could see a swirl of dark chest hair at his collar.  He had a sharp jawline and a slight accent.  I guessed he was French Canadian.

He was planning to leave finally, speaking to his fellows, arranging rides.  I told him I had a car and could take him to his apartment hotel.  He agreed, as casually and naturally as if it were meant to be.  Then we were in the parking lot.  There was a singular street lamp a ways off that cast a harsh light into my car.  I didn't turn the engine over.  As if he knew exactly what I wanted, he reached over and kissed me.  His tongue was in my mouth and my hands were at his shirt buttons.

He must have known I was lonely, maybe he was lonely too, and that common denominator made for complete understanding.  We tumbled into the back seat, not leaving the car, but climbing over for fear of alerting any party stragglers.  I managed to open his shirt so I could get my hands on his chest.  He went for my belt buckle and sank his fingers under the strap of my briefs.

We must have spent an hour in the back seat, I can't exactly remember, but by agreement we were both exhausted.  Nothing of any physical significance happened.  There was no carousing porn epochal fuck, but we certainly shared our bodies.  Two men together in the half light have good imaginations.  Of course this was 1989 you must remember, and the AIDS epidemic was only in its first decade.

E.M. Forster had a literary theory that he held to for the whole span of his writing life: "Only connect."  In its purest form this is exactly what happened that night with Alphonse, for E.M. is not speaking of social discourse but rather an unspoken erotic communication.  Sexual communion.

There are images in my brain as I write this that I won't forget.  My head resting on the inside of his thigh.  My tongue in his navel.  My left hand on his sternum, fingers spread.  He was hairy everywhere. "Oh my God, oh my God," I kept saying.  He was looking down on me through his curly shag like a lustful saint.

When the seed of an idea to write this memoir came into my head, it was not my intention to compose erotica, but at this point in the story it seems unavoidable.  What is it about the secrecy of physical love that men share, that has been lost in marriage and normalcy in this age of correctness and inclusivity?

It was a casual two weeks.  I willingly became a chauffeur, making the other players jealous that he had so quickly found an ally in a city they did not know.  One day I took him to an abandoned swimming spot on Clearwater lake.  It had been a Jewish summer camp, and a Star of David still announced its entrance, but no one was home.  There was an ancient and considerable timber dock, reaching high and out from a rock.  The water was azure and I was under it watching his body plow into its surface like a blunt knife, trailing crystal bubbles.  He was a slow motion Medusa underwater, making funny faces.  

We spent the whole day in swimsuits and I got to relish his body in the brilliant sunshine.  I could mush my face into his curly chest hair and kiss him as much as I liked.  We were completely alone.  So we spoke of private things, and it was then that I found out that he was Métis, from the west.  Now I understood the exotic features that went with his accent.  The two weeks inevitably ebbed away, and I was summoned for the tear-down.  

For the life of me I can't remember now how we parted, but there were no tears.  We both had things to do, and as pleasant as it was, it had to end.  I still think about him and that short time we spent together.  Wonderful in its brevity, free of rancour or regret.  A secret here, no more.

"When you're young it's all filet steak"

Monsieur Gustave H
The Grand Budapest Hotel