DANCING ON THE TUNDRA by Bert McKenzie Copyright 2010
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person alive or dead is coincidental and unintentional.
CHAPTER XVII
Terry slipped back into his apartment. He checked around and was relieved to find that Wayne had gone out. He was alone, and able to relax and well in his emotions. He sat quietly on the couch, closed his eyes and tried to sort out his feelings. Distrust and betrayal overwhelmed him, dominating his emotional palette. He first felt betrayed by his supposed agent. He had trusted the obnoxious little man, thinking this obscure agency would help start his career. Of course, his opinion was rapidly declining from the first picture taking session with Collin. He found it a little hard to understand why a legitimate agency needed nude photos of him. Then came the revelation about the modeling agency with which he was supposed to meet at the request of his agent. But the final capper had been the all too obvious set up with the phoney casting director. He kicked himself for being so stupid, for not seeing through it all sooner, and for thinking a real talent agency might be interested in him. True he had landed a paying role in that awful off-Broadway show that only ran a week, but that certainly wasn't enough to attract the attention of any real agents.
He next thought of Collin. The man had been kind and considerate. And despite his rather unusual fetish for black clothing, he seemed to be a very normal person. He was physically attracted to Terry, just as Terry was attracted to him. The photographer had a lot going for him. He was moderately successful, dashingly handsome, and really great in bed. But aside from that, he seemed to be genuinely concerned for Terry. After all, it was Collin who pointed out that Rand Studio was not a modeling agency at all, but a pornographic photo studio.
But Collin had also lied. He had said his marriage was one of convenience only. He had expressed his emotions, fondness, affection, even love for Terry. Then, when Terry needed him the most, Collin had rebuffed him. It was pretty obvious that Collin and his wife were not the platonic couple that he had described. In fact, Collin acted uncomfortably like the faithless husband trying to cover up his actions and explain away his mistress to his wife. And Terry was in actuality the other woman. He had never felt so cheap and degraded. The fact that this experience followed so closely upon his realizing he had been sent out unwittingly as a male prostitute only made matters worse. He felt soiled, unclean. Terry jumped up, dashed to the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the tub.
Ten minutes later he was soaking in the warm water, stretched out with his eyes closed. For a short time he contemplated suicide. He had been betrayed; he felt badly. No one was going to give him a job in theatre, and no one would really even miss him. It would be so easy to get a razor blade from the cabinet over the sink and quickly slice the faint, blue lines that were visible at his wrists. He could then relax in the tub as the warm water turned from transparent to pastel pink, to vibrant rose and then finally bright red. He could imagine his life force quickly slipping from his body, being pumped into the surrounding liquid. He would just fade away. The hurt and pain he now felt would flow out of him with his life's blood, and he could slip into that cold, gentle darkness that was more intense than sleep.
Then another thought suddenly popped into his head. He pictured Wayne coming home from a bar or party and walking into the bathroom to take a leak. He could just see the man's reaction to the rather gory scene of his lifeless body floating in a tub of blood. Wayne would totally freak. He would come unglued and fall to pieces. He would have to call the police and they probably wouldn't be very sympathetic to his hysterics. Then he would have to deal with Terry's family. That would be quite a scene. Terry shuddered at the thought of his roommate having to confront his father. That was definitely an unpleasant image, red-neck Harry Hick being told of his son's demise by an effeminate black pansy. His father was just as likely to grab his shotgun and help Wayne to join Terry in eternity. He heaved a sigh as his mind turned from thoughts of self destruction.
But what would he do? What could he do? His short-lived career was over; his short-lived relationship likewise. Terry pulled the silver chain attached to the plug and listened to the water as it gurgled down the drain, creating a miniature whirlpool between his bare feet. He quickly stood up and grabbed a towel, vigorously wiping himself dry, then looping it around his waist, he left the room and crossed the kitchen to the sink. Digging in the cabinets overhead he produced a tumbler and a bottle of blue Curacao that Wayne had bought for a party some time back. Terry filled the glass with the bright blue liquid, marveling at its color. It looked just like glass cleaner. He put the bottle back, then dug under the counter to find a bottle of Windex to compare the colors. It was almost a perfect match, the Curacao being a tiny bit darker and much thicker, being a liqueur. He sat the bottle of Windex down, then took his glass into the living room and sat on the couch, taking a big swig. He coughed and choked as the alcohol burned his throat. He hadn't been prepared for the strength of the straight booze. As he gained control of his throat and began to breathe again, he felt the alcohol hit his empty stomach, causing a warm fire that made him feel good inside.
Terry thought some more about what he should do to straighten out the mess his life had become, but no solution presented itself. On a sudden inspiration he stood up and went back to his bedroom, returning in a few minutes with his address book. He sat on the couch, took another cautious sip of the blue liqueur and picked up the phone, dialing a long distance number.
The line clicked through, and then the phone on the other end began to ring. In a few moments a strange feminine voice answered, "Hello."
"Is Paula there?" Terry asked.
"I think you have the wrong number," the voice said angrily.
"I'm sorry," he apologized and hung up. He looked up the number again in his address book and carefully dialed so as not to make a mistake this time.
The same female voice answered. "Brown's residence," it said curtly.
"May I speak to Paula," he requested. "It's Terry Michaelson."
"There's no Paula here," the irate voice said. "You obviously misread the phone directory. My husband's name is Paul."
"I'm sorry," he replied and was about to hang up, when he remembered he was given the number in Paula's Christmas card last December. "Is this . . ." He was about to recite the number to check if he had dialed it correctly when another voice came on the line.
"Who the hell is this?" it demanded. It sounded like his old friend, only deeper, more resonant. He was so shocked he didn't answer at first. "This is Paul Brown, asshole. There's no Paula here."
"This . . . this is Terry," he finally managed to reply.
The phone dropped to instant silence. For a long moment he thought the man on the other end of the line, who sounded remarkably like the friend from his youth, had hung up. Then a much more familiar voice said, "Terry . . . Terry Michaelson. Is it really you?"
"Yeah," he replied softly.
"My God, how are you? I haven't heard from you in about three years, except for a lousy card at Christmas."
"I'm okay," he replied hesitantly. "For a minute I thought maybe I had the wrong number."
"Oh that," she said with a harsh laugh. "You know how it is. You get hassled because of your sex life. Virgy and I had the phone listed as Paul Brown and I pretend to be a guy when we get calls so we won't be bothered by any straights."
"Oh," he said, still a little confused.
"So where you calling from?" the voice asked.
"New York," he admitted.
"New York? As in New York City?"
Terry quickly told her about his decision to move, his fight with his parents, his small part in the awful show. Before he knew it, it all came tumbling out, the relationship with Collin, the agency trying to turn him into a hustler. He soon realized he was sobbing into the receiver.
"You need to get away from there," Paula said when he had calmed down a little. "Why don't you come out here for a visit. Minneapolis-St. Paul is beautiful in the fall and Virgy and I would love to have you. We've got plenty of room."
"I'm sorry," Terry apologized. "I just wanted to talk. I didn't mean . . ."
"You got any money for a ticket?" He told her he was just about totally broke. "No problem. I've got a great job, making money hand over fist. Listen, I'll cable you enough for a bus ticket out here. You come for a nice visit. If you like it, we'll find you a place to stay. You know, we've got theaters in the Midwest too."
Perhaps a change of scenery was just what he needed. Terry agreed, they made some quick arrangements, then he hung up. He sat the phone back on the table and took another sip of his drink, savoring the burning glow as he felt it trace its way down his throat and into his stomach. It couldn't begin to melt the tundra that imprisoned his heart, but it certainly felt good for the moment. He sat the glass down on the floor beside the couch, then stretched out, closing his eyes and thinking about his plans for the future. He would move to Minnesota and stay with Paula and her lover. Maybe he would have an easier time of it in the Midwest. Perhaps his theatrical ambitions were just a bit much and he had over reached himself in coming to New York. "Let's face it," he said to himself, "I'm just small potatoes in the Big Apple." The phrase struck him as funny and he began to laugh hysterically. Finally, still chuckling to himself, he drifted off to sleep.
Wayne came home late, well after midnight. He opened the front door and stepped inside, noticing Terry stretched out on the sofa. He very quietly closed and locked the door, then stepped over to his friend. Terry seemed to be asleep, stretched out on his back, his eyes closed and dressed in only a towel. Wayne shook his head and clucked his tongue, then walked into the kitchen. He stepped over to the sink to get a drink of water, then noticed the bottle of glass cleaner on the counter. He picked it up, and looked at it curiously, wondering why it was sitting out. Wayne turned and glanced into the living room, then spotted the half empty tumbler of bright blue liquid sitting on the floor beside couch. Suddenly he dropped the cleaner, emitting an ear piercing shriek. "Lordy, he's done drank a glass of Windex and now he's in a coma!"
The scream roused Terry and he opened his eyes, trying to remember where he was through the blur of intoxication. "What's going on?" he managed to mumble.
Wayne dashed to his side, grabbing the phone. "You just lay still, honey. Wayne's gonna save you," he said as he dialed the operator. "Get me the police," he cried into the phone as the voice on the other end answered. "It's an emergency! He's tried to kill hisself by drinking a whole bottle of Windex!"
"Wayne? What's the matter?" Terry asked as he tried to sit up, fighting to regain consciousness and control. The effects of the alcohol made his movements sluggish.
"Don't you worry, honey! I won't let you die! You lie still. You've been poisoned." Just then a loud knock came on the door. "They're here! Thank God the police are here!" Wayne shouted, hanging up the phone on a very confused operator who kept asking for a precinct number. The frightened black man ran to the door and threw it open expecting to find police or paramedics or some other form of help. Instead he found one lone man dressed all in black. "Oh my God! It's a priest," Wayne cried.
"Hi, I came to see Terry," the man said.
"He's not dead yet. Don't you go giving him no last rites."
"What?" Collin asked as he stepped in, seeing Terry sitting on the couch, still lost in a drunken haze.
"He drank a whole bottle of poison," Wayne wailed.
"What kind? What did he take?" Collin asked as he dropped down beside Terry.
"Windex, there in that glass."
Collin picked up the half empty tumbler and sniffed it. "This isn't Windex. It's some kind of booze," he said.
"It's blue shit," Terry chimed in, slowly coming around.
Wayne took the glass and sipped it. "It's my Curacao," he declared. "I thought he drank glass cleaner." The black man took the tumbler into the kitchen, shaking his head.
"Come on," Collin said, helping Terry to his feet. He guided him through the apartment and into his bedroom. Collin gently put Terry to bed, then stripped off his own clothes and climbed in with him.
"I just don't get it," Wayne mumbled. "First he scares me half to death by making me think he's poisoned himself, then he goes to bed with a priest."
Terry had a very long and uncomfortable ride to Minneapolis. He hated buses and the trip just reinforced all of his reasons why. It was long, bumpy, cramped and there was a woman with two small children who sat immediately behind him for most of the trip. One child ran up and down the aisles or sat behind him and constantly kicked the back of his seat while the other kid cried non-stop for hundreds of miles at a time. Still, Paula was paying for the ticket so he couldn't be too choosey.
When he awoke the morning after the incidents that spurred his trip westward he found himself in his own room, but not alone. It took him a moment to realize that it was Collin who was in bed with him. He got up and quickly dressed, then walked out to the kitchen to fix coffee. Wayne was already sitting at the table with a steaming cup. "So when did you start dating a priest?" he asked.
"He's not a priest. He's a photographer," Terry replied.
"Oh, so this is the married man."
"Good morning," Collin called as he stepped into the room. He was wearing black bikini briefs and a black t-shirt. Wayne rolled his eyes, gathered his robe about him, picked up his coffee cup and retreated tactfully into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
"What are you doing here?" Terry asked angrily.
"I came to see you, to be with you."
"What about your wife?"
A guilty look crossed the man's face for a fleeting instant, and as quickly disappeared. "I told her I had a business trip. I figured we could spend a couple of days together, maybe drive down to D.C. and see the sights."
"I can't," Terry replied coldly. "I'm going out of town to visit an old friend. I don't even know if I'll be back."
Collin looked visibly disturbed. "What do you mean? You're moving away?"
"Yeah, at least for a while."
"What about us?" the photographer whined.
"What about us?" Terry fired back at him. "I like you. I like you a lot, but I told you at the beginning I didn't want to be the other man. You lied to me."
"No," Collin protested. "I only bent the truth a little. I don't love her. I'm only staying with her because her money opened my studio."
"But does she know that?" The man looked down at his feet. "When you get things worked out with her, then we'll see about us."
"But I'm in love with you," Collin said, looking back up at Terry.
"I'm sorry, but I can't handle that the way things are right now. I've got the address of your studio. I'll drop you a line."
The bus unloaded its passengers at the downtown station in Minneapolis. Terry climbed off and picked up his suitcase, looking around for Paula, but there was no one in the waiting room who resembled his friend. Terry walked over to the row of chairs in the center of the room and was about to sit down when he heard his name called. Looking up, he saw he was being hailed by a stocky man with black hair who was approaching him. The man's eyes looked familiar, as did the shape of his face. Suddenly the familiarity hit him, knocking him almost off his feet. "Paula?"
She grabbed his hand in a firm clasp, then pulled him close for a quick hug. "This yours?" she asked, grabbing his bag and they were out the door and walking down the street to her car, a late model Oldsmobile.
As she sped through traffic, Terry turned to look at her. She had put on quite a bit of weight and really bulked out, but not in the way usual to women. Her hips didn't seem larger than normal and her breasts were non-existent beneath the loose fitting sweat shirt. The short cut of her hair added to the masculine look, as did the set of her jaw, the way she had carried herself when she walked to the car, and of course her voice. She had dropped it into a lower register which gave it a masculine affectation. The woman sitting beside him was not the girl he knew from the past. He knew she had accepted herself as a lesbian, but this was beyond that. The image she presented was not a bit feminine or even female. If he didn't know better he would have assumed she was a man.
He couldn't contain himself anymore. "Paula . . . you're so different."
"We need to talk," she said as she turned off the main thoroughfare and onto a smaller residential street. "Virgy and I are really happy with who we are, but who we are is not what others think." Terry simply stared at her, not comprehending what she was saying. "I've got a good job," she continued. "I drive a big eighteen wheeler, long hauls."
"You're a truck driver?" he asked in astonishment.
"Yeah, and I really like it. I make great money and I'm really happy."
"Well, that's great," he replied, trying to sound enthusiastic.
"But this is a man's world. I'd never get jobs if they thought I was a girl."
"So that explains the hair cut and the clothes."
"You got it," she smiled, a grin a bit too wide, showing too many teeth. "Here I'm Paul Brown, not Paula. It started out as a simple typo on my driver's license, and then I found how easy it was to pass for a guy. Since then I've had all my records changed. It only took a slightly altered birth certificate and a couple of formal letters complaining about the 'errors' in my records."
"So nobody knows you're really a girl?" Terry was astounded. To look at her, she could be a man, but he never thought she'd be really masquerading as such.
"Well of course Virgy knows. And you. But that's it. To the rest of the world I'm Paul. I just wanted to clue you in before we got home."
They pulled into a driveway beside a modest bungalow and Paula killed the engine. The two of them climbed out of the car and headed up the porch steps. "Hi, Mr. Brown," a little boy shouted from the next door yard.
"Hi, Scotty," Paula called back in a deep voice.
They then went inside where Terry was introduced to Virginia, Paula's lover. The woman reminded Terry of June Cleaver. She wore a plain house dress with a short apron tied around her waist and even had the obligatory string of fake pearls and earrings. "Welcome to our home," she said as she took Terry's hand and gave it a weak squeeze. "I have the guest room all ready for you and dinner will be in about thirty minutes if you'd like to freshen up after your long trip. Paul, will you show our guest around while I set the table?" She then slipped back into the kitchen.
Dinner was an oddly uncomfortable meal. The three sat around a small table in a tiny formal dining room and ate a very filling meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts. Terry and Paula were both fairly silent except to answer questions posed by Virginia. She tried to keep the conversation going by making polite small talk. She asked Terry about his family and about his career plans. She hoped he would find their guest room comfortable and explained that it was eventually going to be a nursery when they had children. This statement unfortunately was delivered just as Terry took a sip of iced tea. He nearly choked on the beverage. "You're planning on having children?" he finally asked when he recovered sufficiently to be able to speak.
"Yes, we want a big family some day," Virginia said with a maternal smile. "At least two boys and two girls."
"We plan to adopt," Paula quickly added.
"I don't wonder," Terry responded dryly.
The doorbell rang, interrupting this unusual conversation. "That must be Cynthia," Virginia said as she got up to begin clearing the table. "Honey, will you let her in. I'll be right there." Paula went into the living room to answer the door while Terry helped carry dishes into the kitchen. "I'll do these up when I get home," the girl said. "You and Paul spend the evening visiting and catching up on old times. I know how he looked forward to seeing you again." With that Virginia wiped her hands on her apron, then removed it, hanging it on a peg by the sink.
Terry and Virginia returned through the dining room to the living room. A tall, thin, older woman with grey hair and too much makeup was waiting for Virginia. "I'll get my sweater," the girl said and ducked into the hall leading to the bedrooms. Paula introduced Terry to the older woman, a friend of Virginia's from church. Paula's girlfriend returned and the two women left, leaving Terry and Paula alone.
"I could help with the dishes," Terry volunteered in the uncomfortable silence.
"Nonsense," Paula said. "That's women's work. Virgy will get 'em when she gets home. I'm going to take you out for a drink." The two of them soon left and Paula took Terry to a little corner bar several blocks away. It was very obviously a local gathering spot for the guys in the area. There were very conspicuously no women in the joint with the exception of a rather care-worn looking bar maid. Several of the men greeted Paula as if he were one of the boys, which apparently is what they thought from their comments and greetings.
When the two had finally settled in a corner booth as far away from the TV by the bar as was possible, Terry leaned forward and spoke in a barely audible whisper. "Paula, this is weird. Everyone thinks you're a guy."
"Paul, please," his friend quickly corrected him. "And I am a guy. I'm more of a man than probably half of the fuckers in this dump." Their conversation was momentarily suspended as the bar maid dropped off a couple of draws. Paula handed her a crumpled bill, then smacked her on the butt as she turned to leave. "See what I mean?"
"But . . . but what about Virginia?"
"She loves me for who and what I am, and I feel the same about her." Paula took a quick swig of the beer sitting at her elbow. "In fact, this is the only way we can have a normal life."
"You call this normal?" Terry asked, then realized he had gotten overly loud. A couple of guys at the end of the bar were giving him dirty looks.
"Yes," Paula replied in a hushed whisper. "What kind of life would we have as two women? Straights beating us up; having to work in crummy jobs with no protection or security from being fired by some heterosexual asshole; teenagers making fun of us; mothers keeping their children away from us. Did you see the little boy from next door, Scotty Quartermain? His dad died in Vietnam. Last weekend I taught him how to play catch."
Terry shook his head. "But is pretending to be straight the only way to be gay and survive?" he asked.
"In this society, in this day and age . . . yes," she replied. "You know where Virgy went tonight? To religion class. She's converting to Catholicism. Next week she'll be baptized. Then we're going to get married at St. Jonathan's."
"You can't get married," Terry said in shock. He had long since fallen away from the Church, but this seemed almost to be a disrespectfully sacrilegious affront.
"We're going to do it. We'll be Paul and Virginia, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. And I'm really glad you came when you did, Terry. I want you to be my best man."