Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk(73)
The music coming from the party, though, I enjoy. It’s not like anything I’ve heard before. It sounds as if it’s coming from inside a cave or a subway tunnel, a simple repetitive bass melody with the occasional crashing cymbal and distant, slightly yelpy voices repeating something about slipping in and out of phenomenon. I don’t know what that means, but it feels evocative and exciting.
I emerge from the corridor into a vast central space.
A pair of bare bulbs and a Vaticanload of candles barely succeed in lighting the room, which is thronged with people, mostly men, a few women, all young. What little furniture there is has been pushed to the walls. Some people sit but many are dancing. A lot of the women wear lace tops, and skirts over capris or fishnet stockings. A lot of the men wear trousers that seem impossibly tight. Both the women and the men wear interesting earrings. Everyone seems to have taken great care with his or her appearance, which I appreciate. I take off my hat and smooth my hair.
By instinct I make my way through the bustling darkness to the provisional kitchen—a hodgepodge of countertops and cabinetry, basins and hot plates, threaded with rubber hoses and extension cords—to set down my gifts. Here, too, to a person, the guests all have meticulous outfits and thoughtful haircuts. I am glad, as I always am, that I made a point of dressing up, as I always do.
The crowd parts slightly so I can reach the counter. Except for one young man—with a face like a jack-o’-lantern: snaggled teeth and too-wide eyes—who peels himself from a conversation to stand in my way.
“Who the fuck invited Nancy Reagan?” he says.
He strikes the high-chinned pose of a movie gangster and tries to stare me down. He is not bad looking, but his cheeks are gaunt, and he seems to be under the influence of something stronger than alcohol and holiday cheer.
For an instant I’m taken aback by this affront. Then habit takes over and I relax, square off. I may be out of practice, but I have attended a lot of parties through the years, been challenged by many boors in many kitchens. Those old muscles still flex.
“When you’re insulting someone,” I say, “the trick is to be fast, specific, and accurate. Two out of three won’t do. You fumbled the third. Please note that I am six inches taller, twenty years older, and more adventurously dressed than Nancy Reagan has ever been. Does every woman over the age of fifty who spends a little money on herself look like the First Lady to you? Or do you have some sort of fixation on her?”
“Fixation?” he says. “Yeah, I got a fixation. I fucking hate that shriveled-up old hag.”
“Well, you won’t hear me defending her. I voted for Mondale and Ferraro. I think it’s high time we put a woman in the White House to do more than pick out china services.”
“My, aren’t you quite the activist,” the young man says. “Are you running for office? Do you want us to sign your petition? Or did you come here to save us? Did you get us confused with those nice violin-and-opera queers from the Upper West Side?”
“I’ve come here,” I say, “because Wendy invited me. What’s your name?”
The challenge in his face is losing its edge, becoming plain sullenness. “What do you care?”
“I’d like to be able to complain about your manners on an informed basis.”
“You should keep away from me, Nancy,” he says. “I’m a scary homosexual.”
“My name is Lillian,” I say, shuffling my burdens to extend my hand. “Not Nancy. And I’m not scared of homosexuals.”
“Jason, lay off,” says another man, coming up behind him and touching his shoulder. “You’re being an asshole.”
Jason ignores him, and takes a sip of the pink drink in his clear-plastic cup.
“Haven’t you heard, Nancy?” he says. “We all have AIDS. Aren’t you afraid?”
This irritates me in a way his previous gibes haven’t because it’s exactly what I am thinking: Does he have AIDS? and Am I afraid? He certainly doesn’t look healthy. As I try to remember what I’ve read about the disease, I can’t help but steal a downward glance at my own exposed fingers, veined and pale against the dark.
I decide I’m not afraid. “It’s my understanding,” I say, “that I am in little danger of getting AIDS from you, if you have it to give. Or I would be in little danger, had your parents raised you to be polite enough to shake a hand when it’s been offered.”
The venom creeps back into his eyes. “You don’t want to hear about how my parents raised me,” he says.
He tips the last of his drink down his throat, flicks the empty cup onto the dancefloor, and passes his palm across his mouth with a theatrical slurp, pretending to lick it.
At least I think he’s pretending.
“Okay, sweetie,” he says, extending his arm slackly, like the pope presenting his ring. “Put ’er there.”
“Jason,” the young man behind him says, then he doesn’t say anything else.
I am unable to suppress an exasperated sigh.
Whenever I encounter strangers on my walks through the city, I always try to provoke them to reveal something of themselves, hoping they’ll surprise me, jolt me out of my own head. I’m generally good at doing this. When I fail, though—when they brush me off or, worse, when they begin to perform, behaving like some version of what they think I want or don’t want them to be—the results are terribly dispiriting.