Page 34 of Exquisite Things

His voice rises a little. “It’s not sad. It’s enraging. We made it this way. Humans. We have all the tools for happiness.

We could take care of each other. Provide for each other. Instead, we destroy each other. For what?”

“Greed,” I say. “To have more than others.”

“Yes, greed,” he echoes. “I’ve been guilty of greed.”

“Is that why you’re volunteering for the helpline?” I ask. “To ease the guilt?”

He takes a moment. “I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” he says quietly.

I hear a click. Place another coin in. Outside, an impatient woman taps her foot on the pavement. Rushes me with her urgent

blue eyes.

“I wasn’t greedy for money,” he explains, filling the silence. “Just for love. I did something impulsive and terrible because

I thought it would bring me the love I craved. The kind that lasts forever.”

I gulp down hard. I feel I’ve taken this far enough, or perhaps too far. And yet, I need to hear this. I must know if he understands

what he did. How he might explain it to a stranger. Which is what I am to him from the other end of the line. “So you never

found it, then? Love that lasts forever.”

“No,” he mumbles. “And perhaps, yes. Not romantic love. I only experienced that once, and I’m afraid I bungled it forever.

But...”

“But?” I ask as he collects his thoughts.

Finally, he speaks, reverently. “Well... I once believed romantic love was our only chance at exaltation. Now I think... No, I know—that love takes different forms, and they’re all equally transcendent.

Romantic, yes. But platonic too. Familial.

Parental. Communal. Artistic. And of course, the most important love of all. ..”

“Which would be...”

“Loving ourselves, I suppose.”

“So, you love yourself?” I ask.

“I think so.” He seems surprised by his answer. Like he’s still figuring out if he’s worthy of love.

“You think, or are you sure?” I murmur.

“It’s hard to love yourself,” he declares with ease. “But I think so.”

“So you forgive yourself, then?” I ask.

“Forgive myself?”

“For your greed.”

“Oh.” Complete silence. He’s not breathing. Finally, “I think I do. Do you love yourself?”

The woman outside knocks on the glass of the telephone box. I shrug sheepishly, letting her know I won’t be leaving anytime

soon.

“You did call the helpline,” he says. “If you’re feeling unloved, I’m here to help. You’re. Not. Alone.” He speaks those last

three words carefully. Giving each word emphasis.

“I’ve felt alone for a very long time.” I feel a lump in my throat. I wish I were saying this to him directly. As myself.

“I’m sorry.” There’s sincerity in his voice. “Are you in London? There’s an incredible gay community here.”

“Yes,” I say. “But this isn’t home. There’s no one here who could replace my mother.”

“She’s in Ireland?” he asks. Now I’m certain he doesn’t recognize my voice. If he did, he would know it was Mother I’m speaking of. “Did she kick you out of the house when she found out? Too many kids are on the streets because their families won’t accept them. It’s disgusting.”

“No, she was wonderful.” I close my eyes. Imagine Mother in the kitchen. By the Charles. In Provincetown. At the piano. Her

hands, wrinkled from working for me. Her eyes, always full of love for me. Her smile, always ready to warm me. She lived for

me and I deserted her. “She was warm. She was my best friend.” I laugh. “I sound like such a queen, don’t I? A mother for

a best friend.”

“Nothing wrong with being a queen,” he snaps. “Unless you use the throne to colonize and oppress.”

I laugh. Gently at first. And then uproariously. I feel, once again, that I could talk to him forever. Like we used to on

our walks. Just us and a tin of Oreo cookies. It scares me. That even here, in a new time, in a new country, I can still talk

to him so naturally.

“I’m Bram,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“I— It’s—Liam.” It’s the first name I could think of. I feel so stupid. Giving him my brother’s name.

“Liam?” he asks, his voice haunting the past.

I suddenly panic. I can’t do this anymore. I’m afraid I’ll slip up. And I’ve heard enough, haven’t I? He’s happy. He’s loved.

He forgives himself. Knows what he did was wrong. Isn’t that all I need to know?

“I—I have to go, I’m sorry.” I’m so anxious that I hear the accent disappear.

“Wait!” he says.

But I hang up. Catch my breath in the telephone box as the woman outside pounds on the glass.

I leave the box. She enters. She presses the B button and fetches the coins from my remaining time. Now I’m the one pounding on the door. “Hey, that’s my change,” I yell.

“Not anymore, kid.” She puts my money into the box and makes a call.

I walk away. I use what money I’ve made to scour vintage clothing shops for clothes that might gain me admission to this club.

I remember reading about the army surplus store where the Beatles found the costumes for the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band . Laurence Corner Army Surplus, near the Warren Street station.

I sing a song from that album at the Warren Street Tube station for good luck. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four? An elderly couple in ratty coats dances as I play. Their dance is precisely choreographed. I imagine it’s their wedding dance.

Perhaps they return to those steps when they need to be reminded of what young love felt like.

They tip me generously. Enough that when I enter Laurence Corner, I go straight to one of the more expensive items on display,

a centuries-old red British Army jacket. I throw it on. It’s too snug and has holes in it. It’s perfect. I buy it. I ask if

they have a pair of scissors. I use them to cut the holes into hearts. I turn a symbol of war into a symbol of love.

I search the streets for the one thing I’ll need most. I finally find it on a mannequin in a shop called R. Soles. A Venetian

masquerade mask. White, red, and gold. I enter and ask how much it is.

“The mask isn’t for sale,” the shopgirl says. “Sorry.”

“I need it,” I plead. “How much to make you change your mind?”

She glances behind her, no doubt checking for a manager. “A fiver should do.”

I count the coins I have left. Fifty-pence coins, ten-pence coins. I can see she regrets our deal. She expected a crisp bill, not this pile of tips received for playing in Tube stations. “That’s five,” I say.

She looks behind her again. Then she pulls the masquerade mask off the display mannequin and hands it to me. “It’s papier-maché.

Be careful with it. You going to a ball?”

“Sort of,” I say. Then, “Thanks.”

I sleep on the Tube. Lay my head on the bag that contains my few belongings in it. My synthesizer. My new poetry book. My

just-purchased clothes. On Tuesday evening, I buy a pass to a gymnasium. I need a shower and a place to change. The muscle

men in the locker room eye me suspiciously as I put on the red military coat with heart-shaped holes in it.

I don’t put the mask on until I reach the lineup outside the Blitz. I stand waiting for what feels like an eternity. Eventually,

I see them arrive. Bram and the woman he lives with, along with the handsome man who was with them in their home. Bram is

dressed like some kind of post-punk priest in a white ecclesiastical robe that he pairs with platform boots and a leather

biker cap. He looks ridiculous. Then again, so do I. But perhaps not ridiculous enough. The closer I get to the front of the

line, the more rejections I hear. One person after another is denied entry. I make a spontaneous decision. I tear off my old

pants and throw them in my bag. They’re beige. Boring. The jacket is long enough to cover my underwear. And bare legs are

anything but dull.

The guy at the door, who’s dressed in some modern version of Tudor royal, eyes me up and down. “Just you?” he asks.

“Just me,” I say.

“Funny to think the British Army once wore bright red,” he says. “Suppose they didn’t need camouflage before weapons could shoot their targets down with horrifying precision.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I say.

“No camouflage needed at the Blitz neither. You can be your real self here. The one you keep hidden under that mask.” He waves

me inside.

My real self. Who is he anyway? I wonder as I enter the smoky club.

Music fills the space. Something metallic. Germanic. The voice isn’t a voice, exactly. It’s humanity as filtered by modern

technology. We’re functioning automatic. And we are dancing mechanic. We are the robots. Among the most fascinating things of traveling across borders of time and place is the changing of sounds. From country to

country. From era to era. Pianos replaced by synths. Microphones swapped out for talk boxes that make the singer sound like

an alien being. Acoustic turned electric. Cultural traditions blending together to create something fresh.

I search the tiny space for Bram. It’s really more hallway than club. Long and cramped and strangely old-fashioned for a place

that feels like the future. Portraits of Churchill everywhere. A poster of Marilyn Monroe, who wasn’t born and hadn’t died

when Bram and I last saw each other. Ornately gilded mirrors that reveal reflections of the brazenly dressed crowd laughing,

dancing, smoking. It’s hard to see over all the hats. So many hats. Tall vertical hats that reach up to the ceiling. A tower

of flowers on a beautiful woman’s head. A metallic spiral sculpture attached to a man’s skull cap. A golden eagle seemingly

flying out of someone’s hair.

I push my way through the smoke. In a booth, the DJ uses a drum machine to add carefully placed percussion to the music he spins.

The robot song gives way to something far more romantic.

Something Italian and sweeping. The dancers sway slowly.

They look more like waves than dancers. No one seems to be dancing with anyone.

I take my backpack off and pull out a pair of sunglasses. I throw them on. Between these and the mask, my face is completely

invisible.