Page 35 of Exquisite Things

I hand my bag to the coat check boy stationed near the DJ booth. “I would remove any valuables if I were you,” a teasing voice

says. It’s Bram. He’s walking our way in his post-punk priest getup. Now I notice the slashes of makeup on his face. Smoke

around his eyes. A hint of scarlet on his cheeks, just like how we used to rouge our faces back in the Harvard dorms. “George

is a famous thief,” he says, unaware it’s me he’s speaking to behind the mask and sunglasses.

The coat check boy unzips my bag. He pulls out my synthesizer and exclaims, “Yamaha PS-3! Oh, I would most certainly steal

it. You’re a musician, then?”

I freeze. I need another vocal disguise. I put on a Southern American accent. Turn myself into a Tennessee Williams character.

“I play a little,” I drawl.

“You in a band yet?” George asks.

“No.” I keep my eyes on Bram. I can feel them glowing orange behind the black lenses of my sunglasses. Bram has no idea it’s

me. “I’m all alone.”

“A solo artist, good for you. Oh, and look at this,” George says, pulling out my recently purchased poetry book. “Claude McKay.

I love his poem ‘December, 1919.’?”

I see Bram flinch a little when he hears the year 1919 spoken aloud. Is he traveling back to that first version of us in his mind?

George flips through the book until he finds the poem. He sings the words aloud, like he’s trying to find a melody in the

words. “? ’Tis ten years since you died, mother. Just ten dark years of pain. And oh, I only wish that I could weep just once again .” George closes the book. Takes a deep breath. “That’s enough of that now. I can’t bear to think of my mother dying. Best

woman in the world.”

I gulp down hard, thinking of Mother. The obituary said she died peacefully in her sleep, but how would they know? Perhaps

she was asleep, but it may have been a fitful slumber, full of nightmares and questions from the past. Was she still wondering

about me until her last breath? Or had the grandchildren Liam gave her filled her heart full enough to forget me?

“First time at the Blitz?” Bram asks me as I take my backpack from George.

I panic. Will he recognize my voice? Am I ready to reveal myself to him? Or do I want to run away into the safety of solitude

again? “Yes,” I say with a twang. “You’re a regular?”

“Nothing regular about me.” Bram smiles devilishly. “Perhaps that’s why I like it so much here. There is no normal here. Most

subcultures thrive on uniformity. Punks, beatniks, surfers, zoot-suiters, hippies. They all dressed just like each other.

It’s not like that here. There’s no uniform. Look around.”

I gaze out at the crowd. He’s right. There’s no uniformity here. Everyone is unique. One man dressed like a futuristic robot

kisses another man wearing a three-piece suit right out of a 1940s film noir. The only commonality is individuality.

Bram’s eyes light up as he speaks about this place. “The thing many queer people who long to be normal forget is that the whole fun of being queer lies in running counter to culture,” he says with awe. “We deserve rights, not

boredom .”

“So everyone here is queer?” I ask.

He shrugs. “If by queer, you mean that they live in defiance to whatever society decides is the norm, then yes. And isn’t

it wonderful?”

“What’s wonderful?” I ask.

“That we have to fight for what we want. It’s so much more fun to earn something, isn’t it? In order to merely exist, our

love for each other, our belief in our own identity, must be so much bigger and deeper than theirs. And they know this. They

know that queer love is the truest love, because it’s the one that’s been fought for. I think that scares them. They know

we’re stronger. They know our skin’s thicker.”

“I suppose I’ve never thought about it that way.” I miss the way he makes me think about the world. His perspective and his

impenetrable hopefulness, even when his heart is broken. I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks so alive. He doesn’t wear

sunglasses or a mask like I do. He lets the fiery glow of his eyes shine for all to see. In this space, they don’t look strange

at all. “How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“London?” he asks.

“No, Earth.”

He laughs. “Earth, seventeen years. London, a year and a half.” He pauses, considering what to say next. “I lived in London

for a short spell when I was... younger. But it wasn’t this London then. Or perhaps I wasn’t this me then.”

I nod. “People change,” I say.

“Thank God for that,” he says. “Are you visiting? You sound American. Southern? Let me guess. Alabama? Louisiana? North—”

“I—I came for a visit, but I’m... considering staying, I think.”

“How could you leave after seeing this place?” he asks. “This is freedom.” With a note of sadness in his voice, he adds, “I

never thought I could find a place where I could truly be happy. But here I am.”

“You don’t sound happy, though,” I observe.

“Oh. Yes. That’s just because my heart was recently bruised.”

“Not broken?” I ask.

“Not yet. I thought perhaps I could have it all. But what I’m realizing is that what I have might be enough.” He looks toward

the dance floor, where the man and woman he walked in with are laughing in a huddle with a group of mesmerizing creatures

of the night. The woman waves to him. “That’s my mother Lily and her best friend, Archie,” he announces proudly.

“I’m sorry about your bruised heart,” I say. “I hope it heals.”

“I hope it doesn’t,” he replies quickly. “Love, even unrequited, makes me feel alive. If my heart healed, it would mean I

didn’t love him anymore.”

“Him?” I ask.

He smiles. We’re both haunting the past now. I can feel us traveling from the Blitz back to 1920. We’re at the Golden Rooster

again. Wrestling each other. Holding each other. We’re walking side by side, sweet cookies in our bellies. “I’m sorry,” he

says. “I must be boring you. Other people’s love stories aren’t interesting to anyone else.”

“Tell that to Romeo and Juliet,” I say. “To Antony and Cleopatra. To Tristan and Isolde.”

“Those aren’t love stories,” he says. “Those are tragedies.”

I nod, realizing he’s right. “Perhaps the only love stories anyone’s interested in are the ones that end tragically.” I think of the movie Love Story . It captivated the world with its doomed tale. The lead character’s name was Oliver. The love of his life died. Mine never

will. I feel a sudden swell of warmth for Bram. Maybe the two of us really can have eternal love.

“I’ve had enough tragedy for one lifetime, thank you very much,” Bram says. “I’ll hold on to hope as long as I’m alive.”

“Really?” I ask. “As long as you’re alive?”

I must put too much emphasis on the question because he gazes at me curiously. “Yes,” he says. “I should go. I’m Bram, by

the way. You never told me your name, did you?”

“Didn’t I?” I reply. Then, “Bram is a beautiful name.”

He smiles bashfully. “I was named by a beautiful person. Everyone here is beautiful. Living boldly and freely... that’s

true beauty.”

“Yes,” I say.

“If you were coming on to me, I’m sorry, but the bank is closed,” he says, using an expression that reminds me of Boston.

Bank’s closed is what Brendan would say when The Jackal would hit on him. “Mending a bruised heart, as you know.” He pulls his shirt down,

revealing a tattooed O on his chest.

“O?” I ask.

“For the boy I’ll love forever. Oliver.” He rubs his heart gently. “He’s always on my heart.”

I feel sick inside. I want to walk away from him, but I just can’t. He’s had the first letter of my name tattooed on his body.

He’s done everything I haven’t been able to do in all this time. Found his place in the world. Accepted himself. Remained

resolute in his feelings for me, in his belief in us. All I’ve done with my time is isolate and mope. Leaving him was a mistake.

I know that now. The truth is, I need him to be happy.

I feel like the DJ’s drum machine is in my body now.

My heartbeat is percussive. It races around my body.

Bram. His name is Bram, not Shams. He’s a different person.

A happier one. More himself. There’s a glow to him.

Maybe it’s the red lights of the club. Or maybe it’s that he’s found his place in the world.

I feel like I could love this version of him.

Be happy with him. Figure things out. Be accepted for the immortals we are by this beautiful band of freaks.

“Isn’t that the mask from the shopwindow of R. Soles?” a young androgyne asks. “Can I try it on?” The dazzling creature reaches

for my mask.

My sunglasses fall to the floor first.

Then the androgyne pulls my mask off.

Reveals my face.

I feel the fire in my anxious eyes.

The song changes. Bowie. In the event that this fantastic voyage should turn to erosion and we never get old .

I feel exposed and raw. The lights seem to land on me like a spotlight.

“Oliver?” Bram asks. His eyes are inscrutable. Happy and sad at the same time. “It’s you? I thought... Was it you on the

phone? You called the helpline? I thought maybe... but then I thought... Oliver wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t have deception

in him.”

Bowie knows. Never getting old is the real erosion. Even Bowie, symbol of youth, innovation, boldness, is aging. He’ll probably

settle down someday like everyone else. Get himself a wife and a kid and make music that sounds like an echo of the music

he used to make. When he was young.

“Oliver, say something!”

I feel exposed and humiliated. I feel like the liar I am. Guilt floods my body. Sends me rushing out the door. Into a downpour.