Page 9 of Exquisite Things

Brendan pulls me to the back of the Golden Rooster. I wish I could stop him. Tell him that I want to find that mysterious

boy with the spark in his eyes again. “Where are you taking me?” I ask my cousin.

“We’re getting a private tour,” Brendan says.

“A tour of what?” I ask. “I don’t think I want a tour of the bathrooms, if it’s okay with you.”

Jack buzzes his way to me. “You really do need to loosen up,” he says, chastising me. “I could help you with that, you know.”

His face breaks into a smile.

“I think you’re plenty loose enough for the two of us,” I snap back, and to my surprise, Brendan, Cyril, and the boys clap

for me. I look up and see the mysterious boy has followed us to the back. He’s clapping too, except his hands move toward

each other slowly, like they’re in thick water. They barely make a sound. He seems to want to remain unseen to all but me.

“Touché, baby boy.” Jack claps for me too. “You know what touché means, don’t you? It means touched. Now, if you ever wanted

to touch me in a more sensual —”

“Jack, stop. Please. It doesn’t have to be frivolity and innuendo all the time, does it?

” I ask. I’m not sure who I’m speaking to in this moment.

Myself perhaps. My eyes are closed. I’m swept up in a moment, in the now.

“What I mean is... I don’t want some night of fun in a bathroom.

I don’t want to love and leave. I want to love. Just to love.”

My eyes open at the sound of Jack’s laughter. “You have it all mixed up, baby boy.”

“Please stop calling me that! I’m seventeen years old. I’m not—”

“You have it all mixed up, big man .” He’s holding court now. Preaching to his choir. “What happens here has nothing to do with love . We’re having a lark, that’s all. Some good fun before we begin our real lives.”

“So this isn’t our real life?” I ask.

“You’re too literal,” Jack snaps. “This is a brief period of fantasy so we get the sin out of our system before it’s time

for us to step up and be real men.”

“Real men... ,” I whisper woefully like I’m his faint, doubting echo. The boys we’ve come in with start to shift around

us. Some of them—Brendan and Cyril included—move closer to me. The majority of them move closer to Jack. It’s like they’re

picking sides. Are they here for some frivolous fun or for something more meaningful?

Only the mystery kid doesn’t move. His eyes are on me. He doesn’t blink once. I know because my eyes are fixed on him too.

I want to know which side he’s on. Mine or Jack’s.

“Maybe I’m foolish for saying it, but I know I couldn’t love a woman,” I declare. “Well, not in that way. I love my mother,

of course.”

“Surprise, surprise. A fruit who loves his mommy.” Jack’s snideness is met with laughter.

I don’t let the cackles deter me. “Laugh all you want, but I know I have so much love to give. And this place...” I wave my arm across the bar.

“This might be the only place I’m safe to say so.

I have love to give and what I want is to give it to.

.. well, to...” I want to finish. To say I want to give it to another boy.

But my mouth suddenly goes dry and my heart races.

Mother told me before a piano recital to ignore everyone in the audience except for her.

To play for an audience of one. That’s what I do now.

I speak only to the mystery boy. The warmth in his gaze inspires me.

I feel clearer than I’ve ever felt before.

My eyes are glued to him as I say, “I want a love that feels like a concerto. A concerto goes on and on, repeating motifs and building on itself. To me, that’s what love should feel like.

An epic lifetime of swinging back and forth from major to minor, always coming back to the same key in the end.

” My voice is full of confidence, but my heart shatters.

Because I can’t find this kind of love without breaking Mother’s heart, can I?

Jack rolls his eyes. “As it turns out, I like swinging back and forth too. That’s why I’m not wearing any underwear.” More

laughter. The room seems to have chosen Jack as the winner.

“I have an idea,” Brendan says, offering us a détente. “Let’s show Oliver the back room.” Turning his gaze to me, he says

softly, “I think you’ll be fascinated by what’s there.”

“Brendan, if it’s something to do with sex, I’d much rather—”

He shakes his head. “Trust me. There’s more to the Rooster than dickylickers and deep-sea divers.”

Brendan leads the way to a back room. I’m expecting to find some sort of dungeon, but to my surprise, what I find is a three-cylinder printing press.

A thickly built young woman in a simple white shirt and gray slacks mans the imposing machine.

It rolls out a stream of printed words and images about a labor union strike, and she cuts them into individual leaflets.

She hands one to me first, then one to each of the boys.

“We support your lot,” she says. “We ask you to support ours. We demand better wages and work conditions, just as men have. And we won’t give up, even if we never get the support of the men in charge of the labor unions. ”

“My mother works as a seamstress, and they don’t even pay her during breaks,” I say. “She works in the most cramped space

you’ve ever seen.”

The woman smiles. “So, you’re not a golden boy like this lot,” she cracks.

“Says the girl who just graduated from Radcliffe,” Jack says.

“On a full scholarship,” the woman clarifies.

Jack pulls an alarmingly large wad of cash out of his pocket and hands it to her. “For your cause, milady,” he says.

The woman takes the cash. “Thanks, Jack.” To my delight, she tousles his carefully combed hair.

“You’re welcome,” Jack says. “Now, can we talk about something more exciting than women’s rights?”

“This is not what I was expecting to find back here,” I say in awe.

“The Rooster is much more than a bar,” the woman explains. “It’s a center of community. Do you know why the owner put a printing

press back here?”

Cyril raises his hand like he’s in class. “Because whoever controls the written word controls the mind.” He blushes. “My classics

professor said that. It sounded more natural coming from him.”

I gently insert myself into the conversation. “It makes me think that perhaps life was better before the written word. When

no one could control others.”

The woman kindly asks me, “You think early humans didn’t exert control through other, more brutal means than writing?”

“I suppose you’re right,” I say sadly.

“Though I think control might be the wrong word for what we’re doing,” she says thoughtfully. “Some people use the written word to control the mind.

Others use it to liberate thought, create empathy.”

I want to be like this woman. A fighter for justice. A creator of a better world. Not through money like Jack and his family.

Through action like her. “What about music?” I ask. “Can music be used the same way? To liberate thought and all that.”

“Of course,” she assures me. “Creativity is God’s great gift to humanity, and like all gifts, it’s also a challenge. Will

you use the gift for ill or good?” I look around the back room. Flyers are littered about, as are stacks of paper, worn books,

clippings from newspapers. She follows my gaze and quickly offers, “If you ever want to come back and read, just say the word.

Eastman has set it up like a bit of a library. You can read Havelock Ellis or Freud, Wilde or Marx, all the thinkers the powerful

are afraid of.”

“I’d love to discuss Marx, but I’d much rather order another round of sodas and spike it with this.” Jack pulls a small bottle

of whiskey from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Who’s coming?” Everyone follows Jack except me.

Left behind with the woman, I ask, “If I were to read one thing here, what would you recommend?”

“What are you looking for?” she asks. “Something to fill you with righteous rage. A poem to make you weep, perhaps. A scientific

or psychological text about sex or gender.”

I think for a moment. “No,” I whisper. “I want... something to give me hope. That someday, I might be able to feel...

I don’t know... whole. With another man, I mean. You already knew that’s what I wanted, didn’t you?”

“Honey, my beautiful woman is back home waiting for me.” She smiles as she hands me a copy of Plato’s Symposium . “I think this will do the trick.”

“Plato?” I ask.

“You’ve read it already?”

“Not yet,” I say. “How will it make me feel better?”

“You’ll have to read it to find out.” She grabs her papers. “I’ll leave you to it. It’s time for me to go hand out some leaflets.

You’re all right in here?”

“I’m more than all right,” I say. “I love it here. I could move in if you’d put a mattress on the floor. All I need is a piano.”

“There’s a piano in the main hall. They love it when someone plays for the crowd.” She offers me her hand. “I’m Edna, by the

way.”

“Oliver.” I take her hand and give it a squeeze. When she leaves me alone, I start to read the Symposium , curious about why she chose it for me. As I take in the words, I feel as if I’m ascending into some other time. Or perhaps

just deeper into myself, into a part of me I’m just learning about. I can’t help but shed happy tears at how beautiful it

feels. I let the tears roll down my freckled cheeks, not bothering to wipe them.

Then I hear a slight creak. I look up and see him standing there. The mysterious dark-haired kid.

Embarrassed, I quickly wipe my face dry. “How long were you standing there?” I ask, annoyed.

“Long enough to want to join you,” he says. “May I?”

“You stood there staring at me while I cried.” I feel exposed and raw. “It’s not right to watch a person like a spy.”

“You looked so peaceful,” he says. “I couldn’t disturb you.”

“I don’t always cry like that,” I say defiantly. “Only when a book moves me.”

“And I don’t always spy like that,” he says. “Only when a person moves me.” He smiles. “Am I forgiven?”