forbidden them some promised trip as a result of the usual contretemps, so I cast them into my cult to cheer them up. They were to play announcer and delicious mystery guest in my show, though Andrew could not bring himself to announce anything but “Here comes Mr. Pickle!” (an arresting footnote in what turned out to be an insistently straight sex life) and mystery guest Tony, sullen with the humiliation of punishment, refused to say even a word. I liked to make multidisc sets, just like the 45 versions of show albums, and by the end of the third side Andrew and I were giggling and capering. Tony, however, remained obdurately silent, despite our prodding and hard looks. At length, he piped up, “I hate Mom.” There the record ended.
But not the story. Years later, the three of us turned up for Christmas at the manse, and stayed up late to reminisce and get into trouble in the kitchen. My mother, who spent most of her parental life starting at the sound of an opening refrigerator door to scream, “Who’s in the kitchen?” from the bedroom, screamed it now.
“Do you remember,” Tony asked, “when that struck terror into our hearts?”
“We should wreck a dish or something,” Andrew urged. “Let’s make something vicious in the toaster-oven.”
It was as if we had never grown up. They were still the moon mice, as capable of smashing up my room as of sharing a pizza; and I am still the theatre kid, throwing the word “satire” around and speaking of “Section Two.” My folks were about to move to Sacramento, and in going through my old chest I found many a souvenir, including some of my old amateur 45s. I took them out now and played the Mr. Pickle show, running lampoon and myth together.
We were bemused, transported back to a time when losing a hat or catching cold was mortal sin. In the silence that followed, Mother came downstairs in her nightgown to expostulate and dither, and, suddenly wrenched by the horror of leaving friends and family for a strange culture, grew tearful. “There won’t be a Fortunoff’s,” she explained. “They put tofu into the water supply.” Tearful is bad enough, but now came nostalgic, not one of her characteristic modes. “I wish your father were here to see the three of you spending Christmas like brothers instead of fighting.”
“He’s just upstairs in bed,” said Andrew. “Shall I get him?”
“Are you talking over old times?” she asked gently. I’d had enough of this. Consulting the phonograph, I replayed the last bit of the Mr. Pickle show:
“Well, Mr. Pickle, what’s new on the Rialto?”
Silence.
(“Say something, you spaz!”)
Silence.
(“Kick his knee.”)
(“No, let’s give him noogies.”)
“Mr. Pickle, won’t you say hello at least?”
Long silence, then:
“I hate Mom.”
Mother regarded us in fury. “You wretches! Who said that?”
I pointed at Tony, Tony pointed at Andrew, Andrew pointed at me. “He did,” we chorused. Lampoon and myth.
Where did we learn our timing, you ask? Broadway taught us. Life is educational, if you know how to choose your college.
The Ideal Couple
After fraternities of siblings and of construction workers, we consider a third brotherhood, neither genetic nor professional but cultural.
Stonewall the event happened very unexpectedly, and Stonewall the culture developed, in response, almost overnight. All those men who had been living alone and quietly suddenly had boyfriends, Oscar parties, leather pants. The gay world took on its themes, conventions, and terms with a ferocious imagination—for these elements of our civilization were not revealed, brought out of hiding: they were invented on the spot. We were leaderless, but then gay had long been, like it or not, a somewhat freelance situation, a field of loners making do. And we began to find each other, trade observations, build up the folklore. Some rather essential items turned out to have been there all along—Fire Island, for instance.
But not the story. Years later, the three of us turned up for Christmas at the manse, and stayed up late to reminisce and get into trouble in the kitchen. My mother, who spent most of her parental life starting at the sound of an opening refrigerator door to scream, “Who’s in the kitchen?” from the bedroom, screamed it now.
“Do you remember,” Tony asked, “when that struck terror into our hearts?”
“We should wreck a dish or something,” Andrew urged. “Let’s make something vicious in the toaster-oven.”
It was as if we had never grown up. They were still the moon mice, as capable of smashing up my room as of sharing a pizza; and I am still the theatre kid, throwing the word “satire” around and speaking of “Section Two.” My folks were about to move to Sacramento, and in going through my old chest I found many a souvenir, including some of my old amateur 45s. I took them out now and played the Mr. Pickle show, running lampoon and myth together.
We were bemused, transported back to a time when losing a hat or catching cold was mortal sin. In the silence that followed, Mother came downstairs in her nightgown to expostulate and dither, and, suddenly wrenched by the horror of leaving friends and family for a strange culture, grew tearful. “There won’t be a Fortunoff’s,” she explained. “They put tofu into the water supply.” Tearful is bad enough, but now came nostalgic, not one of her characteristic modes. “I wish your father were here to see the three of you spending Christmas like brothers instead of fighting.”
“He’s just upstairs in bed,” said Andrew. “Shall I get him?”
“Are you talking over old times?” she asked gently. I’d had enough of this. Consulting the phonograph, I replayed the last bit of the Mr. Pickle show:
“Well, Mr. Pickle, what’s new on the Rialto?”
Silence.
(“Say something, you spaz!”)
Silence.
(“Kick his knee.”)
(“No, let’s give him noogies.”)
“Mr. Pickle, won’t you say hello at least?”
Long silence, then:
“I hate Mom.”
Mother regarded us in fury. “You wretches! Who said that?”
I pointed at Tony, Tony pointed at Andrew, Andrew pointed at me. “He did,” we chorused. Lampoon and myth.
Where did we learn our timing, you ask? Broadway taught us. Life is educational, if you know how to choose your college.
The Ideal Couple
After fraternities of siblings and of construction workers, we consider a third brotherhood, neither genetic nor professional but cultural.
Stonewall the event happened very unexpectedly, and Stonewall the culture developed, in response, almost overnight. All those men who had been living alone and quietly suddenly had boyfriends, Oscar parties, leather pants. The gay world took on its themes, conventions, and terms with a ferocious imagination—for these elements of our civilization were not revealed, brought out of hiding: they were invented on the spot. We were leaderless, but then gay had long been, like it or not, a somewhat freelance situation, a field of loners making do. And we began to find each other, trade observations, build up the folklore. Some rather essential items turned out to have been there all along—Fire Island, for instance.
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