Read Online I've a Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore by Ethan Mordden - Free Book Online Page B

tones in his hair.
    “You know,” I said to Dennis Savage. “I think it’s time you and I took Little Kiwi to the Island.”
    “What island?” Little Kiwi asked.
    “Fire.”
    “Could Bauhaus come?”
    “Surely,” I replied. “What’s Fire Island without Bauhaus?”
    “I’m going to pack!” Little Kiwi cried, racing out with the dog.
    “It so happens,” says Dennis Savage, “that I had just such a trip in mind.”
    “Of course,” I agreed. “Of course. Of course. Of course.”
    “But since you brought it up, you can make the arrangements.”
    “My pleasure.”
    “It’ll be grand showing Little Kiwi all the places. Like revisiting our youth. There are three memories that every gay lives on—the first Gay Pride March, the first sight of the Saint, and the first trip to the Pines.”
    “Aren’t you afraid of losing Little Kiwi out there?” I asked. “It’s been known to happen.”
    He nodded, smiling vaguely, nodded again. “I’ve got Little Kiwi all wired down.”
    “You didn’t seem to think so a minute ago. You came rocketing out of the kitchen like a husband.”
    “I just didn’t want to miss anything,” he said airily. “You put on such an amusing act. Yea, if I’m the husband, what are you—the iceman?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Make sure you set us up in a real bijou of a house, now. We want to do the Island in top style.”
    “Shall we say the weekend after Memorial Day?”
    “I can’t wait to see Little Kiwi on the ferry—the wind in his hair and such. We could arrive just in time for tea and step right off the boat into the throng, Little Kiwi a sensation in lederhosen and I, Lord Mayor of the Circuit, greeting my fans.” He regarded me with something like scorn. “Do you suppose you could, just for once, try to look famous? Nothing spoils an entrance like one of the party clomping in like somebody’s uncle.”
    As he reached the door I said, “Please, don’t worry about Little Kiwi and me.”
    “Was I planning to?”
    “You know what they say about the iceman.”
    “What do they say, you bum sheik?”
    “He cometh.”
    *   *   *
    It went off like a dream. We claimed the hospitality of a wealthy friend of mine with a house on the surf, two decks, a pool, endless room, and the honest generosity of a golden-age host. We caught the Islanders’ bus at Fifty-third and Second, Bauhaus and all, and Dennis Savage planted Little Kiwi across the aisle from us on his own. “He has to get out in the world,” said Dennis Savage. There Little Kiwi entranced an elderly man with Wacko the Puppet, a character Little Kiwi creates by smushing his hand into a paper envelope to form a mouth. Wacko speaks in a crackly voice suggestive of Wheat Chex coughing and hasn’t a shred of wit; his charm lies not in what he says but in the fact that Little Kiwi gets such a kick out of him. It’s like Joan Crawford’s acting: you don’t admire the talent; you admire the commitment.
    “I have a beautiful home on the bay,” the old man was saying. “I’m looking for a houseboy. Would you like the job?”
    “Don’t do windows!” Wacko warned Little Kiwi.
    “The duties are light,” the man went on.
    “That lets Little Kiwi out,” Wacko observed. “He likes a lot of structure in his life.”
    “The salary is very negotiable.”
    “Now, Wacko,” said Little Kiwi, “tell the folks that story about the Polish elephant.”
    “Please,” the man pleaded. “Please.”
    “Why don’t you trade seats with Little Kiwi?” I asked Dennis Savage. “He’s shattering the social contract.”
    “He has to see life and learn. He’s been very sheltered till now.”
    “He’s about to give that old man a heart attack.”
    “That is the role that old men play in the gay world. If you haven’t accepted that by now, you’ll never know anything.”
    As we disembarked at Sayville, Dennis Savage got teary. “Remember?” he kept saying. “Remember? The magic of the Island!” As the boat