Read Online The Night Listener : A Novel by Armistead Maupin - Free Book Online
Authors: Armistead Maupin
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back to Darlie, widening my eyes melodramatically.
“Maybe it’s not a routine. Maybe it’s the real thing.”
“Oh, go to hell, both of you!” The old man was in his element now, home free at last, swapping insults instead of endearments. “I remember that earthquake better than you do. We’d just got back from Kenya, and Darlie was wearing those ridiculous nigger clothes…”
“Gabriel!”
“Well, that’s what they were. That ugly damn sarong thing with the turban.” Pap turned to me. “And you had that little place with all the stairs…over there with all the funny fellas.”
I arched an eyebrow at my stepmother. “Gee. Wonder how I ended up there .” In my father’s eyes, his stalwart son would always be one thing, the funny fellas quite another.
“And Whatshisname showed us that big crack above your fire-place.”
Whatshisname. The love of my life.
“I’m sorry he’s out of town,” said Darlie, looking at me so directly that I wondered if she sensed something was wrong.
I did my damnedest to stay casual. “Oh, I know. He is, too. It was a last-minute thing.”
“You do a lot of business in L.A.?”
“A fair amount, yeah.”
“And this was for what, you said?”
“A TV deal. He’s producing a special for us.”
“Sounds great,” she said pleasantly.
“A special what?” My father, no longer the focus of our attention, was cruising for some friendly friction.
“I’m gonna do a reading on TV,” I told him. (This part was true, at least; Jess had been planning the special for months.) “Sort of a dramatized thing. With an armchair and a set. Like Alistair Cooke on Masterpiece Theatre . People will actually get to see me this time.”
“Well, lucky them.”
There was a trace of malice in this, but I let it go with a tart smile.
I knew it wasn’t easy for Pap, having his name co-opted by such a conspicuous homo. I had been programmed to be him , after all: a partner in his bank, a conservative, a practicing aristocrat. But now, by his own account, he had become a road-show version of me.
Dewy-eyed shopgirls and waiters, clocking the name on his credit card, would ask him for his autograph only to discover he wasn’t the Gabriel Noone. I liked to imagine this happening during one of his lunches with Strom Thurmond, when ol’ Strom had been ranting away about the evils of the Gay Agenda. But the senator probably avoided the subject altogether, recognizing, in his gentle-manly way, the cross his old friend had to bear.
“We saw your books in Paris,” my father said. “Big pile of ‘em.
Right there…you know…in that virgin place.” Darlie provided the translation: “The Virgin Megastore.”
“Ah.”
“I wanted the new Jimmy Buffett,” she explained.
I gave her a private twinkle. “I thought maybe he was looking for Nine Inch Nails.”
Darlie chuckled; my father’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing, sweetness. It’s just a musical group.”
“Thank God. I thought you were talking about my prowess.”
“No, believe me, nobody’s talking about that.”
“Did you tell the boy about…?”
“No, I did not.”
“Good.”
“Why on earth would—”
“Remember ol’ Hubie Verner?” My father leaned closer, clearly intent upon telling me himself. Whatever the hell it was.
“Yeah,” I said carefully. “Your doctor. Or used to be.”
“Still is,” said Pap with a chuckle. “Must be ninety, if he’s day, but I’m still goin’ to him.”
Darlie rolled her eyes. “He’s seventy-one, for God’s sake. He’s a lot younger’n you.”
“Well, he looks ninety, poor bastard.” My father leaned closer in a moment of man-to-man lechery. “Wrote me a prescription for that Viagra stuff. Damnedest thing you’ve ever seen.”
“Gabriel…”
“Oh, hell, Darlie, he’s a grown man.”
“Nobody cares if—”
“ You sure as hell cared. You were pretty damn impressed.” He turned back to me, his face rosy
“Maybe it’s not a routine. Maybe it’s the real thing.”
“Oh, go to hell, both of you!” The old man was in his element now, home free at last, swapping insults instead of endearments. “I remember that earthquake better than you do. We’d just got back from Kenya, and Darlie was wearing those ridiculous nigger clothes…”
“Gabriel!”
“Well, that’s what they were. That ugly damn sarong thing with the turban.” Pap turned to me. “And you had that little place with all the stairs…over there with all the funny fellas.”
I arched an eyebrow at my stepmother. “Gee. Wonder how I ended up there .” In my father’s eyes, his stalwart son would always be one thing, the funny fellas quite another.
“And Whatshisname showed us that big crack above your fire-place.”
Whatshisname. The love of my life.
“I’m sorry he’s out of town,” said Darlie, looking at me so directly that I wondered if she sensed something was wrong.
I did my damnedest to stay casual. “Oh, I know. He is, too. It was a last-minute thing.”
“You do a lot of business in L.A.?”
“A fair amount, yeah.”
“And this was for what, you said?”
“A TV deal. He’s producing a special for us.”
“Sounds great,” she said pleasantly.
“A special what?” My father, no longer the focus of our attention, was cruising for some friendly friction.
“I’m gonna do a reading on TV,” I told him. (This part was true, at least; Jess had been planning the special for months.) “Sort of a dramatized thing. With an armchair and a set. Like Alistair Cooke on Masterpiece Theatre . People will actually get to see me this time.”
“Well, lucky them.”
There was a trace of malice in this, but I let it go with a tart smile.
I knew it wasn’t easy for Pap, having his name co-opted by such a conspicuous homo. I had been programmed to be him , after all: a partner in his bank, a conservative, a practicing aristocrat. But now, by his own account, he had become a road-show version of me.
Dewy-eyed shopgirls and waiters, clocking the name on his credit card, would ask him for his autograph only to discover he wasn’t the Gabriel Noone. I liked to imagine this happening during one of his lunches with Strom Thurmond, when ol’ Strom had been ranting away about the evils of the Gay Agenda. But the senator probably avoided the subject altogether, recognizing, in his gentle-manly way, the cross his old friend had to bear.
“We saw your books in Paris,” my father said. “Big pile of ‘em.
Right there…you know…in that virgin place.” Darlie provided the translation: “The Virgin Megastore.”
“Ah.”
“I wanted the new Jimmy Buffett,” she explained.
I gave her a private twinkle. “I thought maybe he was looking for Nine Inch Nails.”
Darlie chuckled; my father’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing, sweetness. It’s just a musical group.”
“Thank God. I thought you were talking about my prowess.”
“No, believe me, nobody’s talking about that.”
“Did you tell the boy about…?”
“No, I did not.”
“Good.”
“Why on earth would—”
“Remember ol’ Hubie Verner?” My father leaned closer, clearly intent upon telling me himself. Whatever the hell it was.
“Yeah,” I said carefully. “Your doctor. Or used to be.”
“Still is,” said Pap with a chuckle. “Must be ninety, if he’s day, but I’m still goin’ to him.”
Darlie rolled her eyes. “He’s seventy-one, for God’s sake. He’s a lot younger’n you.”
“Well, he looks ninety, poor bastard.” My father leaned closer in a moment of man-to-man lechery. “Wrote me a prescription for that Viagra stuff. Damnedest thing you’ve ever seen.”
“Gabriel…”
“Oh, hell, Darlie, he’s a grown man.”
“Nobody cares if—”
“ You sure as hell cared. You were pretty damn impressed.” He turned back to me, his face rosy
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