height and muscle mass of the perpetrator. People forget—the King studied karate, and my father took me to the dojo until I had earned my black belt. Of course, he would have preached temperance. “Remember, son, eighty percent of the audience is on your side. You just sing the songs. Let them deal with the other twenty.”
Some nights the numbers were reversed, and the right comeback earned silence and respect—and an occasional black eye.
“Hey, faggot!”
The rest was lost in the crowd’s muttering. The leather jacket grew heavy, trapping heat from the lights. I didn’t wear a shirt, of course, and sweat pooled at the waistband of my pants, which were plenty tight and glued to my legs. From the corner of my eye, I saw the hotel’s assistant manager and his “get on with it” scowl.
One more “faggot” and I would.
Predictably, it came. I decided the perpetrator was a coward, making Ron—and the two-by-four he slipped beneath the Dumpster out back—unnecessary.
The insult died somewhere between my brain and mouth. Aimee. I couldn’t say a word, at least not the ones I had planned on saying, not with her in the audience. Dread like I hadn’t felt since my first time on stage clutched my stomach. The light dazzled my eyes and the urge to pray overtook me.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned .
Instead, I sang. I sang over the repeated cries of “faggot,” I sang as two couples in the front row stood up and walked out, I sang even as Aimee slipped off the barstool and pushed through the lounge’s double doors.
I kept the set upbeat, a lead-in to the rockabilly dance band that followed. By the time I finished Jailhouse Rock , I had won back the crowd, but Aimee was gone.
I elbowed my way through the throng, my destination, the bar. The shake of Ron’s head sent me out the double doors, through the lobby, and into the thick summer night.
She sat at a bus stop two blocks up the road, her leg extended before her, one bare foot hovering above the concrete. In her hands, she cradled the shoe. I jogged the distance, grateful for dismal public transportation and shoddily made footwear.
“Mind if I sit?”
Those clear, guileless eyes looked sad, and I didn’t like the knowledge I saw there. She scooted over, then contemplated her broken shoe. I eased the two pieces from her and inspected the damage.
“Wow.” With a finger, I tested the single nail protruding from the heel. “Suppose it could double as an ice pick?”
Was that a small smile? I leaned forward, but she wouldn’t give me her eyes again. I concentrated on the repair, and once body and sole were back together, knelt in front of her.
“That should hold, at least for the slow songs.” I slipped the shoe onto her foot. “Come back and dance with me?”
Aimee took my arm, but halfway across the parking lot, she dug her heels into the still-warm asphalt, a dangerous move considering her shoes.
“You’re going back in there?”
“Always do.”
“But—” The word faded, she swallowed hard, and I watched the internal war against a spate of tears.
“Come here.” Her blouse was thin beneath my palm, the result of too many tumbles through the washer. The shoulder seams were meticulously hemmed, but at one time the top had sported long sleeves. I didn’t know where she lived, I didn’t even know her last name, but I held her in the middle of the Holiday Inn parking lot, held her tight because I couldn’t hold the memory of another hotel parking lot at bay.
* * *
I had been a petulant sixteen, following my father around that summer, on a circuit not unlike my current one. Sometimes we performed a father-son review, he in his Pinwheel jumpsuit, and I in a near-replica of the suit Elvis wore for his first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show , a suit my mother created through multiple trips to Goodwill.
My father didn’t believe in baptism by fire. These reviews played to crowds where women—and sometimes men—clamored to be
Some nights the numbers were reversed, and the right comeback earned silence and respect—and an occasional black eye.
“Hey, faggot!”
The rest was lost in the crowd’s muttering. The leather jacket grew heavy, trapping heat from the lights. I didn’t wear a shirt, of course, and sweat pooled at the waistband of my pants, which were plenty tight and glued to my legs. From the corner of my eye, I saw the hotel’s assistant manager and his “get on with it” scowl.
One more “faggot” and I would.
Predictably, it came. I decided the perpetrator was a coward, making Ron—and the two-by-four he slipped beneath the Dumpster out back—unnecessary.
The insult died somewhere between my brain and mouth. Aimee. I couldn’t say a word, at least not the ones I had planned on saying, not with her in the audience. Dread like I hadn’t felt since my first time on stage clutched my stomach. The light dazzled my eyes and the urge to pray overtook me.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned .
Instead, I sang. I sang over the repeated cries of “faggot,” I sang as two couples in the front row stood up and walked out, I sang even as Aimee slipped off the barstool and pushed through the lounge’s double doors.
I kept the set upbeat, a lead-in to the rockabilly dance band that followed. By the time I finished Jailhouse Rock , I had won back the crowd, but Aimee was gone.
I elbowed my way through the throng, my destination, the bar. The shake of Ron’s head sent me out the double doors, through the lobby, and into the thick summer night.
She sat at a bus stop two blocks up the road, her leg extended before her, one bare foot hovering above the concrete. In her hands, she cradled the shoe. I jogged the distance, grateful for dismal public transportation and shoddily made footwear.
“Mind if I sit?”
Those clear, guileless eyes looked sad, and I didn’t like the knowledge I saw there. She scooted over, then contemplated her broken shoe. I eased the two pieces from her and inspected the damage.
“Wow.” With a finger, I tested the single nail protruding from the heel. “Suppose it could double as an ice pick?”
Was that a small smile? I leaned forward, but she wouldn’t give me her eyes again. I concentrated on the repair, and once body and sole were back together, knelt in front of her.
“That should hold, at least for the slow songs.” I slipped the shoe onto her foot. “Come back and dance with me?”
Aimee took my arm, but halfway across the parking lot, she dug her heels into the still-warm asphalt, a dangerous move considering her shoes.
“You’re going back in there?”
“Always do.”
“But—” The word faded, she swallowed hard, and I watched the internal war against a spate of tears.
“Come here.” Her blouse was thin beneath my palm, the result of too many tumbles through the washer. The shoulder seams were meticulously hemmed, but at one time the top had sported long sleeves. I didn’t know where she lived, I didn’t even know her last name, but I held her in the middle of the Holiday Inn parking lot, held her tight because I couldn’t hold the memory of another hotel parking lot at bay.
* * *
I had been a petulant sixteen, following my father around that summer, on a circuit not unlike my current one. Sometimes we performed a father-son review, he in his Pinwheel jumpsuit, and I in a near-replica of the suit Elvis wore for his first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show , a suit my mother created through multiple trips to Goodwill.
My father didn’t believe in baptism by fire. These reviews played to crowds where women—and sometimes men—clamored to be
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