pushed him away. “They’ll want plenty of hot cream from your spigot, too,” he added, and turned back to me.
“Now, my old friend,” he said, in quiet, even, masculine tones, grasping my shoulders. “Let’s understand each other vividly. If you tell a single soul … and I mean anyone: a judge, a ribbon clerk, a bag lady … if you tell anyone about my past, I swear I’ll rip you apart, limb from limb.” Grasping harder, he flexed his right biceps. “Feel that.”
“No, I’ll take your word for it.” Twenty years after, the same bully was still harassing me.
“If you’re nice to me,” he added, softening, “I’ll be nice to you. Silence?”
“All right.”
“Will you shake hands on it, in our simple country way?”
“No. But I’ll give you my word.”
He regarded me for a bit, then nodded. “I’ll trust you.”
Suddenly a voice rang out: “Auditions for the chorus line! Auditions for the Hello, Dolly! number!” Harvey swept back into the throng; now he was Carol Channing. “And I’m Dolly!” he announced. “Hello, everybody!”
“Hello, Carol!” they replied. And that day at the swings, which I had almost succeeded in burying, came flooding back into me like poison.
* * *
I would have been glad to give Harvey a wide berth, but for some reason he adopted me. He was utterly uninterested in me physically and we were not compatible as friends; however, he often included me in a crowd. I went along because I liked his crowd; after all, I had come to New York to join it. And never once did he revert to the threat he had voiced that night we reconvened. He had learned to project his toughness at genuine enemies, from impedient bureaucrats to sullen doormen, casually and fiercely. He was shameless. A scene in a bank or restaurant energized him. One minute he would be regaling the dinner table with his Tallulah and Carol; the next, he’d have a flippant waiter by the hair threatening to wash his face in soup if he didn’t snap to. And he meant it; and he was over two hundred pounds of total beef.
He could be very funny. Once, in his apartment, he performed a version of A Little Night Music with Bette Davis in the lead, bungling the lyrics, quoting lines from her films, haranguing the audience with homophobic paranoia. He did Hal Prince, shaping Concept Production. He did Sondheim, tearing his hair. He did Kate Hepburn, sneaking into the show during “A Weekend in the Country” and trying to usurp Bette’s role. I was literally on the floor, holding my stomach and screaming for mercy.
He was popular but loveless: the face was wrong. He worked out at Sheridan Square but, on the street, never nodded to the others who did, as most of them do. He scarcely cruised at all. His queen act centered on romance and sex; in real life, he stepped around them. There were times, rare ones when we were alone together, when I thought he was about to say something intimately sad, homo, but then he would cut over to some slashing line, gay, like, “You want hot truth? Love is so stupid they should give it to straights” or “I’m loud and crass and that’s my fun—love me or leave me!”
* * *
One spends the first years in New York collecting coterie, one’s next years trimming it. I moved on to a crowd in a lower key, given to ties and quiet pricey restaurants. At L’Aiglon one night I told them about Harvey’s routines and they just looked at each other blankly. (It was a dull group, but the clothes were fun.) I kept in touch with Harvey and told him of my doings, and he became fascinated by the company I kept. They had names like Crosby and Raymond and were smooth operators. In their gentle way they made good stories, and in his rowdy way Harvey took them into his act. “Bette Meets Crosby,” he would announce, then show me how the diva fared among the townhouse gentry. The adventure varied with his mood. “Tea is served,” he once narrated, enacting it, “and
“Now, my old friend,” he said, in quiet, even, masculine tones, grasping my shoulders. “Let’s understand each other vividly. If you tell a single soul … and I mean anyone: a judge, a ribbon clerk, a bag lady … if you tell anyone about my past, I swear I’ll rip you apart, limb from limb.” Grasping harder, he flexed his right biceps. “Feel that.”
“No, I’ll take your word for it.” Twenty years after, the same bully was still harassing me.
“If you’re nice to me,” he added, softening, “I’ll be nice to you. Silence?”
“All right.”
“Will you shake hands on it, in our simple country way?”
“No. But I’ll give you my word.”
He regarded me for a bit, then nodded. “I’ll trust you.”
Suddenly a voice rang out: “Auditions for the chorus line! Auditions for the Hello, Dolly! number!” Harvey swept back into the throng; now he was Carol Channing. “And I’m Dolly!” he announced. “Hello, everybody!”
“Hello, Carol!” they replied. And that day at the swings, which I had almost succeeded in burying, came flooding back into me like poison.
* * *
I would have been glad to give Harvey a wide berth, but for some reason he adopted me. He was utterly uninterested in me physically and we were not compatible as friends; however, he often included me in a crowd. I went along because I liked his crowd; after all, I had come to New York to join it. And never once did he revert to the threat he had voiced that night we reconvened. He had learned to project his toughness at genuine enemies, from impedient bureaucrats to sullen doormen, casually and fiercely. He was shameless. A scene in a bank or restaurant energized him. One minute he would be regaling the dinner table with his Tallulah and Carol; the next, he’d have a flippant waiter by the hair threatening to wash his face in soup if he didn’t snap to. And he meant it; and he was over two hundred pounds of total beef.
He could be very funny. Once, in his apartment, he performed a version of A Little Night Music with Bette Davis in the lead, bungling the lyrics, quoting lines from her films, haranguing the audience with homophobic paranoia. He did Hal Prince, shaping Concept Production. He did Sondheim, tearing his hair. He did Kate Hepburn, sneaking into the show during “A Weekend in the Country” and trying to usurp Bette’s role. I was literally on the floor, holding my stomach and screaming for mercy.
He was popular but loveless: the face was wrong. He worked out at Sheridan Square but, on the street, never nodded to the others who did, as most of them do. He scarcely cruised at all. His queen act centered on romance and sex; in real life, he stepped around them. There were times, rare ones when we were alone together, when I thought he was about to say something intimately sad, homo, but then he would cut over to some slashing line, gay, like, “You want hot truth? Love is so stupid they should give it to straights” or “I’m loud and crass and that’s my fun—love me or leave me!”
* * *
One spends the first years in New York collecting coterie, one’s next years trimming it. I moved on to a crowd in a lower key, given to ties and quiet pricey restaurants. At L’Aiglon one night I told them about Harvey’s routines and they just looked at each other blankly. (It was a dull group, but the clothes were fun.) I kept in touch with Harvey and told him of my doings, and he became fascinated by the company I kept. They had names like Crosby and Raymond and were smooth operators. In their gentle way they made good stories, and in his rowdy way Harvey took them into his act. “Bette Meets Crosby,” he would announce, then show me how the diva fared among the townhouse gentry. The adventure varied with his mood. “Tea is served,” he once narrated, enacting it, “and
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