Frou-Frou

Joe Okonkwo

The plant had to go. Upton regarded it as it rose up out of its pot. Stationed in a prime location—the floor in front of the only window in his studio apartment—it occupied that space as if it owned it. It was called a Bird of Paradise and he had just bought it from a snooty exotic plant shop on Lexington Avenue. The plant was exotic: the sight of it made Upton think he should be lounging on the white sands of some Caribbean beach with a tropical drink in his hand. And it was…feminine. If a plant could be described that way. The stem was four feet tall, had the diameter of a small pole, and it curved at the top in a beak-like shape that jutted out obnoxiously about a foot. The top of the beak erupted in a wild bush of multicolored petals—yellow, orange, violet. A tacky bombardment of splash and color. Just add some glitter and sequins and the thing could be a drag queen.

To escape the plant, Upton sat at the piano and practiced his Chopin. The etudes and mazurkas rocketing through his fingers and off the keyboard were a far-flung universe from the Broadway musicals he’d played for a living for the last twenty-five years. His concert stage ambitions had short-circuited when musical theatre—and easier money—beckoned. But he kept up his classical skills by practicing Chopin, Rachmaninoff, or Scarlatti each day. Like a foreigner determined not to forget his native, and perhaps preferred, tongue.

Upton finished the “Polonaise-Fantasie” and peeked at the Bird of Paradise—more like a bird of prey the way it arched out of that pot, petals bristling. Once more he considered taking it back to the store.

He studied the keyboard again but had lost his motivation for Chopin. It was Sunday afternoon, he was off from the show this evening, and he was bored. And a little horny. He tinkled some old Tin Pan Alley tune for a moment, then got up, put on a t-shirt and his tightest jeans, and left the apartment.

* * *

The weekend before Pride and Greenwich Village already buzzed. Rainbow flags flapped above shop windows as Upton salivated over cute boys clad only in short shorts, jetting by on rollerblades. People slurped margaritas in sidewalk cafes where laughter flowed as liberally as the booze. An empire of men crowded the streets, slices of pizza or bottles of beer dangling from limp wrists.

On Christopher Street, a troop of guys swished so hard, if their hips had broken loose someone would have gotten hurt. Two black drag queens tumbled out of a bar, nearly undone by the lethal combination of alcohol and four-inch spike heels. They looked artificial in their over-the-top clothes and chintzy makeup. Their afros were the size of small planets.

“Girrrrrrl, your drunk ass be trippin’. Literally,” Drag Queen #1 said.

“My drunk ass?” Drag Queen #2 said. “Fuck you, bitch. You drank more than I did. And it all went to your fat ass!”

“Fuck you. My mama’s fat, but she ain’t birth no fat bitch.”

“You’re fat and you’re mama’s fat, too. In fact, yo mama so fat, when she sat down on a dollar bill, she made change.”

“Well, yo mama so fat, when her cell phone beeped, people thought she was backin’ up.”

A trio of tourists stood nearby—dad, mom, and young child, all wearing “I Love New York” t-shirts. The child watched the drag queens with the riveted attention with which children view cartoons. But his parents were aglow with disapproval. It was in the squint of their eyes as they watched the spectacle, the way the dad snatched the child away from the cartoon and hustled the family down Christopher, past the smoke shops and tattoo parlors and stores that displayed gay porn and dildos in their windows.

“Jesus. What they must be thinking,” Upton mumbled.

At Christopher and Hudson, he passed the stoop of an apartment building where a big, hunky thing was hanging out with a couple of friends. His meager tank top barely contained his colossal mass of muscle or the wilderness of hair on his mountainous chest. He gave off an aura of serious ruggedness, unassailable virility.

Then he opened his mouth.

“Girl, I don’t think so!” he said, snapping in Zorro-like formation, his voice screeching with a high-pitched effeminate quality. He thrusted one hip out to the side and placed a hand on it, tenderly, like a female fashion model posing on the runway.

It provoked a memory: Upton, ten-years old, Christmas morning. He had received the pair of boots he’d been asking for. He slipped them on and stuffed the legs of his pajama bottoms down into the boots, then began strutting around the living room and posing for his mother, hands on his hips, hips swaying from side to side. He was enjoying his showy antics, but it took his mother about a split second to dart up from the sofa, stop him mid-sway, and slap him. She took him by his shoulders and shook.

“If your father was here,” she said, “he’d be ashamed of you!”

* * *

The Windowsill Bar was packed. Upton had to grapple his way to the bar and then wait five minutes for the bartender—shirtless, ripped, and twenty-something—to acknowledge him.

“You think I could get some service over here?” he said.

The kid continued mixing a drink that looked entirely too complicated and, without looking up, said, “Depends on what you mean by service, babe.”

A clique of customers laughed. Upton didn’t appreciate the joke made at his expense, but envied the bartender’s quick wit—a gift so many gay men possessed, but he himself had been deprived of.

His eyes toured The Windowsill’s décor while he waited. Mexican piñatas swung from above while strung-up Christmas lights criss-crossed the ceiling, end to end. A wood-paneled section of wall hosted amateur reproductions of Warhol prints and framed photos of D-list and has-been celebrities.

The Windowsill’s customers were men of every shape, size, color, and attitude. Every level of attractive, all degrees of ugly, and everything in between. Quiet men, hungry for affection, huddling against the wall while the laughter of boisterous men hurtled across the room. Hustlers who recognized the hunger of the quiet men and preyed upon it. Butch men. Effeminate men. Drunks. Some guys searching for sex, others for a husband. Some searching for sex while their husband sipped ten-dollar vodka martinis not ten feet away. Young men, arrogant in their youth and vitality. Old men, cocky with the knowledge that youth and vitality are fleeting.

The bartender gave Upton his drink. “Five dollars, babe.”

Upton cringed. Babe. His Uncle Karl had done that. Called all the young nieces and nephews “babe” or “baby” or “sweetie.” Until the men in the family put their collective foot down: Karl was welcome to use those endearments with the girls, but under no circumstances was he to address the boys that way. Uncle Karl had been the family’s open secret. They all knew he was gay, but his activities outside of family dinners were never talked about. At least not in front of the kids.

Upton headed to the piano at the rear. On the way he passed a wall of posters from classic movies that had starred Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Rita Hayworth, and Marilyn. A giant replica of Judy Garland’s Carnegie Hall concert album occupied a revered place. At the piano, a thunder of voices sang “We Need a Little Christmas” from Mame, a show he’d music-directed on a regional tour a few years back. Men sat on stools circling the piano or stood. Those sitting seemed to be in charge, relishing their status as piano bar stars. As if their patronage contributed to the legacy of the songs they were now desecrating.

He nudged in closer. He liked the tune and the unique embellishments the pianist added. Upton deigned to join in for the last part, his high tenor freely gliding above and beyond everyone else. The singers applauded themselves at the conclusion and Upton wondered how many of them had started off as performers before giving up and becoming paralegals.

“At last. A true musical theater queen. Where’ve you been all my life?”

The man sat next to Upton on a stool, legs crossed elegantly at the knee, his slightly oversized sweatshirt sloping off his shoulder. Wrinkly bags sagged under his eyes and loose skin dripped from his neck and throat. He held a glass with a cherry, a slice of lemon, and an umbrella floating in it. The liquid was pink.

“Excuse me?” Upton said, eyeing the drink and then the man with disdain.

“The way you sing. You have a true affinity for this stuff. You really appreciate it. I can tell. Most of these schmucks don’t know musical theater.” He waved his free hand dismissively. “They think they do. But they’re too young.” He gave Upton a suggestive once-over. “But you look about the right age.” He put his lips to the straw in his glass, looked Upton in the eye, and sipped.

Upton wanted to slap him silly, but the prissy queen probably would have enjoyed it too much. “The right age for what?”

The man sighed. A labored and exaggerated outflow of liquor-tinted breath. “Sweetheart, haven’t you been listening? You’re the right age to be a true musical theater queen. One who appreciates the complexities and the style and the pizzazz and the complete and utter fabulousness of that venerable art form. Like me. That makes you a true musical theater queen. The real thing. No nonsense. The genuine hot tamale. At least in my book.” He sipped his pink drink. The umbrella bobbed.

“I would appreciate it if you would not write me into your book,” Upton said and then stalked away.

He found a boxy space in the jammed bar and stood in it, fuming. A full-size throne sat nearby, unoccupied. The back and seat cushions were pink velvet and sequins blanketed the wooden arms. Cowbells hung off the back.

The piano men had moved on to “All That Jazz” from Chicago (Upton had done that one on Broadway) as the man with the effeminate drink subjected someone else to his once-over. He reminded Upton of Karl. Uncle Karl had always been unconditionally welcome at family gatherings, but was never invited to any function that included non-family. He would have been too embarrassing.

Upton finished his drink and was about to exit when he saw a lovely young black man standing on the opposite side of the bar, almost directly across from him. Maybe twenty-five years old. Tall. Skin of medium brown tint. Slender frame, lanky even. Muscles that gently amplified his chest and arms. Legs like the long, slim limbs of a gazelle. He smiled and a certain confidence enveloped him as he surveyed the bar. As the bar surveyed him.

With an unexpected surge of resolve, Upton approached the young man. “Hi there,” he said, a bit tentively. His usual policy was never to approach someone unless permission had been granted through a smile, a look, a nod. There had been nothing from this man.

“Hi!” the young man said. “I’m Scotty. Nice to meet you.”

“Upton.” He nodded at Scotty’s empty glass. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, thanks. Sex on the Beach.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sex on the beach?”

Upton knew he was missing something. “What? I’m sorry.”

“It’s a cocktail,” Scotty said.

Upton’s befuddlement morphed into embarrassment. Scotty probably thought he was dumb or, worse, unhip. “I’ve never heard of Sex on the Beach. Well, not the drink anyway.”

He felt like an idiot. But Scotty gave him a shimmering smile.

The bartender was slammed with hordes of customers. While he waited, Upton perused the glass display case hanging over the bar. It had ceramic phalluses and faux Greek vases painted with male figures frolicking naughtily with one another. And there was a miniature painting of a scene from an all-male Kama Sutra.

He asked for a Sex on the Beach and was mortified by what the bartender slid across the lacquer bar: a glass with pink liquid, a cherry, a lemon slice, and an umbrella. He yearned for that old-fashioned time when drinks were simply “rum and coke” or “scotch and soda.” Drinks his dad might have ordered.

“Where are you from?” Upton asked as he handed Scotty his drink.

“Houston. But I live here. Just moved. Yesterday, in fact! Got in last night. I’m an actor.”

Of course you are. “Welcome to the Big Apple.”

Scotty raised his drink in a toast. “I’m a New York City girl now.”

Upton cringed. “You just got in last night and you found your way to the Village already.”

“Isn’t that de rigueur?” Scotty asked.

Upton was impressed that someone so young could use a sophisticated phrase correctly. But the impression diminished when Scotty said, “I mean, a girl has to get her ass to the Village, right? As soon as she prances off the plane.”

Scotty laughed at his hearty logic. Upton didn’t.

“What kind of acting do you do?” he asked.

“Comedy. Drama. Shakespeare. Musicals. Children’s theatre. And I direct and I write plays and poetry.”

Upton was impressed again. He wasn’t the only one—Scotty was drawing looks from all over the bar. Maybe it was his youth. Or his confidence. Or his delicious body with its tight tummy and full, exuberant ass.

“What do you do?” Scotty asked.

Upton didn’t want the young actor to like him just because he worked on Broadway. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. So. Actor. Director. Writer. A multi-hyphenate. That’s exciting. Really.”

“What can I say? The new girl in town’s got game.”

“You look more like a boy to me,” Upton said. “And you’re new in town. And you’re beautiful. That makes you my beautiful new boy.”

* * *

The train sped toward the Upper East Side, carrying Upton and his beautiful new boy. He had been exquisitely aware of the strut in his walk, his smart-ass smile, the jealous faces scowling at him as he and Scotty exited The Windowsill.

“Ever ridden the subway?” Upton asked.

“Nope. This is my virgin ride.”

And he nuzzled close against Upton and nested his head on his shoulder. Upton jerked out from under him so fast, Scotty nearly toppled onto the seat.

“Stop it,” Upton hissed. “We’re not in the Village anymore.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Scotty a discreet distance from Upton.

They were almost to their stop when Scotty yawned like he hadn’t slept in months.

“Jesus,” he said. “This girl is tired.”

The dam broke.

“Can you do me a favor?” Upton said. “Can you stop referring to yourself as a girl?”

The train wheezed to a stop.

77th Street. 86th Street will be the next stop, intoned the automated conductor.

“This is us,” Upton said, rising and brushing past Scotty, hoping he wouldn’t follow.

* * *

“Nice place,” Scotty said, touring Upton’s place. “My first time in a New York apartment. A lot different from what we have in Houston. I like this.”

“Thanks.”

Upton had dispensed with hospitality, neither asking Scotty to take a seat nor offering refreshments. The young man wandered around, inspecting this and that, tinkling the piano keys, occasionally glancing at Upton, as if waiting for him to initiate something.

But Upton just wanted him to leave. He sat on the futon couch. Scotty joined him.

“Hey,” the young man said. “I’m really sorry about earlier on the train. I’ve had a bit to drink and, you know, I’m finally in New York. I let my excitement get the best of me.”

Scotty kissed his cheek and Upton’s irritation vanished. He pulled him into his arms and held his beautiful new boy.

“Oh my god,” Scotty said, bolting out of Upton’s arms. He approached the Bird of Paradise as if mesmerized. “This plant…is fabulous. The colors, the petals.” He stepped back as if scrutinizing an artistic masterpiece.

“I’m thinking about taking it back the store,” Upton said. “It’s too showy. Too flamboyant. Too…”

“Frou-frou,” Scotty said. “It’s really frou-frou. In a good way.”

Bingo, Upton thought. The plant was too goddamn frou-frou.

“I love it,” Scotty said. “Too bad I don’t have a place yet. I’d take it since you don’t want it. What can I say? The girl likes exotic flowers.”

As soon as the words reeled out of his mouth, it was obvious that he knew he’d fucked up. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like that. I’ll be more careful—”

“Scotty. You’re a great kid. Really. But this isn’t going to work.”

“Like, what the hell is your problem?”

“My problem,” Upton said, rising, walking to the door, “is that I want to be with a man, not a man who wants to be a girl. Kind of defeats the purpose, you know.”

Upton hurled the door open with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “I’m sorry about tonight. Good luck in New York.”

Scotty looked perplexed, then angry, then just threw up his hands and walked out.

Upton closed the door, went over to the plant. He stood before it as if it was an adversary. “Frou-frou, huh?”

He went to the wastebasket and rummaged through it, looking for the plant store receipt.

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