Page 6 of A Straight Line

Chapter 2

Caterers & Columnists A Comin’

Although strings of lights, some that were plain white and others that were every color of the rainbow, had been hung in advance of the party, there was still a lot for the caterers and party planner to do. From the kitchen windows, I could see that the lights were hung tautly from tree to tree in the enormous backyard. The gazebo, about ten yards from the giant Bluestone patio, white and gleaming in the summer sun, had rainbow bunting and lights adorning it as well. Tiki torches lined the stone walkway that led from the patio to the gazebo and were just waiting to be lit. A large square in the yard had been roped off—a temporary dance floor—with a DJ booth to one side. Clusters of vinyl balloons—in all the colors of the rainbow, of course—stuck up from the yard, suspended in the air on thin iron stakes. Uncle Harry had struck a deal with Lamont’s Auto Yard to borrow the balloons for the evening, and they had arrived and been staked in the yard by Lamont himself. All before I had risen from bed at mid-morning.

The house itself was mostly unadorned since most of the festivities would happen outside, but plenty of ambient lighting had been organized throughout the living room and kitchen. A few rainbow banners were hung here and there. Being summer, some people might need to step inside to cool off for a few moments, or to use the restroom, not to mention get more food, so the house couldn’t go completely untouched by the festive décor. In the hour leading up to the arrival of the caterers, Uncle Harry and Uncle Vic mostly busied themselves rushing from room to room, making sure that everything would look presentable to their guests.

Close your bedroom door for fuck’s sake, Russ! Uncle Harry had hissed at one point. I don’t want people thinking we live like animals. Or, God forbid, straight people.

So, I had closed the door to the bedroom I was using. Once the last person excused themselves from the party, I would reopen the door and live like an animal once again. It wasn’t really my fault that the bedroom I had taken over when I moved in with my uncles looked so…plain. I had arrived with very little to my name—mostly the clothes on my back and those I could fit into two suitcases, as well as my laptop. But I hadn’t arrived with anything to make the room my own and hadn’t had time to go out and shop for décor. It would have been pointless, anyway. Living with Uncle Harry and Vic was only supposed to be temporary, after all. The only thing in my room that Uncle Harry approved of was his antique mirror.

Why he didn’t want to move the mirror was suddenly dawning on me.

As my uncles entertained themselves by looking busy, I found myself pacing the house, shuffling from room to room, as though I had never seen it before. Having lived with them for a week, there hadn’t been much in the house my eyes hadn’t taken in already, but taking a walk through their memories always made me smile a little. That was what their home was like—a shrine to their memories as a couple. Still chic and decorated expertly—as only a gay man can do—the house always managed to exude a lived-in, homey feel. Various sized frames decorated the mantelpiece, each holding pictures from their first trip to London. An old pouf they had purchased in Spain sat in front of the reading chair by the bay window in the den. A giant jar of seashells, stones, and sea glass they had collected along the Oregon and Washington coasts.

The wide hallway that ran from the entryway to the very back of the house—where the kitchen was located—was lined with black and white and color photographs framed and hung expertly. The time they met Elizabeth Taylor, in L.A. with the Hollywood sign in the distance, on a boat with the Sydney Opera House behind them, hiking to Machu Pichu, memorable moments at A Straight Line, family members and friends, and a picture of the two of them for all forty-eight of their anniversaries. It was an imposing hallway, so the framed photos adorning the walls on either side didn’t make it look too cluttered.

I found myself standing in the hallway, just before six o’clock, my eyes flitting from one picture to another until they finally settled upon one. My uncles, together for almost seven years at that point—long before I was born—were standing in front of the old building that had once housed a restaurant. A year after the picture was taken, A Straight Line would be open. The smiles on their faces and their arms over each other’s shoulders as they stood in front of the old restaurant made me smile. Another man stood behind them in the picture, his head several inches higher than theirs.

“That’s Bang Bang.” Uncle Vic’s voice sounded from over my shoulder.

I stared at the handsome young face of the man in the photograph. Chiseled and traditionally masculine, pearly white teeth shone out from between curved lips.

“That’s Bang Bang?” I repeated in awe. “It looks nothing like her.”

“Well, she learned to contour before you came along.” Uncle Vic chuckled as he looked over my shoulder at the photograph. “She was the first real friend we made in Littleburg. Buying the bar was Bang Bang’s idea, of course.”

“Of course.” I chuckled.

“She knew if we could provide a stage, she could put butts in seats.” Vic sighed. “She was right. After a few years.”

I laughed.

“It took her a while to really find her groove and get people showing up regularly,” Vic explained. “Now, they come from all over on Friday and Saturday nights to see Bang Bang sing and tell her dick jokes.”

“No one tells a dick joke like a—”

“—queen trying to hide one.” Uncle Vic finished the quote with me.

We both laughed at the memory as we stared at the picture.

“I’ve never seen her out of drag,” I said simply.

“Well,” Uncle Vic reached over my shoulder and ran his fingers along the bottom of the frame lovingly, “Bang Bang’s so busy, now Morty is the persona she slips into from time to time to feel like her true self.”

“Morty?” I snorted.

“Shhh.” Uncle Vic teased. “Bang Bang would throw a shoe if she heard.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Uncle Vic grew quiet as I stared at the picture, amazed at seeing Northeastern Iowa’s most famous drag queen out of drag for the first time ever. It was like seeing your teacher at the strip club, or your parole officer at the liquor store. Something just didn’t seem right about seeing Bang Bang as Morty without her permission. It filled me with a vague sense of foreboding. Of course, she had been to Vic’s and Harry’s house often enough that, surely, she was aware of the picture in the hallway. If she had requested it, they would have taken it down in a hot second to appease her. Since it hung in the hallway, I had to assume that I wasn’t intruding.

“Here’s Morty again.” Vic stepped away from me to point at another picture a few feet to my left.

I stepped over to look at the picture Vic’s finger had pressed against. My uncles were seated at a table with a checkered cloth, the crystal blue sea behind them as the sun set on the horizon. To the other side of the table sat Bang Bang—well, Morty, I guess—and another man I didn’t recognize. The man next to Bang Bang looked older than everyone else at the table—by at least a decade. He was thin with age, a bit sunken looking, though he smiled. They all held champagne flutes and looked positively jubilant. Probably drunk actually, but jubilant sounded better in my mind.

“When we all went to Santorini twenty-five years ago. We didn’t really have the money for the trip, but Bang Bang is so persuasive.” Vic explained wistfully. “That was our first night there. We all stayed shit-canned from sun up to sundown. The shirtless men, the seafood, the dancing, the sea…the ouzo. I’m surprised we all made it home, honestly. It was one of the best weeks of our lives.”