container of soup in it. You pass it down to the next person, who puts in a yogurt and an apple. The last person rol s the bag closed and affixes an address label. Questions? Comments? Concerns?”
I was talking to a group of local high school students, who were volunteering with me at The Stuff of Life, a charity that brings meals to homebound people with AIDS. I run the lunch shift a few times a week. The students were there for the day. We have different organizations that staff our lunch shifts: churches, businesses, schools, and even dating services have al brought in volunteers.
The fifteen students were lined up at tables in The Stuff of Life’s vast, stainless steel kitchen. They seemed like a nice group, a little bit restless, but polite and wel — behaved. Normal y, I would have enjoyed their company, but today I couldn’t help but feel preoccupied.
A skinny girl who stil thought Goth was hip, raised a hennaed hand. “Do these sandwiches have, like, ham in them? Because I can’t touch them if they do.
I, like, don’t eat meat.”
“Actual y,” a pretty blond girl next to her said, “she can’t touch them if they have any food in them, because she’s like, anorexic.”
“I am not anorexic,” Goth girl replied. “I’m just not like you. I don’t eat everything I see. Or everyone.”
The other kids issued a col ective “oooh.”
I was afraid things would turn into a catfight, when Blondie said “You know the only one I eat is you, honey” and kissed Goth Girl on the lips.
“God,” said another girl, “do you two have to be such total lesbians al the time?”
Goth Girl looked at her watch. “Umm, yes, we do” and gave her girlfriend another kiss.
This time, the crowd gave an “awwwww.”
“OK, everyone,” I said, “assuming no one else wants to start making out, let’s get started.”
An obviously fey boy raised his hand and jumped up and down. “Oooh, sir! Sir! I’d like to start making out!” Everyone laughed.
“Nice try, kid, but how about you make some lunches instead?”
“And, ladies,” I said to the happy lesbian couple,
“you’l be happy to know the sandwiches are tuna.”
After the lunches were made and the students left to make the deliveries, I went to visit The Stuff of Life’s director of volunteer services, my friend Vicki. Vicki is a sleek power dyke, who wears her jet black hair in a pompadour that makes her resemble a young, prettier Elvis Presley. Her black jeans and black western shirt tucked into a wide black leather belt with an oversized silver buckle only increased the resemblance.
“Hey, boy,” she greeted me. “How’s tricks? And I do mean ‘tricks.’” She winked broadly. Vicki thought the fact that I hustled was the biggest hoot this side of non-vibrating strap-ons.
“That’s so funny.” I frowned. “I’m laughing on the inside.”
“Whatever,” she said. “So, how were the kids today?”
I told her about the two little lesbians.
“That’s so cute,” she said. “I wish I could have been that open in high school. I didn’t have the nerve to hold my girlfriend’s hand til I was a senior in col ege. God forbid someone thought I liked girls or something.”
It was hard to imagine that Vicki had ever been mistaken for a heterosexual, but I decided to hold my tongue.
“So, how are things, real y?” she asked. “You look down.”
I told her about Al en.
Vicki was sympathetic. “Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry for you. I knew Al en, too. He was on our board of directors. He was a great guy, a big contributor, too.
He worked a lot with Roger Folds, our development director.”
Freddy had suggested I talk to people Al en knew.
Roger seemed like a good place to start. I asked Vicki where he sat.
“At his home, as far as I know. He’s been out for week.
“It’s weird,” she continued. “Roger’s on a kind of sabbatical or something. He broke up with his partner a few months ago-walked in on the guy sucking off the UPS man or something. Anyway, he got real y depressed, and said he needed some time off to ‘find himself,’or some shit like that.”
“You don’t sound too sympathetic,” I said.
“Roger’s a big old drama queen. It’s cute at first, but when you’re responsible for raising mil ions of dol ars for an organization that feeds sick people, you should real y pul your shit together.
“You know, now that I’m thinking of it,” Vicki continued, “I think he and Al en had some kind of fal ing out. I seem to remember him saying something nasty about Al en, but I don’t remember what.
“But he’s been talking al kinds of crazy shit lately.”
I asked Vicki how I could get in touch with Roger.
She gave me his home number.
I left The Stuff of Life at around five. I had a working date at six, so I decided to go see Mrs. Cherry before heading home to shower and change. On the way, I cal ed Roger Folds, but he didn’t pick up. I left a message.
Mrs.
Cherry lives in
Hel ’s
Kitchen, a neighborhood in Manhattan which is always halfway between ghetto and gentrification. For awhile, they cal ed it “Clinton,” but it didn’t stick.
In today’s heat,
Hel ’s
Kitchen seemed appropriate.
Mrs. Cherry buzzed me into the building and I took five flights of stairs to the top floor, where she had bought and combined three apartments into one.
She opened the door and I was greeted by the combined smel s of Chanel Number 5 and stale marijuana.
“My darling, darling boy,” she enthused. “Look at you. Look at you! Turn around.” She squeezed my ass. “Yes! Look at you! No wonder you’re one of my top boys.” She took my T-shirt and pul ed it up to my chest. “Look at that flat bel y, those rosy nipples.
Absolutely delicious, perfect.” She pinched the skin around my waist. “You see this, though? I shouldn’t be able to squeeze even this much. I want you to have the body fat percentage of a fifteen-year-old bulimic virgin, darling. Can you do that for Mama?”
Mrs. Cherry might have been appraising me like the prize horse in her stable, but she did it so blatantly and affectionately that I wasn’t offended.
At 5 foot nothing and about 200 pounds, Mrs.
Cherry was no great beauty. Her heavy makeup, large beehive wig, and outrageous jewelry made it impossible to ascertain her true features. God knows what she looked like when not in drag.
Wearing a large flowered caftan with a string of gardenias woven into her hair, she resembled a large, mobile botanic garden.
Mrs. Cherry guided me into her vast living room and sat me in a dark purple velvet couch piped with gold brocade, under a gold chandelier, and next to a marble fountain. Mrs. Cherry’s place is huge and as ornately decorated as a New Orleans brothel. She once told me she took the set design of Brooke Shield’s Pretty Baby as her inspiration.
“Darling,” she said, in her usual breathy whisper “I heard about Al en. Such a terrible, terrible loss. Such a nice man. And such a good customer! Tel me everything you know.”
It was ninety-seven degrees outside, but you could have kept veal fresh in Mrs. Cherry’s apartment. I could barely hear her over the five air conditioners she had running.
I told her what I knew about Al en’s death and about running into Tony.
“A mystery,” Mrs. Cherry enthused. “I love a mystery.” Mrs. Cherry plucked a smal fan from her artificial bosom and waved arctic air into her face.
“Wel, I don’t love this mystery,” I answered. “I hope they find out who kil ed Al en.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about that mystery, darling. I meant the mystery of your ex-lover’s sexuality. Does he
