The Time---1934
The Cast of Characters---(in order of appearance)
Christopher (Babyface) Kirkpatrick
"Fat Lou" Perlman
Juju (Mad Dog) Timberlake
JC (Twinkletoes) Chasez
Joey (Muscles) Fatone
Lance Bass, Cub Reporter
...and our loyal corps of unpaid extras filling in for the crowd scenes.
* * * * * * * *
Chris was dressed, with his best jacket, and new tie, (because you HAD to take something off, in order to get the customer in the mood, after all) and he was sauntering down the stairs, when he froze in mid-saunt. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Mario below. He leaned over the balcony, and tried to get his attention: "Psst! Mario!"
Mario looked up, an empty tray tucked under his arm. "What-a you want, you little prick?"
"Look! Over there."
Mario looked over and saw a painfully thin, middleaged man, with lank hair, sitting on the lone settee by the fireplace. He had his hat in his lap, and was twirling it around nervously. "Yeah, so? Another of your lucky customers."
Chris widened his eyes meaningfully. "Look again. It's Mr. McCormick. From the stationery store."
"Big deal."
Chris sighed. "I told you I'm never seeing him again. I can't believe you forgot. Mr. McCormick is the one who wants to tie me up with curling ribbon and spank me."
Mario's first smile all night. "You better get over there, then."
"Ha-ha. If I'm tied up, how am I gonna take care of all my other customers? Jimmy would have a lot to say about that."
"What do you want ME to do?"
"Get rid of him, genius. I don't care how. Just do it. I'm not coming down until he's gone."
Chris crouched low, and looked through the banisters as Mario approached Mr. McCormick. He heard the following: "Hey. You waiting for that fairy-boy?"
"Ulp. Er. I'm waiting for Babyface, yes."
"Well, you gonna wait a long time. He's-a got the pleg."
"The pleg?"
"You know. The pleg. With the black spots, and the twitching, and the falling out of bed with the convulsions, and the dying and everything."
"Good heavens! Do you mean THE PLAGUE?"
"Ain't that what I just said?"
As Mr. McCormick stumbled in his haste to leave, Mario shouted after him, "By next week, we all be dead. Send us a wreath or something, eh?"
Chris came downstairs, and looked up at Mario. "Smooth. Real smooth."
Mario shrugged. "I try."
Chris sighed, and looked around the club. He saw many of his Saturday night regulars. He would usually just meander around, and casually hook up with a random gent. Unless someone had an appointment, of course. Say, who was the guy at 7:30? Jimmy had said something about that....
He looked up and saw Mr. Zibberflub. That wasn't the man's real name, but damned if Chris could pronounce it. Mr. Zibberflub was a large, blonde man from some Eastern European nation who spoke no English at all. He was a nice guy, but with all the charisma of a damp sponge. He was now waving at Chris, and pointing to his watch. Bingo. Chris slid in next to him in the booth. "I'm thirsty," he said, and pantomimed drinking. Mr. Zibberflub nodded encouragingly, and soon the two men were nursing some beers. After Mr. Zibberflub had drained the last of his second beer, and done his shy little tip-toeing finger-dance up and down Chris's forearm, it was time to go upstairs.
After that, the night went by in a blur for Chris. He began to wonder whether he'd seen 8 or 10 customers, and all he wanted to do was collapse in his bed, and preferably, never wake up. He was just coming downstairs, for what he desperately hoped was the last guy of the night, when Lan-Ted came careening out of the kitchen.
"Mr. Kirkpatrick! Mr. Kirkpatrick!" he panted. "Mrs. Vitaglia sent me to get you. We've got an awful problem in the kitchen."
Chris shrugged and scowled. "Throw on an extra pot of spaghetti. What do you want me to do about it?"
"No! it's not food-related. It's--it's about you. Please come and see."
Angrily, Chris stomped into the kitchen. But he gasped when he looked around, and saw, wall-to-wall, an entire football team, still in their dirty,sweat- soaked uniforms. "Wh-a-at is this about?"
Lan-Ted looked over at him, big-eyed. "Apparently, they all want you to review their insurance policies. Right now."
Now Chris' eyes were big. He looked over at Mama Weasel, who was nodding at him grimly. Oh shit. Then Chris spotted Coach Culpepper leaning against the wall, over in the corner. He had his hand over his mouth, attempting to cover up his convulsive laughter. Chris sneered, as he walked over to the older man.
"I remember you. Last week, right? Well, genius, when I said I could take on a whole football team, that's what we sane people call 'a figure of speech'. No one takes it seriously. It's a JOKE."
"Yeah, and *I'm* laughin, ain't I?" and the coach nearly slid down the wall.
Chris walked away from him in disgust. All around him, he could hear the football players beginning to buzz with wisecracks, and random remarks. "Is that the one they call Babyface? I guess it's cause he still likes to suck!" "He's gonna suck ME all night..." etc, etc until the air nearly turned blue.
Belatedly, Chris remembered the new dishwasher. "Oh! Lan-Ted. Um, I'm sure this technical talk about viaticals, and term-insurance would only bore you, so why don't you just call it a night, and go on home. Right, Mama?"
Lan-Ted's face was beet-red, and he just nodded vaguely, as he backed up. "I--I'll see you guys tomorrow night. Um, bye!" and he ran out the door. Mama was right behind him.
Chris still could not believe his eyes, as he looked around and saw so many enormous, filthy men, most ot them with glassy-eyed leers on their faces.
"What? Did you get them drunk before you came?" he asked Culpepper.
"Sure. And I really, really talked you up good. They're going to be expecting something MIND-blowing, Babyface."
"You think you're so smart," Chris curled his lip. After a moment's thought, he impulsively pulled off the whistle around the coach's neck. He spotted the team's clipboard on Mama's counter, and Chris quickly snatched that up, too. He put the whistle cord around his neck, and blew as loud as he could. Immediately, all the chattering ceased. Chris strode masterfully into the center of the room. "Gather round, boys. Take a knee." After shooting a few questioning looks at each other, the men shrugged, and did as they were told. Dutifully, they dropped to one knee, and looked at Chris expectantly.
"Listen up. Due to time constraints, we're going to have to make a few cut-backs." Groans all around. "Yeah, yeah, it's breaking my heart, too. So. When I call your name, hit the showers. Er--get back on the bus, I mean." Chris looked down the list. "Hmmm... "Okay. Brennnan? You're cut."
"AWW!!" A guy the size of a gorilla smacked his leg. "And I was so horny!"
"Hopkins? You're cut."
"Shit!'
"Carlyle, Fitzgibbons, Meinhardt, Zukowski---cut, cut, cut, cut--"
Now there was a building roar of disappointment. A piercing voice cried out, "Somebody better get their cock sucked, or SOMEBODY's getting their ass kicked, one or the other!"
"Testy, testy," Chris said. "Calm down. I never said nobody was gettin' nothin. And you, get your hand off my ass--did I just score a touchdown or something?" he asked, staring down an overfriendly type with a broken nose. Anyway---who's your kicker?"
All eyes turned around, and looked at a small, shy looking youth with bright red hair. "What's your name, kid?" Chris asked kindly.
"Patrick Joseph O'Hara, sir."
"Well, Patrick, looks like you have the luck of the Irish, today. Do you understand what I do? Do you want me--to do that for you?"
"Yes. No." Then shyly, "Could you just do my friend, Arthur, and he'll tell me all about it later?"
Chris had to laugh. "Sure. Who's Arthur?"
A dozen hands shot up. "I'm Arthur!"
* * * * *
It took a lot longer than it should have to get that all straightened out, and by the time Chris had made the real Arthur dreamy and satisfied, it was very late. All Chris wanted to do was seek the comfort of his bed, but he couldn't ignore the rumbling in his stomach. Reluctantly, he decided to visit the kitchen, and raid the pantry. He so hoped the club would be cleared out. His head down, as he padded softly down the stairs in his stocking feet, he heard low voices coming from JImmy's office. Jimmy and Vincenzo going over the night's receipts, no doubt. As he passed the office, he was startled to see JC Chasez coming out.
"Oh!" Chris and JC said in unison.
"Hey, Babyface. How are you?" JC looked intently into Chris' eyes.
"Good. Good. How are you?"
"I'm good. As well."
They stood there and looked at each other. Chris finally broke off it off first, by mumbling something about the kitchen, and he was slowly turning, when JC put his hand out, and tugged on his sleeve.
"Don't go."
Chris looked down at the hand on his shirtsleeve. He looked up with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Why not?"
"Well, I need to talk to you. Can we go sit down over there?"
"Um, I'm really beat, Twinkletoes. I just wanted to grab a sandwich or something, and then hit the hay--"
"This won't take long."
Chris followed JC over to the settee, and sat down next to him. The lights in the club had been mostly turned out, so the effect was one of soft gloom. Chris sighed with exhaustion, and pulled his feet up, and sat Indian style. "Okay, shoot," he said.
"First of all--how was your night?"
"What? Uh---fine. Exhausting and stupid and annoying. Typical."
"How was your day? I mean, earlier today. Like, did you go out, or--"
"Yeah," Chris said warily. "I was out. Then I came back. The end."
"I see," JC said. He thought to himself: Babyface thinks he can take care of himself. He has no intention of asking for my help. I don't know if I like that or not..."Um. Anyway. I haven't forgotten that I asked you to pencil me for an appointment, so when--"
"Monday," Chris said firmly. "Anytime after eight will be fine."
"Oh," JC suddenly smiled. "Well, great. I'm so glad to be penciled in."
"You really like saying that. Penciled In. Don't you?" Chris teased. "Well, you got nothing to worry about. You're INKED in, buddy. I'll see you then." And Chris stiffly rose from the little couch, and headed for the stairs. He felt the eyes of the other man on him, as he wearily mounted the steps. He was surprised to discover that it didn't creep him out---he kind of liked it.
