Kodachrome

by Ian McDuff

Resulting, obviously, from the mass whimpering and drooling (myself assuredly included in the masses, here) occasioned by the Ron Davis photoshoot: Malibu Bass and Behind-the-Scenes-Up-t’-th’-Big-House Bass. Title track, also obviously, from Paul ‘Not the Former Senator From Illinois With the Bowtie’ Simon (with the learned Mr Arthur Garfunkel).

‘Ah ain’t never been so embarrassed in all mah born days. Mah Gawd A’mighty.’

That was evident, as his regression to pure Mississippi diction witnessed.

‘Oh, come on, babe, sure you have.’

‘’T’ain’t funny. How in the Sam Hill do I get m’self into these things?’

‘If you mean into the jeans, it must have taken lube and a shoehorn, baby.’

‘Seriously humiliated here, honeybunch. Think you could try for “supportive,” maybe? Look at this! Feel like there ought t’be an AVS link – ManCheck or such – and a promise that for a $39.95 monthly subscription you can get the adult footage. Jesus Christ and Gen’ral Jackson, ever’ damn time Ah agree to somethin’ it’s just thisaway, and Ah don’t think, that’s the problem, worse’n the Grease 3 project –’

‘Babe –’

‘This’s more embarrasing’n that time Ah had a wet dream ’bout AJ!’

Sudden silence.

‘You. Had a wet dream. About AJ.’

‘Oh, hush up.’

‘You. Had. A. Wet. Dream. About. AJ?’

‘Now, suge….’

‘I want details, mister.’

‘Josh!’

‘Details. NOW.’

‘Um.’

‘I’m waiting….’

‘He was. Out of rehab. And, well, the whole fast lane was too much for him so he said t’hell with it all, maybe, and. Was. Working-as-a-ranch-hand-and-it-involved-a-red-pickup-truck-the-end.’

‘Mmmmm. We could recreate that scene…. C’m’ere – pardner.’

The cell trilled. The caller ID seemed unthreatening: KRYMNBRQÑO. There was only one Kerryman / Puerto Rican who could possibly have that number, so….

‘D?’

‘Ha! See, I knew you wouldn’t pick up if you saw C-CRCHRIAS!’

‘Nicky.’

‘Hi. So –’

‘What happened to using SHARKYSHIP as your ID?’

‘Ugh. In the first place, your phobic pal Timba-the-Lake won’t pick up anything that even uses the word. Including his own cell if I called. But, y’know. I may not be the smartest dude around, but I know J don’t know the scientific name for the Great White.

‘And. Well. Man, Bassman, I called the wrong digits once and the dude on the other end starts talking before I can open my mouth, I guess he was expecting a call, turns out it was a Certain English Actor that has a number just one off of AJ’s in LA, and he saw my ID and assumed it was Christopher Lee calling him back. Guess he’d called him about some crisis. I, um, now know more about hobbit sex than I ever wanted to know. That wide-eyed innocence is an act, man. And who knew Dom was a sub – irony, huh?’

‘You accidentally called Ian McKellan? What was this, a wizard-to-wizard call? “Gandalf, dear boy, Saruman here –”’

‘He was real cool about it when I explained. Ain’t nothin’ but a thang. We both keep mum about it – I mean, telling you isn’t, like, telling – he sent me an autographed DVD, I sent him an autographed CD.’

I just bet he’s a fan now. Chickenhawk. ‘So was it in fact me you were lookin’ to call? Or is this another case where you can talk for half an hour to a wrong damn number?’

‘Smartass. No. I was calling, because. Um.’

‘Holt on. You’re calling me from Howard’s phone.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘We’re. I think we’re getting there.’

‘Well, y’all must be doing better – which I’m right glad of – if you have his phone and you feel chipper enough to call and rag on my ass.’

‘No way, man. No. That’s not why. I mean. Given the circumferences we just talked about, well, around, you really think I’m gonna call and get snarky witchya about a legitimate photoshoot? What I wanted was. Um. Could you get me in touch with the photographer guy? Ron? I. I mean, officially, it’ll be for Howie’s solo CD, but, really, for him an’ me, I want him to do a shoot with Howie, my gift.’

‘Who am I to stand in the way of such sweetness? I’ll email you.’

‘Thanks, man! You rock like a rockin’ thing!’

‘Oh – and don’t bother emailing back. I’m, um. Filtering.’

‘Whoa. What happened? Your addy leak to the Adoring Masses?’

‘Um. No. I’m just tired of funny-ha-ha emails from my guys – and yours – about the shoot.’

It had started the very night the pictures hit the Net. Within three quarters of an hour, one of WEG’s most trusted runners was at his door with a package. From Chris, of course. A DVD. Classic gayporn: Casey Donovan, Boys In the Sand. It worried him that Chris knew the damn film existed, but not as much as it worried him that this was just the opening salvo. Chris unleashed was not a prospect to be contemplated with equanimity.

As it turned out, there were no more DVDs delivered. Instead, everyone he knew turned to the medium they knew best. Music.

‘Oh. Well, I’m no position to play that game, and Bri’s too nice, and you know my Howard won’t.’

‘I know. Of course, that leaves me at the tender mercies of Aidge and Oscar the Grouch, which is more’n enough, thank you kindly.’

‘They’re just jealous, Bassman. You look hot, man. Um. I mean that in a totally not-hitting-on-you way. And the house pix. I always knew you were subtle, but, dude. Sure, you tinker, but even the teenies should know that is so Sashay’s piano. And the chopsticks for his Oriental food fetish! Yeah, subtle, but, ballsy, man. Pride Month! Howard and I both admire your style – you should know that, man.’

‘Um. Thanks, Nick.’ How the hell could I not have realized how obvious the place settings were? I’m a damn idjit. ‘Subtlety’s my middle name. Anyway. Check your email. And – give my love to D. We’re rooting for y’all.’

He was sure – positive – that it had started with Chris, but the first actual email he actually got about it was from Joe. It set the pattern for the rest. A thumbnail JPEG and a self-extracting MP3. In Fatone’s case, ‘Peg.’ Trust Joe to go for the Steely Dan song.

Three notes in, and he’d yelled at his screen, as if Joey could hear him. ‘Blueprint blue,’ his ass. Smartmouth Broadway ho.

That opened the floodgates. The Bass-Chasezes were both a little taken aback by AJ’s contribution to the gag. Not because the lyrics were a mite threatening – AJ probably hadn’t even thought it through, which was a tendency that had gotten him in trouble in all sorts of ways, and they were all happy enough if he just confined it to his pranks – but because, well, it probably wasn’t a Good Thing that Aidge was listening to Morrissey. Though, to be fair, if all this tumult was the upshot, maybe the photographer, and the harsh truth of the camera eye, had had it in for him.

‘Ice Cube? Ice Cube? Damn it, Justin –’

‘Dawg! It’s a classic. “Goddamn, y’all, who got the camera?” Oops – gotta run. Mistah DeMille wants to know if I’m ready for my closeup.’

‘You’re an asshole, J – be damn, the little fucker hung up on me.’

‘Whoa.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I mean. Kevin? Who thought that cat would listen to Rush, babe?’

‘I’d’ve figgered Comrade Richardson’d be more likely to listen to Rush Limbaugh, myself.’

Of course, it was Chris who matched up the shot of the sword leaning against the chest of drawers with an obscure reference – well, obscure to most folks – from ‘A Wedding In Cherokee County.’ Why must they always laugh at my mighty sword? Chris was fixing to flat ruin Randy Newman for him.

‘Why in the Sam Hill are you beaming like that? You’re grinnin’ like a possum in a persimmon tree.’

‘I got it, babe! The whole shoot, both sets, with the exclusive interviews!’

‘Um. Why would you need to buy that? You have me, in the flesh, right here.’

‘I got you, baby –’

‘You start doing covers of Nicky’s songs and you won’t have me for long, suge.’

‘But.’

‘Do not even try the kittenish pout.’

‘See, it’s. Okay, so, I have you, and I know that, and I am the luckiest guy alive, but this, this isn’t you, except it is, it’s like, image and reality, right, and there’s this play-space between the two, and….’

May as well settle in and read the Journal. He’s off and runnin’. Be annoying if it weren’t so damn precious.

‘Is the man of the house home, ma’am?’

‘Why, Mr Bass, I do declare. I bet you aren’t referring to Bay, either.’

‘Miz LA, just when in tarnation did Brian Thomas Littrell start listenin’ to REM? And more’n that, when did he stop being the nice one and start gettin’ in on the rags? Y’all couldn’t find a gospel or a bluegrass tune had anything to do with photographs?’

She laughed. ‘Brian doesn’t listen to REM, darlin’. I’m the Georgia girl who sent you that one.’ And she hung up before he could get his jaw to work again.

‘We should never have let J do that damned video for Elton.’

Happy humming-along, and no response.

‘I’m talkin’ to you! Hello? Lover here!’ It was useless. The Kitten always zoned out over Bernie Taupin lyrics. Musical catnip.

Justin wasn’t the only one who sent multiple MP3 emails. Chris, obviously, was having the time of his life.

‘The Buggles, you freak?’

‘“I am a camera” –’

‘Kirkpatrick, I swan I am goin’ to get holt of you by the scruff of your aged neck and haul you off somewhere where ain’t nobody goin’ to hear you holler, and beat you like a rented mule! Off somewheres quiet and untraceable –’

‘“There by the waterside / Here where the lens is wide / You and me by the sea.”’

‘Stop singing, you little bastard!’

‘Darlin’,’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘I’d about as soon you played somethin’ else.’

With a guilty start – they both knew it had been wholly subconscious and unintentional, after all – his own private piano man abandoned Pictures At An Exhibition for some nice, uncontroversial Gershwin.

He’d wondered how long it would take for the J. Geils Band to be thrown into the mix. Sure enough, his all too predictable friends didn’t let him down. Surely without prearrangement, Joe, Kev, and AJ, all three, sent him the same email attachment – though with different mocking JPEGs – within a fifteen minute space.

But the real nadir was when his own mother – his own mother – turned traitor on him and sold him down the river. He called her back per her emailed request – he would never in a million years dare to block Momma Bass, after all – and she obviously was waiting to pounce as soon as she’d seen the caller ID. Her phone picked up, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, her home PC kicked in from the media player.

He snapped the phone shut, turned it off, savagely, and sent Miz Diane a respectfully blistering email:

Meanwhile, in Tampa, Howie sprawled fluidly across the duvet. Nick checked the light meter one last time and stepped back to his chosen point, making a slight adjustment to his angle. ‘Pout for me, baby,’ he begged.

‘Babe, we can’t live the rest of our lives like this. Eating in here, sleeping in a guestroom, you not setting foot in the music room or your own office….’

‘What say we give it a try, first.’

‘James Lance Bass, you are the most pigheaded man –’

‘Ever’ damn room in the house, nearly, suddenly has a bad feel to it.’

‘Well, then, it’s just like what you always say about riding horses. You have to get up and get back on.’ Uh-oh. Eyes half-lidded and voice sultry all of a sudden. Run, Bassman, run, before he saps your will to resist! ‘Back in the saddle and … giddy up.’

‘This ain’t like fallin’ off a damn horse! I feel like we ought to have the whole place exorcised, room by room!’

‘Hmm. I can’t do that. But how about we re-christen each of ’em, hmm?’

‘Um. That. That might w-work.’ He gulped. ‘’Course, I can still never go back to Malibu. Less’n you can figure how to re-christen a beach ’thout being the subject of a lot more photos’n these.’

‘Arranging to close that beach could take a while. I’ll call Lonnie in the morning. Right now, a piano bench awaits us.’ He’d call Lonnie in the morning, all right. And call the guys off, now that his plan had worked. It had been worth every extra dollar he’d paid the photographer to make his love uncomfortable with every room in the house. And people thought James Lance Bass was the sneaky one…. He smiled to himself as they strolled into the music room: never underestimate the craftiness of a feline.

END

Any fragmentary portions or paraphrases of song lyrics and poems not in the public domain, which are copyright to their respective authors, are used under the Fair Use Doctrine.