CHAPTER TWO: Scene II
Scene II
Has me frozen
On cold concrete.
It’s so awkward.
I wish . . .
I wish I could leave.
But no.
I must stay.
There,
Now I’ve done it.
All eyes are on me.
Please don’t listen
To a word
They say.
It’s so hard
To stand barefoot
In the rain
And light this
God-damned cigarette.
I must exit
Yet I’d really rather
Not go.
And would someone
Please tell me
Where in the hell
I left my shoes?
Jonathan felt like a ghost returning to the Bijou’s honeymoon suite and taking off his dripping peacoat. He caught his reflection in a round mirror above the minibar. The mirror framed the room like a painting in a gallery: Portrait of a Lost Husband. He slammed his fist into it because it laughed at his predicament. It became a fractured, cubist composition, shards of his broken dream in dark blue.
They had danced to Frank Sinatra in this room when he arrived a week ago. Now it seemed a bubble of time had popped. Falling backwards onto the bed, he inspected his hand. Tiny cuts from breaking the mirror stung his knuckles. He rinsed the trickle of blood off with cold water and wrapped his hand in a washcloth. He grabbed a fresh towel and dried his long, wet black locks.
He took off his sneakers and sighed. His feet were sore—a mess of calluses and blisters—a sort of badge of honor for ballet dancers who use toe shoes. He rubbed the bottom of his feet a little, then lay back on the four-poster bed.
He fumed and worriedly searched his mind about Bigalow’s arrest as he unbuttoned his white dress shirt. He had been trained since being a toddler in dance class to be stoic. Stay strong, bottle emotion, and use it later in performance. Don’t act out. It was like being a distillery. It wasn’t normally like him to lose control or panic. But having your partner arrested was not normal. Neither was breaking a mirror.
He was a recently graduated dance student who was told he had a bright future as an actor/singer/model. In L.A., they reviewed his training and advised him to move to New York to pursue ballet. Bigalow had commented on one of Jonathan’s Instagram performances, praising him for his talent. Curious, Jonathan had clicked through to his profile. He fell for the dream on the other side of the screen.
“I see I could get along here, perhaps too comfortably. Did you decorate it yourself? I’m feeling old Hollywood,” he’d told Bigalow that first night in the suite. On impulse, he’d offered him a deep kiss. They planted themselves on the cushy bed and helped one another shed their clothes.
“I’ve wanted to do this since you got off the plane. You don’t know your power,” Bigalow told him. It had been a long two weeks since they’d been together in Las Vegas, where they’d married after a year of long-distance romance.
It wasn’t his first time on this roller coaster. The euphoric peaks of their infrequent visits over the year had been interrupted by long troughs of longing, only partially offset by video chats. Yearning for him was its own special pain. It drew his heart into a black pool, made him try to use desire to speed up time like a junkie waiting for a fix. As if he wished hard enough, his dream lover would materialize. Bigalow only had to be ten minutes late for a video chat, and it would spin him into a vortex of anxiety. It was always a wish fulfilled when they reunited in their full glory, a sweet relief to be together in their new home. He’d hoped to plant his feet on the ground, and together they would build a new life.
His husband’s eyes had burned into him as he pulled the satin comforter off the bed. Jonathan’s willing body melted into him. They were the same height, but Bigalow had thirty more pounds of muscle on him. Jonathan’s dancer’s body was supple and flexible. Together they formed a Yin-Yang.
They panted and gasped for breath, expending pent-up energy until they came in salty ocean waves. Afterward, Jonathan rested his head in the small of his chest. He felt happy to nuzzle indefinitely, smelling his armpit musk. For the moment, he felt safe at home. They had cuddled like two clams in a shell for the rest of the night. They hadn’t left the room for following three days, feasting on their passion and room service.
Now with Bigalow arrested, he wished he could call his mother. But she and his stepfather had disowned him when he announced his intention to marry him. They said he was going too fast. They said it was puppy love. Damn it. Why couldn’t they just be happy for him? They found their age difference predatory. They disapproved of burlesque. The entire ballet world seemed to look down on burlesque. People. . .Jonathan was tired of tradition anyway, felt it spoke dead languages.
It had been a messy phone call, made unbearable by his mother’s crying. He’d shouted at her that he had the right to make up his own damn mind in such volume that it blacked out the line. Calling her now would be admitting he’d made a mistake.
Bigalow orbited in his absence, pulling at the void in his chest. As opportunistic as their pairing may have appeared, there was genuine affection between the two. They were on the same intellectual level. They could discuss art, movies, fashion, music, and especially dance. Jonathan recognized a creative spirit in Bigalow and loved him for it. He was his best friend.
He was clueless as to which jail his husband might be in at the moment. His friends on social media were the last ones he wanted to know about the arrest. Their well-wishes had been few.
Damn! Arrested for murdering a fortune teller? He poured himself a tumbler of gin from the side bar and took a big sip. He pushed away the thought of being so alone and lit a Lucky Strike. It wasn’t as though Bigalow had abandoned him. There was no way he deserved to be sent to jail. No way at all.
He flipped the television on to a Heckle and Jeckle cartoon. The animated crows seemed to escape the confines of the screen and speak directly to him. “Oh, c’mon, old sport!” they said. “Buck up.”
Fuck off, he thought as he started a Google search on what to do if your husband is arrested.
###
Four days of frantic calling later, Jonathan leaped across the floor on seeing Bigalow. He landed on the tattered Formica of the prison visitor center, which seemed too worn to care. “It’s Christmas. Your lucky day.” He tried to look jubilant.
Bigalow’s face lit up behind the thick plexiglass. His muscles bulged at the seams of his orange jumpsuit with #519 stenciled on the front. “Merry Christmas, beautiful. Thank God you’re here. That’s the best gift.”
Jonathan removed his beanie to let his hair loose, settled into his seat, and tucked his mittens into his coat. He looked into his husband’s eyes, still finding their wolf-like intensity disarming. Before Bigalow, he had never seen a dark-skinned man with blue eyes. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you locked up. It’s pulling my heart to shreds. It took twenty-four hours to figure out which jail you’re in. I called the police, but it wasn’t an emergency. Then they put me on voicemail. Then the mailbox was full. The only reason I’m seeing you now is because I finally went in person, we’re legally married, and it’s a holiday. Are you okay?”
Bigalow winced. “This is not how I pictured us starting our life together.”
His mentor and soulmate held his hand up against the thick plexiglass. Jonathan put his hand up to meet it, wishing he had the power to dissolve the barrier. It was the feeling he’d had when they first video chatted. In his heart, he felt no barrier in this no-contact duet.
Jonathan pushed his chair forward and asked, “Is it safe to talk?”
“They can’t record us unless we sign consent forms,” Bigalow answered. He took a deep breath and said, “Jonathan, you are the only one I can trust. Will you help me?”
Jonathan put his hand on his heart. “How could I not? What do you need?”
“I need you to believe I’m not guilty, baby boy.”
Jonathan couldn’t imagine him killing anyone. “Of course I do.”
Bigalow leaned forward in his seat. “It’s a setup. Someone wearing an identical costume did it.”
“Who?”
“I’m pretty sure it was my business partner, Eduardo, but I can’t prove it. I need your help finding the costume.”
“How?” Jonathan asked.
Bigalow raised his eyebrows and put his hand to his chin for a moment. There was something majestic in the pose, as if imitating a Greek statue. His aura relaxed Jonathan. “Go to Eduardo’s office and borrow his keys to get something for me,” he directed. “One key opens the door beneath the grand staircase. Go to the basement and find the last storage unit to the right. Another smaller key on the ring opens that. There’s a trunk in it that should have the other costume in it. Get it. Eduardo doesn’t know I know it’s there.”
A second costume in the Bijou? The request didn’t seem too dangerous. Jonathan pulled up from his chair and took a moment to find his balance. Every ion in his body seemed to pull toward Bigalow. “That’s doable. We’ll get through this together. I promise. I love you so much,” he said. And he meant it.
###
The next day, Jonathan knocked on the frosted-glass window on the door stenciled with "Manager" in Gothic script.
“What is it?” Eduardo the Impresario called from inside.
Jonathan hesitated and poked his way through the mounds of promotional material strewn everywhere. Evidently, the impresario had hoarded CDs, posters, t-shirts and other swag from acts hoping to play the Bijou. He spied the top of a billboard showing a city rendered in Legos. The black-and-white mural loomed over the rubble blocking the back wall.
“It’s a bit disorganized,” Eduardo said from his rolltop desk. His dreadlocked head was framed by the window. It struck Jonathan that the “wizard” offered no condolences, or show of support for Bigalow’s predicament. Not even feigned concern. The impresario’s crow perched by the window, his black feathers gleaming in the sun.
Jonathan brushed the seat of a nearby empty kitchen chair, put his backpack on the floor, then sat down. He put his elbow on top of a stack of file boxes, then scrunched his nose at the smell of cigarettes, incense, and stale take-out. “Bigalow sent me to borrow your keys.”
The Bijou owner reclined in his swivel-oak chair on wheels. “What for?”
“They want his birth certificate,” Jonathan lied. Bigalow hadn’t said to lie. It didn’t seem a good idea to tell the real purpose of the mission if Eduardo were the real murderer. “They’re threatening to deport him. He said it’s in the basement.”
A knock came at the door. Eduardo called across the room. “Yes?”
“Your morning coffee, sir,” a deep voice answered.
“Enter.” The red-vested server rolled in a chrome cart.
“Coffee?” Eduardo asked.
“No thanks. I’m a little jittery.” Which was true. He squirmed at the thought he might appear rude, then he decided he was being silly. No doubt the old guy was thick-skinned. But did he suspect him of snooping?
Charlie the Crow swooped to the curtain rod over the French doors leading onto the terrace and squawked. Eduardo fixed himself a cup with extra cream and sugar. His spoon clanked against porcelain for a few seconds. “You might as well know I’m his ex.”
Jonathan’s heart skipped. He squinted at him. “Bigalow didn’t mention it.”
Eduardo held up a hand. “Don’t worry. Our romance was over years and years ago. Now I’m just his business partner. How long will you be stayin’ in the honeymoon suite?”
“I have no idea. Bigalow made all the arrangements. Perhaps I could move into his quarters?” Jonathan had no job. Other than going back to waiting tables in L.A., or moving in with his mother and stepfather (which he didn’t want), there was no place for him to go.
“His suite is sealed off with police tape. We’ll have to get you another room. It won’t be as fancy, but I trust it’ll be adequate.”
Jonathan thought about the mirror he shattered. He hadn’t thought about his future accommodations since the arrest. He assumed, as Bigalow’s husband, that he was taken care of. “I broke a mirror in our suite. Hope it’s no problem.”
“Shit happens. Thanks for fessin’ up.”
“Seven years bad luck,” Charlie the Crow chortled.
Jonathan felt the bird’s response was uncanny. He wasn’t sure, with Bigalow in jail, what his position at the Bijou was. He didn’t want to mess with it. “How long have you been here, Eduardo?” he decided to ask.
“Since the turn of the century,” the impresario replied.
“Which one?” Jonathan asked without thinking. The “wizard” shot him a look that made him flinch.
“Very funny, young man. The most recent one, for the record.” He pursed his lips as he sipped his coffee.
Jonathan leaned back until his elbow struck a rolled-up poster. He leaned forward a little awkwardly. The pile of stacked objects and boxes seemed to encroach from behind.
He decided to make the most of capturing him off-guard by seeing if he could get more information. “Right. Sorry. How did you meet Bigalow?”
“He came with the building.” Eduardo the Impresario leaned back and smiled without showing his teeth.
"So, from before the year 2000. What do you know about the costume Bigalow wore?” Jonathan asked, trying to play detective.
“Does it matter?” Eduardo asked. "That’s his schtick. What’s supposedly normal in an adult-amusement park anyway?”
Charlie the Crow hopped in place and spoke. "That stupid man. How many times have I told him not to be wearing that dormouse suit off-duty? God! That thing stank. I gave him twenty bucks many a time to have it dry cleaned. Stupid man!”
Jonathan jumped in his seat. Pretty complicated statement for a bird. The crow’s wings fluttered as it took flight to a perch in the corner.
“You’ll have to forgive Charlie. He can be rather outspoken,” Eduardo said.
###
HOW EDUARDO MET CHARLIE
Charlie the Crow came from Eduardo’s tumultuous past thirty-years ago when he began exploring the occult. His relationship with the avian creature started innocently enough on a vibrant autumn afternoon in the heart of New York’s Central Park. Amidst the splendorous foliage of a colossal oak tree, a crow had cawed persistently. Eddy Knudson, as he was known back then, had tossed a Cheeto a short distance away. The crow swooped down. It snatched the fluorescent-orange snack in its beak, playfully tossed it into the air, and hastened to consume it. This ritual continued for several weeks. Each time, the crow would swoop down, graciously accept the corn puff, and return to increasingly desolate branches.
One rainy day, he realized that the crow had begun to follow him. Day by day, the crow ventured closer to his apartment in Greenwich Village. One evening, he peered out his window to find it peering back at him in his derelict kitchen. Without hesitation, he opened the window and extended a fresh Cheeto. The winged creature snatched it from his hand. From then on, he would leave the treat on the windowsill, bypassing the journey to Central Park altogether.
He soon became consumed by a fascination with crows. He delved into their lore and legends. He devoured every book he could find in the Central Library on the subject. He immersed himself in the arcane symbolism and distinguishing characteristics of jackdaws, ravens, and crows. In an occult bookstore, he stumbled upon a thin volume of incantations and spells known as The Sorcerer’s Handbook, published in 1923. Within its pages, he unearthed a spell that purportedly transformed a crow into a familiar. It required a crow’s feather, a drop of his own blood, a tallow candle, and a vial of holy water.
To make the dark-feathered crow mind
One must a crow’s feather find
In mindful degrees tallow wax.
Incinerate to degrees Maximus
Holy Water must reach full boil
with a drop of the master’s blood
In a goblet of precious metal roil.
The steam be caught and distilled
An oath of allegiance fulfilled
To The Dark Lord sworn
As feathered slave serves his master new,
a favor to the Horned One does come due.
To seal the pact and change fate quicker
Drink nineteen drops of this elixir
Unable to resist the allure of power, Eduardo made the fateful decision to pilfer holy water during a midnight mass held at St. James Cathedral. He acquired the tallow candle from an apothecary specializing in items sought by practitioners of the arcane arts. He found a silver goblet at an antiquarian shop.
The final ingredient required to complete the spell lay resting on his windowsill—a solitary black crow’s feather. It felt like a gift, a prophetic sign, a green light to proceed. He drew his blood and heated it in the silver goblet with the holy water. No sooner than he performed the incantation, did the crow knock on his window.
Charlie the Crow said, "Hey Eddy, I’m here, at your beak and caw. How can I be of assistance, dude?” followed by raucous laughter.
With Charlie the Crow’s help, he ascended from an unemployed student to entertainment mogul. Charlie excelled at forging connections within the rock-and-roll scene, granting him exclusive tips to identify emerging talent. His various collaborations with captivating individuals were featured in publications such as Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair Magazine. Through these connections, he discovered and produced a rock band named Plastic Skyscrapers.
After he traded his humble flat in Greenwich Village for a townhouse in Manhattan, Eduardo uncovered the true nature of the secret societies that extended their invitations. Accidentally offending powerful witches and warlocks proved bad for his health. The loss of his eye, swiftly taken by a dagger thrown during a bar brawl, testified to the dark forces that bore him ill will. His eyeball clung to the blade’s tip, reminiscent of a Tootsie Pop as it whirley-gigged through the air. Shortly thereafter, he decided to leave New York. He and Charlie the Crow made a fresh start in the Pacific Northwest.
###
“Did you see Bigalow the night of the murder?” Jonathan asked.
“Oh, I saw him alright,” Eduardo answered. “But you must realize how Friday nights are. I just caught glimpses of the Blue Velveteen Dormouse running here and there, entertaining. Why not a tour? We’ll start with the lobby. Then I’ll take you to the dungeon and show you the rack," the impresario smirked.
Jonathan grabbed his backpack.
The two and a crow descended the curved staircase and crossed the Byzantine lobby. They walked a few feet to the first alcove. Eduardo indicated a mosaic made of thousands of polished stones. It measured over fifteen feet tall.
"Exquisite, isn’t it? This depicts Dionysus bein’ born from the thigh of his father, Zeus," his guide told them.
Jonathan looked at the big figure kneeling on a cloud, with a baby coming out of his leg. "The craftsmanship is impressive."
Eduardo scratched at his bushy beard, then led them to the next archway. "This piece shows Dionysus as a young boy being raised by nymphs in a cave. They dressed him as a girl to hide him from the Titans.”
Jonathan regarded the graceful figure dressed as a young girl. He could relate. Thanks to his hippy professor grandparents, he’d had long hair all his life. He’d been constantly taken for a girl as a child. But he always knew he was a boy. It had toughened him up in a way.
Eduardo led him to the next alcove. “This is Dionysus on the ship of pirates who kidnapped him. Eventually, he turned them all into dolphins. He looks just like you,” the wizard noted.
“He does rather,” Charlie the Crow agreed.
Jonathan laughed as he examined his likeness. “In high school, they used to call me Cher.”
“If I could turn back time,” Charlie chortled.
“Where did you get your looks?” Eduardo asked. “Bigalow certainly noticed them.”
Jonathan frowned. He wasn’t unaware of his sex appeal, but tried to keep a level head about it, even when pursuing modeling and acting in L.A. “My father was from Argentina. I never knew him. My mother said he died in South America, shot during a student riot before I was born. He was a dancer, like me.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Eduardo said.
Was his sympathy for the loss, or for him being a dancer? Unless somebody had never known their father, they couldn’t understand. Not really. It was a hole that grew bigger over time, as he came to understand what he was missing. “Thank you,” Jonathan said.
The gray-dreadlocked man led him to the next alcove in the towering lobby. “This one shows Dionysus and Apollo as lovers. Zeus frowned on the match and sent his son to Earth in mortal form. He was born with no memory of his past life. Dionysus was condemned to remain that way until he learned the true nature of love.”
“Did he frown on the relationship because it was Gay?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think he thought Apollo could do better.” Eduardo laughed silently, like a goldfish emitting a bubble.
“So is all of this because the Bijou is the home of a Cult of Dionysus?” Jonathan asked. “I remember they performed last rites for Madame Dodi.”
“Exactly,” Eduardo said.
Hmmm. “What are you going to do, now that Bigalow is behind bars?”
“We’ll have to soldier on, of course. The Bijou won’t be the same without the Blue Velveteen Dormouse. It’s a tradition."
Jonathan stretched himself to his full height. “So I understand. So many things about this place are just weird. For instance, what exactly was Bigalow’s deal with wearing that costume all the time?”
“The Bijou demands all sorts of things from him—dancer, doorman, bartender, maintenance engineer, being a sparkling addition to the party. Bigalow just liked being the dormouse.”
A burst of sunlight filled the lobby. Jonathan looked up at the dome skylight as the clouds cleared. “Was it necessary for him to wear it forty hours a week?” he asked.
“He wore it much more than that. It gave that amusement park feeling. Over the years he started wearing it longer each day.”
“I get the picture.” Jonathan relaxed his brow and played with the button on his peacoat. He was thirsty to know more dirt on Eduardo. “Do you and Bigalow get along?”
Eduardo shrugged. “We maintain a working relationship. It’s about keepin’ the Bijou going. . . People expect it.”
“Did he do a good job in that role?” Jonathan pressed.
“The best. But he acted pretty strange in that suit at times.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Like how?”
“Blowing off his duties and partying with the guests,” Charlie the Crow said.
“Was that part of that adult amusement park feeling?” Jonathan felt a cold draft and wrapped his coat more tightly around him.
“He acted like he was the missing member of Daft Punk. His after-hour theme parties are legendary.” Eduardo paused for a moment. "The other murals tell the story of Dionysus. I’m sure you get the gist. He’s a wine god, king of the party.”
Jonathan knew Bigalow functioned as a host, of course. Then he remembered why he originally came. “Can you lend me the keys so I can go to the basement? I’ll bring them right back. It’s for Bigalow."
“Of course. We all love Bigalow.” Eduardo rolled his eyes.
###
Jonathan admitted he knew very little about his husband or the Bijou as he tried key after key on the brass ring. It was packed with orphans from scattered locks throughout the old, shambling building. As he tried one after another in the lock, he mulled over what Eduardo had told him about his husband’s role as a perpetual host.
It was troubling to realize he had fallen so fast and hard for Bigalow without first thoroughly knowing him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had boyfriends before. But this charismatic older man had pushed all the right buttons. Intelligent, strong, handsome, talented, exceedingly virile, and ready to steer his career. It was a heady brew. Too intoxicating to resist for a starving ex-dance student like him.
His hand shook as he opened the chipped, grimy door. It had been painted over so many times it lost the detail of its moldings. He flipped the industrial light switch and started down the creaking stairs.
Jonathan wondered if Eduardo was a wizard and Charlie his actual familiar. How mind-blowing would that be? He almost could believe it, based on just how smart the bird was. No doubt Charlie the Crow could read and voice-activate a computer.
He went down through the maze of corridors dividing stalls made of boards and chicken wire. The basement had the musty smell of mildewed magazines. An accumulation of abandoned sets, lights, audio equipment, musical instruments, and costumes haunted the space. He heard dripping water while the fluorescent lights buzzed above.
Each storage unit had a padlocked door. The stall Bigalow told him about was second from the end, right before the boiler room’s heavy metal door. Heat emanated from behind it.
He fumbled with the padlock, trying various keys until one clicked and turned. Once inside the chicken-wire cubicle, he looked at the wire shelves crammed with junk and boxes and saw the trunk Bigalow told him about. He opened it and found a Blue Velveteen Dormouse costume.
“Bingo.” He put the sparkly costume in his backpack and did a little elbow-dance. As he turned to leave, the shadow of a crow appeared in the frosted window near the ceiling.
###
Bigalow beamed behind the plexiglass with a toothpaste-commercial smile. “Excellent, baby boy! Woot! Woot!”
The praise filled Jonathan with the sort of pride that came from getting gold stars in second grade. “What next?” It was hard not to bounce in his seat. “It feels great to be making progress.”
“Hang onto the suit. Hide it. Don’t let Eduardo know you have it. My arraignment is tomorrow. We’ll figure out what to do after that.”