Geography

I for one am sick and tired of Anton acting so superior for never having seen Evita.

“What was that last one?”
— “You Must Love Me, from the Evita soundtrack.”
— “Never saw Evita.”
— “I know. You remind me every chance you get.”
— “Don’t do showtunes. Hey, turn this one up. This stuff from Who’s That Girl? is enjoying something of a, well, a renaissance. People didn’t pay much attention when it first came out. Now it’s like a new face of Madonna a lot of people have never really seen.”
— “Except on Easter Island?”
— “Easter Island?”
— “It’s the Mardi Gras after-party. You know, like Fire Island, but on the bayou.”
— “Gotcha.”

On payday, Anton and I take our lunches and eat them at the downtown headquarters of the West Eastern Blenman Elm Houseboys Organized Services, which is where the paychecks are cut and all the big cheeses also are. Though it is out of the way, it has become something of a pilgrimage since we both got a DVD and the handsome doctor we met at Best Buy recommended we rent that movie with Sally Field as Martha Raye. That was a blessing in disguise really because since then we have been just about the most noisy and vociferous of any of the domestics in all the WEBEHOS when it comes to oral health and labor.

Today finds us squeezing limes (ouch!) over freshly made ceviche tostadas and sipping cold jicama bisque outside Dental Benefits Coordinator Geoffery Cragmont’s office. Yes, Cragmont, that cheap bastard. He would require us to turn our teeth in with our knee pads each night if he thought he could get away with it.

Actually, some of the gardeners do, in fact, do just that. Though, I think it is more because they so identify with, copy and otherwise immolate their, excuse my language, their oppressors, and fool themselves into believing that by removing their teeth each night, they can somehow win favor with The Man.

Curious.

Anyhow, we are protesting the new plan-approved dentists and as soon as we finish our lunch, we quietly slip the unsigned letter we have written under Cragmont’s door. Yes, Cragmont, that cheap bastard! All of the approved providers are located in Tepotzlan, a town south of Tucson. Tepoztlan is famous mostly for an Aztec pyramid, but also for its ratio of dentists to townspeople, which is about one-to-five. So you see, in addition to its religious and cultural significance, Tepotzlan is a benefits coordinator’s dream come true. My only objection is it is a thousand miles from here and none of our employers will let us have the car for that long.

Not even if we promise to bring back special beads.

Anton tells me his boss, Tommy Ache, is gone for the rest of the day helping the mayor pick out a comfortable pair of sneakers, so if I want I can come over and help him “finish off the old man’s weed.”

Anton, as usual is only thinking of himself. He knows marijuana makes me simultaneously so very anti-social, paranoid, hungry and sexually horny that the only time I can stand the stuff is when I am alone in bed with a chef I love and trust.

Selfish Anton. Selfish, selfish, selfish!

I offer to meet up with him after he has finished his chore.

“—Let’s see the new Star Wars.”
—No can do. There’s a game on later and the milkman invited me over to his place to slam some.

I have seen this milkman, and frankly that sounds like it would hurt.

At least at first.

When Valentino and I have finished our day-for-night gymnastic routine, I remove the welding helmet, the one I always wear for this particular scene because it blinds me to all save for the red-hot glow of the branding poker my jolly Muscle Rancher flaunts with his right hand while his left hand does the actual dirty work.

We mop up the beer and walk hand-in-hand across the soggy particle board deck, which on this warm morning seems to be practically spritzing us with its innermoist secrets. Squish and squirt! Squish and squirt! As if our dank shenanigans had not been hydrating enough, a fresh rainstorm has passed in the night, leaving the now buckled boards underfoot with all the texture, charm and Consumer Reports' rating of microwave oatmeal left in for a minute too long.

Clearly, there are many thoughts rushing through my head at the moment: Will we fall nineteen stories and splatter on the gravel below where the sidewalk should be? Is this why the building required no last month's rent but such an exorbitant cleaning deposit? Am I still named as Valentino's beneficiary?

Obvious stuff. But since you are here, I will tell you what stands out most is the observation you make each year when accompanying me on the trip to the cabin. What is it you always say, that few things are more honest than the smell of wet pressed wood? Well, I think I finally understand what you mean. Sort of.

Valentino takes a deep breath and notes in that vivified and wide-awake tone of his, "Would you look at that — the sun is coming up again."

He is hard to read, but I think what he means is either the deck will dry and, just like at Easter, things will be better after a few days' sleep, or that it is time for him to go.

Either way, his flight leaves in a couple hours, and he looks sad. He is weeping. I know goodbyes are hard for him.

In part to snap him out of it, but mostly to disguise my amusement, I begin to sing a song:

All men, all men are liars
Their words ain't worth no more than worn-out tires.
Hey girls, bring rusty pliers
To pull this tooth
All men are liars and that's the truth.

It works. He likes it! He sniffles and smiles and I tell him I will get his things together while he finishes collecting his thoughts.

Just then, a flock of doves or sparrows— I cannot be certain which, as my eye doctor has once again botched my lasik and I cannot find my eyeglasses— scatters overhead as the sound of gunfire echoes first off of the headstones over at the cemetery and then from the new townhouses across the freeway. We embrace, once again experiencing the tingly sensation we have always shared whenever hunting season begins.

When Madonna calls at six in the morning, although she tries to sound like any one of the rest of my internationally famous and concerned pop star friends, I can tell it is yet another of her passive-aggressive attempts at getting a jab in. She is aware of how much I have been working lately and calls to remind me that "All work and no play makes Dick a dull boy." How she revels in quoting herself off of the Tracy soundtrack. Then, feigning concern over the time difference between her country of adopted intonation and that of her language acquisition's origin, "Oh dear, did I wake you? I completely forgot about the time difference. I'm sorry..."

I interrupt and tell her that it is not a problem, that she could not have woken me as I have not yet gone to bed. "Don't cry for me om shanti, om shanti, quack, quack, quack and all that. Goodbye!"

As I put the phone down, Valentino parts the mosquito net he has set up around the hookah in the middle of the room. He cheerfully pats one of the many genuine indigenous Guatemalan throw pillows atop which we have been sodomizing each other, and motions for me to come inside.

Valentino, as you already know, is a gay romantic interest from a previous decade. All the more reason, perhaps, for you to think it odd to find us cavorting together again this hot Sonoran morning.

You know the story of our meeting due to a muffin mix up at the cafe of the Golden Gate branch of the YMCA in San Francisco's swank Lower Knob neighborhood. And you have patiently listened time and again as I relate the details of Valentino's shady, though chemically sound, work with political action committees and multi-level marketing schemes along the river banks in Sacramento.

You did not take sides when I told you of how after what began as a week of intimate bliss and spiritual discovery in Mexico City, we had our final falling out when the mescaline wore off and we found ourselves in a bitter dispute over the hypothetical ownership of Mario Lanza's dental records, and I want you to know I appreciate it.

You are quite aware too, that later that day when we kissed goodbye at the airport, perhaps sensing that "ours" had run "its" course, we both wept as he whispered in my ear the refrain to a Whitney Houston song popular at the time, and I immediately felt as though I could not breathe, knowing then and there that one of us had to put a stop to the madness. I also know that you know that when I phoned him a week later to break things off, I felt guilty because it was a hurried and cold gesture made as I was rushing to meet with themustachioed director of the language school where I was an English instructor.

And since this story always ends with you asking me to please not tell you about how the director, an intimidatingly quiet and extremely superstitious man with a keychain bearing the inscription come lo que sea, insisted I meet him for tongue tacos each week, I will not recount any of these things to you again.

Did you know, though, that I lost twenty pounds that year without even trying? It is true.

Anyhow, given our past, it must have seemed queer to anyone, not just the people who know us as well as those who pretend not to know us, to see Valentino and I there together in that Tucson crosswalk, so far from anyplace in our past and yet so close to each other's person, laughing as we recalled our favorite Flying Nun episodes.

You know, standing there in that very same favorite Jane Olivor concert tee of his he always wears when he travels, he looked just as he did when I last saw him some nine years before, except more aged and no longer encumbered with the worries he used to have about his thinning hair. He looked at peace with it all, and that counts for so much.

Besides, who am I to talk? I mean, I was bicycling home from the gym myself and must have been somewhat disproportionately pumped and breathlessly ruddy, and my hair, which is probably too thick to be practical in this clime, was matted and dripping with perspiration. So it is not as if I think time has been any less kind to me. 

I wake with enthusiasm for the 48 hours worth of personal growth and play I am optimistic I can fit into the 24 of my day off. The folly of thinking I can (or even want) "to have it all" in such a time frame becomes apparent when both the coffee and blueberry smoothie are ready at exactly the same moment, and Pitta and Kapha, those Ayurvedic flygirls I do so enjoy freaking with, sassily explain this is one performance they ain't into.

There are many ways a houseboy goes above and beyond the call of duty each and every day to demonstrate his commitment to civic minded domestic enthusiasm. For example: I like making the rounds each night to be certain all the alarm clocks are tuned to Spanish language Christian radio with the volume turned up loud so that everyone in the house wakes with a healthy and thoroughly disorienting fear of God. I also go the extra mile by documenting any and all mentions of Coca Cola products in the media. Then there is being certain there are plenty of brand name mountain breeze scented dryer sheets around. Well, actually, that one is clearly stated in my employment agreement. Finally, there is always more polishing, dusting and wiping things.

Yes, lots and lots of wiping.

Though perhaps the strongest statement is one a houseboy has the opportunity to make whenever the head of the local space exploration committee asks for a volunteer to accompany the neighborhood astronauts on their latest probe. That statement is of course “Let me pack a bag”.

I know that you are probably saying to yourself, “They shoot houseboys into outer space, oh do they? And monkeys fly out my water filter.” But it is true. In fact, as recently as Monday, there were houseboys cueing cds for Red Planet Day parties on Mars. Which just goes to show how far houseboys can come in space if given the chance. Why, it seems only yesterday we were hanging around on the International Space Station for incomprehensibly boring stretches of time without even cable television, waiting to let the realtor in.

It is much more civilized than that now. There is even digital satellite audio on most of the interplanetary jumps. If you ask me, though, that is a waste of money — save your money, houseboys! — since most seem to opt for total sedation for the duration of the trip.

Which reminds me that while there is a lot I could say about advances in space medicine, there is not room for that here so I will simply remind you that if you choose chemical stasis, be prepared. When your astronaut commander awakens you for re-entry, you will find yourself with a minimum of six months beard growth.

Bring clippers and lots of mouthwash.

This is the third quinceañera I have been to this year for this man and I am getting tired of it.

As you no doubt already know, a quinceañera is a traditional Mexican coming-of-age party celebrated on or around a girl’s fifteenth birthday. This is why it is all the more bizzare to be attending a succession of them honoring a forty-three-year-old quasi-libertarian environmentalist.

I think you know who I am talking about. Yes, I am in fact talking about our local Green Party power broker, our “Mr. Rules are bad unless made by me” himself.

Yes, I am talking about Mr. Thomas Ache, who lately is loco for all things Mexique. I suppose we can thank his involvement with Fondelio Doquera, his current gay lover from Hermosillo, for this newfound enthusiasm.

In addition to his monthly quinceañera, Mr. Ache has met with rebels in Chiapas, has begun using an Aztlan address, disciplines the dog with rolled up copies of La Jornada and though not actually learning any Spanish, he is successfully cultivating an accent. Fondelio, on the other hand, seems content to spend his free time at Park Place Mall and the Sprint store. I suppose one cannot argue that in the short time that they have been together they have not achieved a symbiosis most couples only dream of after eating pizza in their beds at night.

I wish the two much happiness, but I cannot help think Fondelio is yet another passing phase for Mr. Ache.

Thank you for letting me tell you this here because no one else seems to want to hear it.

You see, when Mr. Ache drunkenly exclaims, “Fondelio! TAY AW-MOH hos-stuh EL phone-doh, Fondelio!” most people interpret that as a somewhat jingoistic expression of complete love by a politician in a language he neither speaks nor pronounces very well, whereas I view it with a morphemic cynicism. I think Fondelio is an ironic name for the man’s latest well-hung grope.

I also cannot help but recall Mr. Ache’s involvement with a certain masseuse he met in Sedona, a certain Paolo Ovnis. Yes, you heard me correctly: Paolo Ovnis used to be a Sedona spa boy.

And you probably know him only as the director of the critically acclaimed 1999 film, Un Giorno Chiaro.

I do not blame you. I mean, who can forget the heartwarming story of the spaceman blinded in a collision with a military satellite and left behind on Earth while his fellow space travellers, in a state of animated suspension, hurtle through the solar system on a collision course with Uranus? I know I cannot. And how sad that to manage even the cruelest survival the spaceman must rely on the picaresque whims of the temp agency ladies. But what a happy turn of events when he finally meets one who is different, his own special lady, his Mandita, and because of her love learns to harness the destructive forces of evil and channels them into the destructive forces of good.

Well, you may remember it somewhat differently. That is okay. There are many interpretations. The point in the film I am specifically referring to is when his vision is restored and he builds a nuclear-powered castle on Antarctica.

Such a triumph of the humanoid spirit.

Anyhow, Paolo strung Mr. Ache along for months until enough favors had been called in and the film had a producer. Then, Paolo headed straight for the airport where he phoned a pained Tommy Ache to explain that although the film was set in Winslow, it would be impossible to imbue Northern Arizona with a European sensibility without filming the picture in Milan.

No use denying that.

Anyhow, as I sit here bored out of my skull and wishing I had my camera with me but deciding — as I watch Mr. Ache change into a new dress, and Fondelio argues with his mother on one cell phone and the caterer on the other, and the children take turns making snow angels in the enormous cake — I cannot think of what I would photograph if I did have it.

At Starbucks I notice I am talking to myself. My tongue hits the back of my teeth and my jaw moves and I am practicing my excuses for being at Starbucks should I run into anyone I know there. Which is just silly because I for one love Starbucks and, of course, what are they doing there? I hope it is not for the coffee, which if it were a wine would certainly carry the words "aged in burnt oak" on the label. Perhaps it is for the creamy espresso drinks that are impressively unpleasant due to their excess sweetness. That would at least not make sense.

No, I love Starbucks because it is clean and overpriced. What more could anyone ask for?

Anyhow, my excuse is the truth, so my mumbling goes something like this: "I am here for the sale on Swing Out Sister, Matt Bianco and Basia compilations that will so pleasantly complement the mood of an upcoming To The Stormy Weather party at the Manor."

These parties are something some of the more socially conscious houses in the area host throughout the summer to raise money to buy kites for the at-risk youth often found in our balmy city's many beautiful parks. Granted, it is the smallest of gestures and I think if one is to be honest, the partygoers get more enjoyment and satisfaction out of the process in the end than the teens. For these kids I think it is, more than anything, a valuable educational experience since the kites are distributed in mid-August when this region is in the throes of monsoon season. But enough. Who am I to judge which is more enjoyable — an open bar or first hand knowledge of the often fatal dangers of lightning?

I find only one compact disc, which is mostly Enya. It costs only $7.99 though, so I figure why not? At the counter I order a capuccino and a biscotti and pay my $29.76. While I am sprinkling nutmeg on it, the counter person says, "Hey, look at me, I'm a mime." Then I watch as she points to the pale head of foam, circles a finger above the sparse sprinkling of brown spice atop the the beverage, cocks her head, opens her eyes widely behind her black plastic eyeglasses, points at me and hisses like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

It is odd behavior. What does it mean? I know only that if she were a mime, I would not tip her. Then again, I do not ever tip her as a counter person either.

Who can understand why people do the things they do?

I find a table out on the patio and am pleasantly surprised to see that just beyond the tiny stucco wall separating the shopping plaza from Tucson's forbidden zone or "sidewalk" as most locals refer to it, is Van Dale and his paints. "Van Dale!" I shout. He gives me his trademark thumbs up and I try to admire his work. Not that it is an effort to admire his work so long as you are not paying the deductible, but it is a blustery day and the excess spray paint is blowing all over the place. Some poor schmuck's Lexus.

I look closer and in spite of the distraction of the very loud and very academic conversation nearby,  the volume of which shakes the very foundation of the franchise with what I garner are the tenets of a discipline I imagine is called Empowerment Studies, I am able to see that what Van Dale has painted is a beautiful rendition of the forty-four First Ladies of the United States of America.

Proudly realizing that this is also the nation I am enjoying my coffee and cookie in, I feel a sudden rush of clarity and giggle. Hillary and Barbara. I remember the refreshing details and laughter of the morning's pillow talk with the Puerto Rican who had never heard of Gilda Radner, much less Rosanne Rosannadanna. Nancy and Rosalynn. At last, focus! I stare even deeper into the spray of colors and nod my head to the rhythmic clack of the ball in the can of paint. The tempo practically breaks my neck! I squint a bit and suddenly I swear I am looking at a hologram of dolphins and Jesus. There you are, Betty.

Life is good. But only for a minute because reviewing my shopping list, I have no idea what "tahini bikini" could mean.

Musical selections for today's Panchesario courtesy Bertelsmann Paint & Hardware.