Rough Amusements by Ben Neihart

Author:Ben Neihart
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781596918634
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2019-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Harold Jackman, the British lovely, the swaggering man-about-town, everybody's favorite loverboy, male model, rumor-making playboy, subject of Richmond Barthe's luscious art, had no fucking idea how he'd ended up broken away from his too-too-hot set, Caska Bonds, the voice coach; Blanche Dunn, the existential goddess; and those gorgeous Italians who'd kept gripping his thigh.

He had gone for a walk. He had wanted to clear his head.

He had caught the end of the wretched song and dance and, well, he had to admit he had thought it would make a good story to tell, a letter to write to his boy Countee, Countee Cullen, his best man in the world and a famous poet to boot.

So he had gone to the edge of the stage and offered his hand, offered his good-looking hand to the creature who'd just completed her terrible musical number.

"May I escort you through the crowd?" he had asked her.

"Harold!" Blanche had shouted from her box. "Harold, you're so gallant!"

Caska had sidled up next to him and kissed his ear. "This has got to be photographed. You hold on to this monster until I find a drunk photographer. I cannot believe you, Harold."

"A small lady always appreciates a strong young man's help; I do thank you," said Jennie June, taking his hand and stepping down from the runway where she'd just performed.

Jackman paused to nod. He was surprised to find he had a lump in his throat. Something about the tiny voice. The old girl — she had such a tiny, kind voice.

"That was brave," Jackman said.

"Oh, I'm not brave," Jennie demurred. "And I'm not much of an entertainer, compared to these new girls."

Jackman chuckled before he could stop himself, and then, just as quickly, apologized. "That was a rude laugh, or so they tell me every couple of days."

"Oh, I'm used to rudeness. Now let's find a dark quiet corner where we can get to know one another."

Jackman stopped in his tracks and looked up at Blanche's box. "Help!" he mouthed silently, but continued in the direction Jennie led him.

Jackman had found himself depleted this morning when he woke, depleted all day at school, teaching boys whose voices and posture were so young that it made him feel embarrassed for himself, where life had taken him, how he had suddenly gotten old, twenty-seven. He had old man ailments, the stomach problems, headaches, and an emptiness of heart that hadn't originated in a tragic loss. Or had it?

Jackman, standing here at the Faggots Ball with scrawny pale Jennie June, found himself thinking of Kate, a friend of friends - Kate, with her exaggerated, off-pitch ladylikeness, was this comic figure, and Jackman was prone to laughter. At her expense. He told himself that Kate couldn't tell he thought her ridiculous, but the truth was he could see the hurt in her eyes every time he saw her.

He was a vicious mimic, he was an unforgivable gossip.

He knew that Langston in particular had grounds to call him a cruel prick, the way Jackman poked fun at his uneducated mother.

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