The Writers (Version 1)
by
Michael Walker
22 Nov 1999
The glint in my lover’s eye told me he was up to something curious
again and that usually meant trouble for us both. We were standing in
Delmonico’s in Key West and the air hung around us like soup. You were
never safe from the tropical feel of the Keys, but for some reason a bar
made it all seem worse; the air thicker, rougher to breathe, and perhaps a
bit more threatening.
My lover was black Irish he perpetually told me, as if that was supposed to
mean something to me, a sheltered kid from Long Island. He was also extremely
handsome, shorter than I, and a problem drinker. When the man had had too many,
he took it out on the world around him. This occurred on a daily basis and for
some reason I stayed with him for eight long years. What can I tell you, I was
madly in love.
That night, someplace in Delmonico’s, a bar that had a freaking’ rain forest
built into the back (or so it seemed to me), he was telling me that he and the
guy he just met were going over to Sloppy Joe’s to cop some Quaaludes. I was
irritated as I heard him telling me this, but I wanted the drugs. Begrudgingly,
I told him to hurry back.
And I suppose he did hurry back, or maybe the rum and cokes made it seem like
he was gone only for an instant, but suddenly there he was again with a bag of
‘ludes. I remember being glad he was back and being eager to take the drug --
which I did quickly, boldly, and with a straight shot of 151 rum. After that we
swam around in the bar for awhile, stopping here to watch some guys on roller
skates, there to buy more drinks.
A bit after that, we went to watch some guys playing pool. There was a tall,
lanky boy there in tight jeans and a T-shirt that he’d obviously been poured
into. He was playing billiards and obviously hustling a middle-aged Southern
gentleman who was being loud and jocular.
“Young man,” the guy was saying, “Never before have I seen a youth of your
fine features.” It was, I remember thinking, a very strange way to be speaking.
We watched for awhile and I noticed that my lover was becoming agitated,
which meant too drunk and way too calculated. "What’s going on?” I asked him
with some apprehension.”
At that point he looked at me with a little weariness and said, “Were you
always so stupid?” I was used to this kind of abusive talk from him, especially
when he was drunk, and to this day I cannot explain why I put up with it.
“What?” I questioned him meekly, “What did I say?” He shook his head and then
indicated the man playing pool. “You moron,” he said, “Don’t you know who that
is?” “Who?” I said, “The kid?”
“No, not the kid, you jerk. The man!”
“Who is it?” I asked. “It’s goddamn Tennessee Williams!”
Of course I immediately realized that my lover was correct. I had been
watching one of the greatest American playwrights playing pool for the last
half-hour without even realizing it.
At this point my memory seems to be a bit vague. I remember bits and pieces
of the next few minutes, but mostly I recall standing at the bar alone. The next
clear memory I have is of looking out into the garden and seeing my lover
sitting at a booth-like table with Williams and a third man. I was immediately
incredulous and jealous. But I was not the fool my lover thought I was and I was
not half as weak as he believed. I boldly walked out into the garden and joined
them.
I remember my lover’s face when I approached and he was not pleased to see
me. But, being he wanted to make a good impression on Tennessee Williams (I
suppose), he acknowledged my arrival and introduced me as his lover. Then he
added, “He doesn’t really have curly hair, it’s a perm job.” The words fell on
the table like the angry and vindictive gruel that they were. Williams looked at
me with some sympathy.
After that introduction, Tennessee Williams slid over on his seat and invited
me to sit. He introduced me to his friend, the actor Michael Greer, and asked me
if I -- like my lover -- was a writer. I confirmed his suspicion and then
proceeded to gush on about how I was also an actor and how I had played the
“Gentleman Caller” in high school. I also tried to make it very clear that he,
Mr. Tennessee Williams, was my favorite playwright. In fact, during the course
of my first run-on paragraph with the man, I must have used the phrase “Mr.
Williams” a dozen times.
Finally, the great Tennessee Williams held up his hand to cut off my profuse
speech. “Mike,” he said, as he put his arm around my shoulder, “Call me Tom.”
His words hit me like lightning.
I wish I could go now on to describe a continued friendship that went on for
years. I wish that I were able to tell you how the great American playwright,
Tennessee Williams, then took me under his wing and helped me to become a better
writer or actor. I wish, desperately, that I could tell you reliably more about
what happened that evening.
But, alas, it was not his words that had hit me like -- it was the Quaaludes
that I had swallowed awhile back.
I cannot tell you what we talked about after that, whether I made a good
impression, whether Williams continued to extend his Southern hospitality toward
me and invited me and my lover to his home for drinks and more, or whether I had
just become a drooling drug fiend (which is the most likely scenario) who caused
great embarrassment to one and all.
I can, however, tell you that the following morning I awoke in a Turkish
sauna alone. The sauna had an outdoor garden (it seemed even supermarkets had
outdoor gardens in Paradise!) and the first thing I was aware of was the feel of
warmth on my face. It was the sun coming through the fronds of a giant palm
tree, fierce and strong, A still swimming pool with clear green water caused
shimmering reflections on the bark of the tree. I had a severe hangover, of
course, and it took me several minutes to become oriented enough to even begin
recalling the evening before.
Now during that period in American history, newspapers often mentioned
Tennessee Williams’ attempts at sobriety. In fact, he had apparently decided to
go on he wagon during that time. Through the murky mess that was our evening,
Williams’ and mine, I recall standing next to him at a bar.
“Another drink, Mr. Williams?” the bartender was saying. ‘Yes, sir,” Williams
had replied in his Southern drawl, “Make it one of my special club sodas.” Of
course, it may have been a club soda with a twist of pineapple that made it so
special. However, for years, I have fanaticized that he may have chosen that
night to drink again and that I, personally, may have dragged him off the wagon.
Naturally, I never saw him again, but a photograph of the writer on the front
page of the Key West Citizen several days later showed him dining to celebrate
the opening of the Tennessee Williams Fine Arts Center. Maybe it was just the
angle of the camera, but it appeared that he was sitting with his fingers inside
the contents of a martini glass.
Years later, while living in Provincetown, I heard about Tom's untimely
death. What do you do, I wondered silently to myself, with the kinds of
amorphous memories of nights like that? It took years before I was keen enough
as a writer to hear Williams advice to me from the ethers. "Mike," he said to
me, "Tell the damn story and make it a good one." Then he belted out a hearty
and boisterous laugh that was more like a Southern-drawled cackle.
Follow this
link to see
Version II of this same tale.
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writings contents
Copyright © 1999 by Michael Walker
Michael Walker is a freelance writer in Washington, DC. He is also the founder
and proprietor of
DREAMWalker Group.
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