My Secret Life With Lou
What should we be without the sexual myth, The human reverie or poem of death? Castratos of moon-mash – Life consists Of propositions about life.
– Wallace Stevens, Men Made Out of Words
Halloween night, 1977. Jay, the body-building manager of Main Street's Wildflour Pizza Parlour, announces to us, pizza-slinging doughboys, that his friend from the gym will be stopping by later this evening. It seems that this guy from Joe Gold's World Gym, named Lou, was looking to get out with the spooks and the crazies. To thicken the plot, Jay's tip is overheard by the drag queen manager of a neighborhood cabaret, a fellow decked out in a wig, brassiere and fishnet stockings, who had just stopped by the Wildflour to make change from our cash drawer. On the lookout for excitement, this fairy tale barfly exhorts Jay to bring Lou by the club. So, as time slides by into the late goblin hours, this guy, Lou, appears in his extra-gantageous self and asks for dinner in 'the usual way' (antipasto salad, no olives). He turns one ear to the dining room crowd and chats to Jay and us cooks. "What's up?" he asks. "How's it going?" "Fine," I say. "Just fine Lou." While Jay and Lou discuss the night's misadventures with the bizarre ambience of the gay crowd across the street, I hang up my apron, wash, and get ready to leave. "Hey guy," the big boys call. "Are you looking for a wild time. Want to join as for this Halloween party?" "Not tonight, thanks," I say. "Maybe I'll see you later." Maybe I see you later, Lou – in the car I drive, the fan mags I collect, or event in person, Lou. Maybe I'll see you later.