CHAPTER ONE -- THANK YOU FOR DROPPING DEAD
(Did You Sleep With the Models?)
From my first day in New York I looked for a job in publishing. Eventually I landed one -- almost by accident -- that many a gay man envied. I became editor-in-chief of Mandate, Honcho, and Playguy. These magazines, highly regarded by thousands of gays, were looked on by others as NOKD -- "not our kind, dear." After two turbulent months of screwball hijinks in what I came to view as a corporation of nuts, it looked as if I'd survive.
Then it happened. I was working late one dreary, freezing night in February when, just after eight o'clock, the stranger rapped on the door. When I saw his face, I froze. This man was the opposite of the muscular, sexy model who should be standing there.
Cross-eyed fate had played me a dangerous, nasty trick.
I was alone, the only person still at work on that vast, silent eleventh floor at 155 Sixth Avenue, on the fringe of SoHo. My colleagues had left hours ago. The place was beginning to chill as heat lowered for the night. Blackish snow lingered on pavements, unsightly slush dribbled in the streets before refreezing in the night cold. The city lay under a dingy pall. Outside, New York noise was muffled, and in the depths of this shadowy eleventh floor, deep silence held dominion.
I finished the feature I was editing, reread several letters to the editor and decided on the ones I would run next issue. I looked at the wall clock. Where was my visitor? His appointment was for eight. That morning he had called and said, in a pleasant, professional, masculine voice, "I hear you're the new editor. I'd like to show you my portfolio." A pause. "You might be able to use me as a model in Mandate. Possibly Honcho."
"Thank you for calling. Yes, of course I'd like to see your pictures. Can you drop them in the mail, or leave them with the receptionist?"
"Well...I could." Another pause. "Don't you want to see me in person?"
"I'm sorry, I'm quite busy but if you'll send a few pictures..."
"I'd rather not send them that way," he said, a smile in his voice. "I'll only take a minute of your time if you let me drop them off in person." He followed with a flattering description of himself and his attributes.
"You're persuasive," I laughed. "Okay, I'm convinced. But you'll have to come at the end of the day. I work late. Around seven-thirty?"
"I'll see you at eight. If that's, ah, not too late."
I imagined him as the new star attraction. The hunk du jour. Du jour, hell; Mandate's Hunk of the Year. A big photo spread, possibly a cover, for the first or second issue with my name on the masthead. A star indeed, from the sound of his voice. My imagination leapfrogged.
"We're on the eleventh floor. Knock loud or I might not hear you. I'll be the only one working."
Editors and art directors usually charged out the door at six on the dot. Others -- for instance Karen, who operated the early-eighties computer, or Josie, who handled payroll -- sometimes stayed later. Then they popped into my office to say goodnight. Our publisher, a contemporary Scrooge, turned off so many lights as he walked out that I once considered parading down the corridor with a white cane to shame him.
Finally, my eight o'clock appointment knocked. Late, but maybe the subway stalled between stations. A frequent occurrence.
The hallway, scooped in low-light chiaroscuro, mimicked a Fritz Lang film noir as I walked down the corridor to the entrance, directly in front of the elevators. The top half of the door was made of crinkly glass, so I could make out only a dark form. Not as tall as I expected. I opened the door and --
If I had seen my expression it would have shocked me. Or did I freeze it in mask-like composure? Something was terribly wrong. The visitor hurried in.
A troll from a wanted poster in a post office. Hannibal Lecter crossed with Quasimodo. Well along in middle age, flaky skin and patchy hair, dressed in bureaucratic office attire of cheap brown tie with coffee stains, grimey shirt, dark rumpled trousers, tweed sport coat beginning to show its age, and over that a navy overcoat sprinkled with dandruff. Behind thick-lensed eyeglasses, darting eyes like someone being pursued. Perhaps he was. A frozen moment. I had made a grave error.
Whatever I learned in Mr. Austell's high school drama class served me well that night. That, and quick thinking.
"How do you do, Mr. Jones? I'm Sam Staggs. Please come in."
He followed me down the hall to my office. I offered a chair, sat down at my desk opposite him, chatted a moment about the weather, asked whether he worked downtown, then, "Well, I'm eager to see your portfolio." As he handed it to me, I added, "Tell me about your previous model work." That baritone voice on the telephone had thinned. Whatever he said didn't register. Too many scenarios spinning in my head.
Remember Jack Nicholson in The Shining? The scene where his wife, played by Shelley Duval, looks at his typewriter, then opens his manuscript box and picks up the "novel" he's been working on for ages, only to find hundreds of pages with the typed line, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," ad infinitum.
That was me, and here was Jack.
But on the phone he sounded so -- or did he? Obviously, I hadn't paid close attention, I was busy and didn't ask enough questions, I should have insisted on a four p.m. appointment at the latest. Too late now for coulda, shoulda.
In the three-ring binder he pulled from his briefcase were dozens of clear plastic archival storage pages for 35mm slides. Each slot contained a color slide, and every one was him in the same frightful pose: hunched forward in that infinity of slides, decked out in yellowing shirt, coffee-stained brown tie, aging jacket, and eyeglasses. Fortunately, no nudes.
"These are interesting," I said, wishing my heart would slow down. "When were they taken? You must have the photographer get in touch. Here's my card." My life could depend on this performance. Not too enthusiastic. He surely knows at some level how unlike a model he is. Nuance: just enough encouragement, not too much cordiality. Keep the tone steady. This is how you talk to someone perched on a ledge. Fifty stories up -- or eleven, like me.
He sat impassive. What does he want from me?
"Well?" he said, staring.
"Can you leave several slides for my publisher to look at? I'm sure you realize that we have many photos on hand. We schedule our issues months ahead." I pictured him naked, back to camera, head turned provocatively over right shoulder in a Betty Grable pose -- with a hairy back and saddlebag love handles.
He frowned. "How do you like them?"
I imagined next day's front-page headline in the Post:
SKIN MAG WANNABE TOOK AN AX
Gave the Editor 40 Whax
"I can't choose models without my publisher's okay," I lied. "I appreciate your coming in. I hope I haven't taken too much of your time."
But he smelled a rat. "Why don't you like them?" he demanded.
"It's not that. But so much material. Look at that stack over there -- "
"I intend to pursue this," he snarled. "You watch. I'll get to the bottom of it!"
"I'm sorry you're disappointed, Mr. Jones. If you'd like to take it up with Mr. Mavety, the publisher, I'll be happy to make an appointment." Would Meryl Streep have applauded my performance? Would Stanislavski? How about Barbara Stanwyck, strangled at the end of Sorry, Wrong Number?
He stood up, jabbed his right hand into his pants pocket. A gun? He was not glad to see me.
I stiffened.
He snatched his slide portfolio, slammed it into his battered briefcase, and headed for the door.
"I could kill you for this," he muttered.
The climax of the drama. Fight or flight. Him or me. Surging adrenalin brought me to my feet, fists at the ready.
"Do you think I don't have protection in a place like this? Alarm button under my desk. Night security's on the way."
Night security didn't exist.
I walked a few steps behind, ready to pound, kick, go for the jugular.
He jerked open the door, rushed into the hallway, ran past the elevators, spotted the red EXIT sign, and dived down the stairs.
"Thank you for dropping by," I murmured in a shaky voice that no one heard.
Thank you for dropping dead.
So Agatha Christie might have ended the scene, as Mr. Jones, the ax murderer, wiped his instrument on his coffee-stained tie, picked up the latest issue of Mandate, held it up beside his face, gazed into a mirror, grinned, and said, "Ready for my close-up!"
Seated at my desk, breathing slowed, I said aloud, "How stupid are you? You could be spouting blood right now." The thought occurred later that I probably could have pinned him to the floor. He was no strongman. But what if it was a gun in his pocket...or a switchblade...a blunt instrument under that dandruff-sprinkled overcoat? Across these many years, I wonder: Was he a homocidal maniac, fresh from an after-dinner murder, or merely a poor delusional drone stuck in some Kafkaesque office. Or perhaps a lonely man who lived at home in Queens or on Staten Island with his mother...just like Tony Perkins as --- Next day, hearing the story, my associate editor mimed a shower-stabbing as he crooned in a Norman Bates voice, "You might fool me, but you won't fool my mother!"
After that, when I worked late I made sure the door was locked and extra lights left on. And no appointment that could mimic a Hitchcock script.
That chilling incident, even in the rear view mirror, still sends a frisson. Right now I've got goose bumps on my arm.
I heard from him once more -- or maybe not. The voice was similar. Back then, I was still listed in the Manhattan phone book. One evening in March I came home to my apartment, turned on the lights, and noticed the red notification button on my answerphone.
"You've been fucking my boyfriend, and I'm going to kill you."
Safe at home on the third floor at 270 West Ninety-first Street, I erased the message. I could have used a cigarette, but I stopped smoking when I was twenty. I said aloud, as if at the end of a precode Warner Bros. melodrama ca. 1932, "Oh yeah? Which one was yours?"
Beautifully written, is this going to be published
Thank you so much for this!