by E.P. Lande
“Aaron, who’s Madonna?” my mother asked. At ninety-five, her last recollections of pop culture had probably been Bing Crosby or Kate Smith.
“She’s a current pop icon, Mom.” In reality, I didn’t know that much about Madonna either. Madonna had scheduled two concerts in Montreal. To Steve, my lover, Madonna was the epitome of entertainment. Whenever possible, Steve listened to her recordings. Somehow, he identified with her. Knowing how much Steve enjoyed Madonna’s recordings and watching her videos, I had called my mother, the one person who could get us tickets, the very best seats available. As Steve had suffered a foot accident; it would be a diversion for him.
Until I met Steve, I was a contemporary culture zero. I remember accompanying my sister Rachel to a cocktail party in New York shortly after my divorce from Jeanne. At the time, my contribution to any conversation only touched on economics, politics, writing, and the arts — no pop culture. Somehow the name Cindy Crawford was mentioned.
“Who’s Cindy Crawford?” I asked, innocently. My question was met with silence, as though someone had farted; and then everyone talked at once, laughing.
“My friends think you’re charming,” a bemused Rachel said on our walk back to her apartment after the party. “They asked me if everyone in Vermont was like my brother.” Rachel then proceeded to inform me who Cindy Crawford was and why I should have knowledge of people like her.
“I hope she’s worth what you’re paying,” my mother commented after obtaining the very best seats.
“Mom, whatever they cost, pay it. She’s probably not worth it, but Steve is mesmerized by Madonna.” I still didn’t understand Steve’s fascination. “It’s like what you and Dad must have felt when you heard Rudy Vallee.”
“Oh, that was different, dear,” my mother replied. “Rudy was a dreamboat, — and he could sing,” she mooned. Even at ninety-five, old feelings never die, I thought.
“Well, Mom, Madonna does that to Steve; so, you can empathize.”
As my mother would be in New York, we decided to stay at her home rather than at a hotel.
“Babe, your mother’s house is like a hotel, okay?” Steve told me as we packed for the overnight. “And before you pack, let me see what you’re taking,” he called out. “I don’t trust your judgement,” he added. Steve shook his head as he looked at the clothes I had laid out on the bed. “No, no, sugar. Step aside, please; I’ll select.” He took me in his arms and kissed me, letting his tongue linger in my mouth. “I want you to look hot, pumpkin.”
When we arrived in Montreal, I parked the car and we started walking toward the venue where Madonna would be performing.
“Come here, sugar.” Steve pulled me into a contemporary clothes boutique we were passing. “That’s perfect,” his eyes pointing at a vinyl biker’s jacket in the window of the store, formerly a bank.
“Steve, we don’t have time to shop,” I told him, looking at my watch. Ignoring my plea, Steve dragged me into the lobby of the converted bank.
The store resembled a teen fantasy world, lots of glitter bouncing off revolving silver disc balls suspended from the frescoed ceiling four stories above. The gilded ornamentation of its previous occupant remained, adding a luxurious gloss to the racks of clothes that replaced the teller counters of a bygone era. I followed Steve up the moving stairs, to the mezzanine where we were told we would find the men’s section.
“Here’s the jacket, sugar. Put it on; I want to see you in it.” As we entered one of the changing rooms, Steve grabbed me, pressing his body hard against mine.
“Think we have time for a quickie?” he caressed into my ear.
Our seats were about as close to the stage as possible. True to Steve’s prediction, an hour after we found our seats the music started and a roar rolled over the now full house — Steve leading the chorus. Within minutes, Madonna floated onto center stage and the thunder from the audience drowned out the musicians. Everyone, myself included, was on our feet, cheering. I looked at Steve.
He’d been transported. From the moment Madonna appeared, it was like a sex orgy. Steve’s face appeared transformed — St Joan seeing the image of Jesus materialize before her in the fields of Orleans. His now sweating body rocked to Hard Candy. Off came his T-shirt, his upper body shone like lustrous ivory, his sculpted torso glistening with love in the presence of his idol on stage. The dancing and singing could have been out-of-time and off key; it wouldn’t’ve mattered; no one would’ve cared. SHE was performing; Steve was there. It was as if he had — for a brief period — become one with Madonna.
For the two hours that Madonna strutted and sang, Steve was with her — not with me, nor with the thousands of yelling and clapping fans. Emotionally Steve was Madonna’s. Steve’s face during the concert was the look of virgins in Renaissance paintings, transported by the vision of the agony of Christ. On Steve’s face was innocence and total absorption of what he was then experiencing. Nothing could have penetrated his veneer — nor did I want to. I knew what Madonna meant to him. My enjoyment was being witness to his happiness, for that was what Steve was experiencing.
As we left the Bell Centre, “Where shall we go for a nightcap?” Steve asked.
“I can’t say I ever hung out in bars when I lived here,” I told him. “Let’s walk toward the car; I’m sure we’ll pass a few on the way.”
Up Peel Street, across Dorchester Blvd — renamed since my younger day to Boulevard René Lévesque after Quebec’s late independence leader and Premier — we stopped at a bar next to the old, elegant, Windsor Hotel, now partially demolished and replaced by a skyscraper. When we finished our Maker’s Mark, it was almost midnight.
“Okay, let’s head back to the house,” I announced. “I’m ready to call it a night.”
When we reached the house, Steve climbed the stairs to the third floor where he’d previously taken over the bathroom.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes, sugar,” he told me. Assuming Steve would be at least a half an hour, I undressed. I was looking forward to a good night’s sleep. While waiting for Steve I must have dosed because Steve’s voice startled me.
“Okay, babe, we’re going dancing.” I glanced at my watch: 1:25 AM. Dancing? Now?
“You really want to go?” I asked, but I already knew — Steve really did.
“I’m all wired, sugar. Madonna was, well, you know what I think.” He moved closer to the bed. “Thank you so much for getting the tickets.” He sat on the bed beside me, leaning on one hand, stroking my chest with the other. “I needed that concert — after my lost summer, — and now I want to try out my foot, to see if it still can dance.” His look went beyond me while his hand trailed down my body, coming to rest on my groin. I stiffened under Steve’s touch. I reached up and brought Steve’s face to meet my lips. As our lips touched, Steve’s fingers grasped, then released, sending spasms of heat throughout my body.
Forty-five minutes later we were in a taxi.
“I think the club is off on one of these side streets,” Steve haphazardly told the driver. “Here, stop here,” he commanded.
The dance club — at 2:30 AM — was teaming with people, mostly in their twenties — young men and women searching for escape and adventure.
“This is the place,” Steve said as we climbed the steps to the entrance, sidestepping a miscellany of patrons hanging about. The early morning air was warm for September, a leftover gift of summer.
Inside, the sounds of disco music and wafts of fetid air slapped me to the reality that accompanying Steve often meant wading into the Hades of life. Glistening from sweat, young men and the women laughed and screamed in an effort to be heard above the din of the thundering beat coming from the dance floors. Making our way to and from the bar, no one seemed to mind being pushed, shoved, or knocked. Holding my beer, I followed Steve to a space somewhat away from the smoke-dense interior.
“Hasn’t changed from when I was last here,” Steve said as we rested on a ledge. “I wouldn’t sit on the benches,” he advised. “You never know what’s been dropped on them,” he added, without embarrassment or judgement. “It doesn’t look like they’ve cleaned the place since then either.” At 3:00 AM I couldn’t but wet my tongue with my beer. While I was glad to be with Steve, I only wished it were in bed rather than in some seedy dance club holding an unwanted beer. I had no desire to dance and wondered if Steve would want to try out his now near-mended foot. Only a trace remained of the glow that had accompanied Steve out of the Bell Centre after the concert. Steve still moved to the beat of the music on the other side of the wall, but I noticed that the trance-like expression that had transformed Steve’s face to something almost mystical, had been fleeting. Steve was in the process of winding down from his Madonna high, and that was his real reason for suggesting we go dancing.
“Having fun?” Steve asked without much mindfulness. It didn’t seem to matter whether or not I answered — or what I answered — for Steve remained somewhere else.
Leaving our ledge — and my beer — we wandered from one room to another. The scene in each resembled the one we had just left. A smoke-filled haze followed us wherever we went. The din of people talking above the noise of the disco combined with the disco itself hammered between my ears.
“What d’you feel like doing, baby?” I asked, making an effort to hide the pleading in my voice.
“Let’s go,” Steve answered.
Outside, the night air refreshed my flagging energy. I wasn’t about to suggest we hop a cab and go home; this was Steve’s night and I was going to tough it out — without complaint. Desultorily, we walked down Ste Catherine Street, our arms around each other’s waists.
“I love you, Aaron,” Steve told the air we were breathing. He bent forward and, without losing his rhythm, kissed me. “Thanks for being a sport and coming out with me. Let’s go home.” He clutched my arm, steering me to a taxi.
Category: Featured, Short Story