Maybe the Moon by Armistead Maupin Page A

saying nothing, bathed in the pearly blue light of the box, his face in dramatic silhouette against Callum’s. I felt almost as if I were intruding.
    “Maybe not,” he said finally.
    I mourned his loss with a murmur.
    “Sorry,” he said.
    “Hey.”
    “I could’ve sworn.”
    “I’m just glad you got laid,” I said.
    To do my bit, though, I called Leonard’s office first thing Monday morning. His secretary said he was in a meeting, so I asked her to have him call me “regarding Callum Duff,” knowing damn well he wouldn’t phone back if he thought it was just about me. He didn’t return the call until yesterday, and even then he sounded peeved that I’d managed to command his attention twice in the same month. I said I hated to bother him, but a friend of mine thought he’d seen Callum in town, and I’d appreciate his phone number if it was available.
    Leonard said he had no such number. He hadn’t represented Callum for years, and as far as he knew, Callum was still attending “some college back East.”
    I haven’t had the heart to tell Jeff.

5
    I T’S LATE, BUT I OWE YOU AN ENTRY .
    I’ve been working like a madwoman for PortaParty, sometimes with as many as two gigs a day. Word of mouth has done wonders for us in Bel Air and Beverly Hills, where we’ve been passed around like a favorite recipe from one rich doctor’s family to another. Some of the kids are so used to us now that they know me by name and have begun to get adventurous when I call for requests during the singing portion of the show. Last week at a dermatologist’s house, an eight-year-old girl made such an eloquent plea for “Like a Virgin” that I finally gave in and sang it sotto voce while the grownups were out at the cabana drinking decaf. I don’t need to tell you I brought down the garage.
    The attention is nice, I admit, but I’m a little disturbed by the vaguely captive feeling this specialized audience gives me. Every time I perform, I feel less like a gypsy trouper and more like a court jester. I haven’t said this to Neil, of course, since he’s ecstatic about the new surge in business and attributes it largely to me, which—let’s be honest—is probably true. If nothing else, I’m a novelty, so it’s easy enough to imagine the scenario: “Can I, Mommy, please, please? Zachary had the midget lady for his birthday.”
    My secret fantasy is that one day we’ll do a party for the children of, say, the Spellings or the Spielbergs, in the process of which Aaron or Steven, or their wives, or at least someone who works for them, will discover the huge talent I’m hiding under this walking bushel and offer me a contract on the spot.
    Farfetched? Maybe. But a girl can dream. We’re working the right neighborhoods, certainly, and we’re bound to run out of doctors sooner or later.
     
    Renee and I drove into Hollywood today to see The Rocketeer at the El Capitan. I was less curious about the movie than about the movie house, a huge Deco extravaganza that Disney just renovated as its flagship theater, whatever that means. They had a live show before the film, with tap-dancing ushers and usherettes in snappy uniforms singing a hopelessly hokey song about the El Capitan and those fabulous stars of yesteryear. Renee adored it. To me, the kids looked like animatronics figures, robots from a ride at Disneyland, with smiles so grim and waxen that they might have been greeting you at the gates of hell.
    The Rocketeer hasn’t got much for grownups, but the audience today seemed to enjoy itself thoroughly, stomping and hooting like goons. The biggest cheer came when a gangster took a stand against the Nazis and said, “I may run a crooked business, but I’m a loyal American.”
    Yellow ribbon fever is rampant. You can’t make it a block along the Walk of Fame without running into some asshole in a General Schwartzcoff T-shirt. (No, I don’t know how to spell it, and I don’t plan to learn. As far as I’m concerned,