11/23/99

Naked Lunch with Quentin Crisp

Dear diary, while I was sitting typing away my phone rang. I never pick up. I am a professional screener. You never know what credit card company is on the other line trying to suck the money out of you that you owe them. It was better than pretending I was some one else every time I answered the phone. Usually I use this very gender neutral voice, perhaps it could be mistaken for an older, sickly, women, "Hello? No he's not here. May I take a message?" And every time they would ask me who I was I would say I was my Aunt. Aunt Connie. I would usually commiserate with the bill collector, agreeing with him or her how terrible it was that I owed so much money and was not paying it back. Sometimes I would throw in that "he" would take money from my purse without my permission and spend it on frivolous things and that I was at my wits end. This would usually throw them and they would spend most of the time trying to comfort me or they would get uncomfortable with the conversation and hurry off the phone.

Well on this particular day it was not a bill collector leaving a message but a casual acquaintance by the name of Paul. He is a short, cute, balding Jewish guy in his late 30's with thick black glasses who wears a strand of simple pearls to go out to the bars. That's where I met him, at the bars. He would come to my shows, usually alone, and once he gave me a pretty pearl and rhinestone necklace. He's a fan. Why we've even exchanged numbers. Not that I'd ever call him. When I heard his flavorful voice on the machine I did not pick up because I knew he was calling me to nag about sending out my press package to this friend of his in bumble fuck Missouri. This rich guy who is starting a Quentin Crisp Museum and they want me to be on the board of directors. Needless to say he has been trying for the past 9 months to get me to send it out and for some darn reason I have not. But I am planning to. At the end of his lengthy message he says, "Well I have some terrible news", my heart skipped a beat. Was he going to tell me something tragic about me that I am not aware of yet. How self-centered, right? "Quentin Crisp is dead", he matter of factly stated, "He died in England in some godforsaken town while on tour with his one man show. Well that's all. Send out your package. Bye." Quentin dead. Well it was to be expected he was 90 years old. What was not expected was my reaction. I was deeply saddened to hear this.

As a high school student I remember my friend Cindi and I prank calling Mr. Crisp. He was listed in the book and any one could call him. I was incredibly giddy at the thought of getting him on the phone. After several rings, he answered and in his warbly English accent , "Hello". That was enough to send me into a nervous laughing fit and the more he inquired who was on the other line the more we just laughed. This went on for a few moments until one of us hung up. I am not sure who. I could not believe that it was so easy to pick up the phone and talk to someone famous. At that time Quentin was the most famous gay person I knew besides Jim Jay Bullock. Only years later did I realize that not only was it easy for a total stranger to pick up the phone and call Quentin but it was just as easy to take ask him to lunch. His favorite place or perhaps most convenient place was the Cooper Square Diner right around the corner from his apartment. As long as you paid you could sit there and pick his brain, ask him all the silly questions you ever wanted to know about and opinionated old blue haired ascot wearing English Queen. Something I wish I could have done but never had. In the back of my mind I intended to at some point but there seemed to be no rush. Quentin, I thought was one of those people that would live forever, like Madonna and Elizabeth Taylor. And in the time frame of forever lunch could happen at any time.

Years after my prank phone call, around 1992 our paths collided once again. I found myself living in a building on East 3rd Street, the very block where the Hells Angels live, called the Eastwick. The Eastwick was an SRO-single room occupancy. Rooms the size of a closet with a shared bathroom on every other floor. In the room next to me lived The super of the building named Happy Phace. A very famous dragqueen from the 80's. He sort of looked like Fred Flintstone and occupied his small space for years. Across the hall from me was this muscular 40 something toupee wearing artist. He converted his 8+8 square foot room into an art studio. His paintings were very detailed and surreal. I was amazed and impressed how sparsely he lived because my life was anything but sparse. I just started doing drag and barbacking at this neighborhood hole in the wall called the Crowbar, a space that would give birth to many of the great club queens we know today. My room was filled with boy clothes and girl clothes. It was a complete disaster area and it should have been condemned by the city. The most interesting occupant of the building was none other than Quentin Crisp. Now I didn't expect someone as famous to live in a place like this. A man who was an accomplished author and public speaker living in a tiny room on the East side. I often wondered whether he was just frugal or perhaps fame did not bring him the fortune we all hope it will. Every day I acted as if I was on a safari looking for some exotic animal that was hiding in the brush. Quentin sightings were rare because he stayed in his lair most of the time typing or drinking or perhaps both. To my knowledge he drank a six pack of domestic beer everyday. That was really one of the only times you would hear him shuffle through the hallways and down the stairs to deposit his beer cans in the garbage bins behind the building. Perhaps a six pack was the secret to his longevity? I never decided to give it a try because beer makes me bloated.

Once I even had the opportunity to get a glimpse of the inside of his apartment. A package was delivered for him and I brought it to his room. When he opened the door and I peered over his lavender hair I saw a room far more in need of cleaning than mine. Books and papers everywhere, rising from the floor like organic matter. Where did he sleep I thought? There seemed to be no room. He never invited me in, which was fine by me, he just took the package in his old lady like hands and graciously thanked me in the way only Quentin could, closed the door an I was left standing there wondering once again how could a man so regal in nature live so......so.......sloppily. Made me feel a bit better about myself. At least I had time to change my sloppy ways. It seemed as though he perfected his over a lifetime.

It was months till I saw Quentin again. Though I heard him every morning. His hacking cough was like my alarm clock. It was always at the same time and it always disturbed my sleep. After a while if I did not hear him I would worry and think maybe he had died. But than you would hear a loud, "Heeh!" and know that he was ok. when I finally did see him in person again I wished I hadn't. I just gotten back for Moishes on East 6th St. and 2nd Ave. This wonderful Jewish Bakery. Every morning for breakfast I would get up and buy a prune danish an apple turnover and Yoo-Hoo, race back to my apartment and sit in my small room and devour the treats. I am surprised I was not 300 pounds. Entering the apartment building and climbing the stairs I heard a door open and out of the communal bathroom on the second floor towel not completely rapped around him, covered in large dark liver spots stood Quentin Crisp. Steam from the hot shower he had taken slowly followed behind him as our eyes awkwardly met. It was like a scene from "Gorillas in the Mist". I could not take my eyes off him no matter how hard I tried. I thought he was born wearing a little purple suit and ascot. The harsh realization that someone who I viewed as a grandmother type had genitals was more than this 20 year old boy could handle. He rapped the towel around himself as fast as an eighty something year old man could, nodded at me politely, and shuffled to his room. I stood there for a moment not moving as the steam completely disappeared. Hearing someone place there key in the front door knocked me out of my trance and I went upstairs to my cube and first time ever put the danish's in the fridge without even taking a bite climbed the stairs to my loft bed closed my eyes and sat just lied there in silence.

I am going to send out the package tomorrow.