B-2 GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE MARCH 25, 1994
WHIRL
What, or who, could have kept Marsha from paying her respects?
by David Moor
When we last left Marcus... "cool down"
"FRED, HOW'D YOU find me?" Marcus asks his former lover, Frederich Munch, who stands on the Murray's' front porch with his gargantuan Fijian chauffeur, Yummy.
"I'm an important man," says Munch. Yummy shifts his great weight from one massive thigh to the other.
"There is an entire department of my company, WestCorp, devoted solely to the monitoring of boatpeople in the Caribbean," Munch deadpans. "Why should tracking down a nickel-and-dime refugee like yourself pose a problem?"
"Following me here was a mistake, Frederich," says Marcus.
A violent spark pops into Munch's Austrian accent, "It was a mistake for you to leave New York. Running off to L.A! You already ran away from this city. Remember?"
"It's over,
Frederich."
Munch, leaning forward, eye to eye. “Oh, no. No, you see, I own you. Now, I take back what is already mine."
As if upon cue, Yummy reaches into his suitcoat for his firearm.
"What's the problem out here?” asks one of the police officers who had arrived earlier to discuss Thomas Murray's murder.
"This is a domestic issue," snaps Munch condescendingly. "Don't concern yourself." Munch's rude, belligerent tone irritates the young policewoman, who counters,
Confused by your accounting?
T
+
"Don't tell me my job, mister. I'll give the orders here."
After staging a childish fit before the entire neighborhood, Munch is locked up in L.A. County Jail to cool down.
MARSHA ENTERS HER kitchen fumbling for the dimmer. She reduces the light to a level less hurtful to her traumatized eyes. The fumes from the car explosion last week had left them extremely sensitive to light.
Her lover, Tammy Chan, and their friend Donna follow Marsha in from the garage. Marsha is relieved to have Tammy back home from the hospital. Marsha has missed her terribly these last few days.
ONCE TAMMY IS made comfortable in her bed, Marsha and Donna return to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
"Thanks again for giving us a lift home, Donna," says Marsha, "You know how the car's totaled."
"It was really no problem, girl. I only live across the street. If you need anything, just call," smiles Donna, “Anything."
Marsha thinks to herself how lucky they are to have a friend like Donna.
"Besides," Donna continues, “I need something to keep me busy. Times've been kind of rough, since I lost Bridgette."
Donna's head sinks slightly. She reaches out a hand for support from Marsha.
Marsha says quietly, "You are a strong woman. I don't know how I would survive without Tammy."
"You'd manage," says Donna. “We all do."
Changing the subject, "You know, I haven't heard from the cops since the day of the explosion." says Marsha.
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DONALD RESSEGUIE, CPA
216.228.1572
THE MOSTLY UNfabulous SociAL LIFE OF ETHAN GREEN...
A CONCERNed CHARLOTTE
HAS PRIED THE NEARLY CATATONIC ETHAN FROM HIS LIVING ROOM SOFA, SITE OF THE RECENT SUSPENSION OF his ROMANCE WITH DOUG. FOR A CUP OF COFFEE AT The NELLIE DELI...
MEANWHILE, AT THE HOSPICE ACROSS TOWN;
MELS
田
I WILL NOT THINK
ABOUT ETHAN,
I WILL THINK
EATT
ABOUT VOLUNTEERING.
I WILL NOT THINK
ABOUT ETHAN,
I WILL THINK
ABOUT.
VOLUNTEERING.
I WILL NOT THINK
About EP
"Have you any idea who set that horrible bomb in your car?"
"No. Nothing concrete at least. But-," Marsha hesitates, "I think it has something to do with that news story I'm working on at K-LUX."
"That boat people thingy?" gasps Donna. "Yes. Someone's been harassing us over the phone for weeks. And now this car bomb!" Marsha continues, "I've gotten too close to something big. What happened last week was a sign to 'back off.'
99
The tea kettle begins to whistle and Marsha, letting go of Donna's hand, rises from her chair to prepare their tea.
"tasty tidbits"
A SMALL FUNERAL home in Los Angeles swoons this night over the death of a dearly loved young man. Thomas Murray
"It was really no problem, girl. I only live across the street. If
you need anything, just call," smiles Donna, "Anything."
was a good son, a loving husband, an expecting father, and (according to an ongoing police and naval investigation) a gay sailor who mysteriously drowned in a naval shower.
"He doesn't look like a faggot," muses his near-delirious pregnant widow upon viewing Thomas' body in state. She then bursts into mad laughter and must be carried out of the funeral in a wild fit.
Marcus Street, Thomas' childhood friend, escorts Thomas' mother past her dead son. She says nothing, shows no emotions, paralyzed by grief.
Marcus, returning to his seat, sees his father, with whom he has not spoken in years, waiting in the funeral line. Marcus scans the room for his younger sister, but cannot find her. He wonders what, or who could have kept Marsha—who also grew up with Thomas-from paying her respects.
AFTER THE SERVICE, outside the funeral home, Marcus stands alone in the night beside a hedge of freshly-clipped rose bushes. He smokes a cigarette. The aroma of damp rose and burnt tobacco mingles in his nostrils, soothing him. For the first time
SWEETHEART, I CAN HANDLE THE SLOPPY, "I'LL NEVER-FALL-INLOVE-AGAIN"ETHAN, THE PEEVISH, EMBITTER E& ETHAN, OR THE DES PARATELY & PATHETICALLY ABANDONED ETHAN BUT THIS
THE ENTIRELY MOROSE ETHAN... WELLTHIS I SIMPLY CANNOT STAND. YOU GOTTA EMOTE
BABY. OR YOU'RE GONNA DRIVE ME INSANE! HERE...EAT SOME SCONE. C'MON,
CHEW... SWALLOW...
...So AT 3:30 I'VE GOTTA BRING LUNCH TO JUAN.. HE DOESN'T LIKE IT ANY EARLIER, GIVES HIM TROUBLE SLEEPING AT NIGHT... AT 4:30 I'M GONNA HELP DAWN BATHE AT 5:15 I'M QUE AT PAUL'S.. AT 6:00 I'L LIKE YOU To Visit LEV... LEV.. SHIT...I'M SO SICK OF THESE FUCKERS DYING ON ME
in a long time, he feels peace.
Out of the darkness, Marcus is approached by a striking young man in full navy dress whites.
"Hi," he says, extending his hand, "I'm Don Jackson. Tom was my friend. We were tight," he says blinking a tear back into his vibrant, blue eyes. "Something's wrong. Tom didn't die like that. Drowning in a shower. Everything's really wrong. Call me. We need to talk."
Don slips Marcus a small business card with a number on it and vanishes into the night.
THE ELEVATOR HISSES open on the top floor of WestCorp's L.A. offices. A pair of powerful, white-silk wrapped female legs step off and strut down a long executive hallway. A tiny yellow one-piece dress kept in place by a black leather belt is all that covers her voluptuousness (she is not wearing underwear). Black, spiked heels barely hold up the dense muscular frame of Frederich Munch's personal bodyguard:
Miss Lynch!
As she approaches a set of twin ma-
hogany doors at the end of the hall, she
glances over at an obese man sitting on a stool, messily devouring a brie and yogurt hero sandwich.
"On a diet, Yummy?" Lynch smiles. Yummy gurgles cheerfully and continues eating.
IN HIS PRIVATE office, Munch recuperates in a jacuzzi, nursing a black eye and a bruised spirit from a brief stay in the L.A. County Jail.
Lynch surveys Munch pitifully.
"You look like a freaking bumblebee," snaps Munch.
"Aren't you glad I bailed you out so quickly?" Lynch teases. "Any longer and I would've hated to see what those nasty police would've done to you."
"I got the black eye from my cellmate," Munch corrects her. He shifts positions uncomfortably in the jacuzzi.
"I see," Lynch smiles. “On another subject, Marsha Street has been persuaded to lay off the Haitian boat people story."
"She isn't dead?" asks Munch, slightly annoyed.
"No, just scared. And a little bruised." "Kill that dyke," Munch says cooly. "What poison would you prefer?" "I'm not good at those types of decisions. You choose."
"Delicious!" Lynch hisses.
"And bring me some more Epsom salts," Munch says, sinking deeper into the jacuzzi's vibrating bubbles and relaxing dampness. To be continued...
GIRL,
Enic Orner 2/94
WHEN'R YOU GONNA CHECK OUT OF THAT LOVE LIFE & CHECK
JESUS ANTON, THAT'S A HELLUVA THING
TO SAY...
INTO THIS ONE.
SORRY DOUG JUST A LITTLE COMPASSION FATIGUE...
..ALL BETTER NOW.. OK-AT 7:15 WE NERD TO MEID
MARCHD
........
....
AUNT
FREDA
GEFILT
FISH
SANDY