The Half-Tragic Ballad
of Gerard and Armand
Sometimes a dance is just
a dance, and sometimes
it’s the means to one of
those moments of sheer
lucidity that might just
correct a lousy trajectory.
In other words, it
can be a history-
correcting exercise.
And that evening
they were dancing,
pretty much like the
dance they had
danced so often
before, only this
time it was more like the last dance
of a pair of dying,
white posies.
Then came the
bombardment of
beautiful noises
that are not often
heard upon dance
floors, or anywhere,
but are meant for
being heard, it’s just
that not often are they
heard quite so clearly,
so appropriately, if at all.
And the follow-up
is usually even more
disappointing, if one
were to make note
of such events, as
no one really does,
but do be assured,
this time it was well
heard, and this story,
it can with certainty
be attested, is a most
sure and most true tale.
And it was Armand
that got most absolutely
caught up to veracity
and to speed with the
meaning of the alarm
that evening. So that
when he and Gerard
arrived at their door
step, walked inside,
performed each of
their usual back at
home practices, it was
Gerard who broke things
up with “Who was that
queen who came on to
you with a hardon eight
times (that I counted,
anyway,) singing I’ve
got a secret, then,
after each couplet,
handing you his
crotch as if it were
upon a silver platter?”
“Oh, baby, get a life.
Him? He’s nothing
at all like my Gerard,
with whom I get to
leave and with whom
I get to live.” To which
came the very un-
Armand-like response,
which also quite not
icably sounded not the
least bit impromptu:
“Oh, my sickly sweet
chicken rat, I don’t have
a worry in the world
whether or not any of
your consorts have a
thing at all like me.”
He left his befuddled
partner in the living
room to mull over
those words for a
minute or two, and
then came back with
what appeared to be
a grocery bag half
filled with stuff and
tightly and absolutely
wrapped with a pair of
circles of twine to keep
whatever was in the
burlap-colored bag all
tucked neatly into
it, which Armand then
let suddenly drop with
a thunk! upon the
tummy of his lover of
some two dozen years.
Gerard, lying flat on his
back with his eyes
mostly closed, heaved
his abdomen in such a
way that it tightened
and brought him about
a third of the way up
from his flat position
on the couch. “What’s
this??” he asked, with
a look on his face like
the absolute highest
form of rudeness had
just been performed
upon him with the
gesture. “It’s your
stuff, every last bit
of it,” said the calm
man standing over
the one lying prone
balancing a tightly
knotted paper bag
on his belly; it rose
and fell, rose and
fell, with his now
quickening breath.
“You may nap as
long as you must,
you worthless excuse
for a human being,
and you’ll be out the
door by five, do you
hear me, and you’ll
never set foot in this
house again. Do you
understand?” The couch
now seemed to swallow
the man to whom this
was addressed, the
body, clearly in a state
of devastation and shock,
slunk, then sunk a bit
deeper and his eyelids
completed closure over
both sinking eyeballs.
“You are now free to
cavort henceforth with
whomever you’d like
and whenever you’d
like, no matter how
dissimilar they and
their things are with
me; because we are
no longer an us. As
of this moment, we
are a fait accomplis,
we are done, finito. And
by five.” Gerard’s mind,
incapable of racing,
did not have a clue
what to do as it sunk
deeper and deeper
into the crotch of
the couch. Had he
wanted this day to
come? How ridicul
ous. Now he was
lost. After he left,
at a quarter to five,
he never saw Armand
again, and from that
day forward he never
quite recovered, dying
fifteen years later,
a used-up, sullen,
splinter of the man
he had been when
he’d had his man
(as well as his many
other men). As for
Armand, he roasted
a deliciously tender
pork shank with
some rather exotic
legumes, sat down
to catch the latest
episode of To Catch
a Thief, happier than
he could remember
being in, well, in
many years. And
every day, for the
rest of his long and
mostly happy life, his
days would be filled
with adventures of
such delight; he’d
never even imagined
such joy to have
been possible. He
felt complete. He
had many friends
and the respect of all
of his colleagues.
And when he passed
this world into
whatever lies
beyond, he did
so smiling and
holding the fingers
of at least four hands
belonging to four
separate humans,
of the couple dozen
by whom he was
surrounded, along
with Rex, his
miniature schnau
zer, and Gayle
the Gay Cat,
whose tail
upon his nose
was the last
sensation Armand
felt before his
passage; the
smile remained,
it has been told,
on his face until
the incineration,
and his ashes
were given, par
celed inside olive
green envelopes,
to each of the
guests (except
Gayle and Rex,
who really were
not guests at all)
to spread where
ever and whenever
they had the com
punction to do so.
And that, friends, is
the story of the half
tragic, half sublime
lives of the selfish
and callous Gerard
and the easily
more memorable,
loving, generous
and satisfied to
the point that he
was quite often
called (and with
absolute sincerity)
saintly Armand.
