The Boys in the Band Page #6

makes him so nervous.

Who is she?

Who was she?

Who does she hope to be?

Who knows, who cares.

His name is Alan McCarthy.

Not the famous

college chum?

Is this my surprise

from you, Michael?

I think Alan's the one

who got the surprise.

And if you'll notice,

he's absolutely speechless.

Oh, she's in shock.

She's a beast.

That's your surprise.

Uh, speaking of beasts.

From me to you, darling.

How do you like it?

Well, I suppose he has an

interesting face and body,

but it turns me right off,

because he can't talk

intelligently about art.

Yeah, ain't it a shame?

I could never

love anyone like that.

Never. Who could?

I could and you could.

That's who could.

Mary, she's gorgeous.

She may be dumb,

but she's all yours.

In affairs of the heart,

there are no rules.

I'm so thrilled to get it,

I could kiss you.

But I don't wanna

get blood all over me.

Oh, look at

my sweater.

Wait'll you see

your face.

Come on, Emory,

let's get you cleaned up.

Happy birthday, Harold.

Thanks, love.

My sweater's ruined.

Take one of mine

in the bedroom.

Oh, the one on

the floor is vicua.

My sweater's ruined.

Come on. You'll feel better after I bathe your face.

Just another birthday party

with the folks.

Here's a cold bottle

of pouilly-fuiss

I bought especially

for you, kiddo.

Pussycat.

All is forgiven.

You can stay.

Ah.

No, you can stay,

but not all is forgiven.

Cheers.

I feel sick. I think

I'm gonna throw up.

Wait a minute.

Say that again,

and I won't have to take

my appetite depressant.

All right, up the steps,

to the john. Right?

Easy does it.

One step at a time.

There.

Feel better?

I'm not ready for my close-up,

Mr. DeMille.

Nor will I be

for the next two weeks.

Oh, my God,

he's after me again!

Turning on.

Anybody care to join me?

Many thanks. No.

How about

you, Tex?

Yeah.

Michael, I left

the casserole in the oven.

You can

take it out anytime.

You're not going.

I couldn't

eat now anyway.

Well, I'm absolutely

ravenous.

I'm going to eat until

I have a fat attack.

I said, you're not going.

Beware the hostile fag.

When he's sober,

he's dangerous.

When he drinks, he's lethal.

Attention must not be paid.

I'm starved, Em.

I'm ready for some of your

Alice B. Toklas

opium-baked lasagna.

Are you really?

Oh, that makes me so happy.

Maybe I'll just

serve before I leave.

Nobody's

going anywhere.

You are going to have

schmertz tomorrow

you wouldn't believe.

Do a figure eight on that.

I'm turning on,

and you're just turning.

Michael, is there

any air spray?

Hair spray? You're supposed

to be holding his head,

not doing his hair.

"Air" spray. Not hair spray.

There's a can of floral spray

right on top of the john.

Right. Thanks.

I keep my grass

in the medicine cabinet,

in the Band-Aid

box.

Somebody told me

it's the safest place.

If the cops arrive,

you can always lock yourself

in the bathroom

and flush it down the john.

Very cagey.

Makes more sense

than where I was keeping it:

in an oregano jar

in the spice rack.

I kept forgetting

and accidentally

turning my hateful mother on

with the salad. Hm.

But I think she liked it.

No matter what meal

she comes over for,

even if it's breakfast,

she says:

"Let's have a salad."

I bet you move your lips

when you read.

I bet you sit in the steam room

and say things like,

"Hot enough for you?"

I don't use the steam room

when I go to the gym.

It's bad for you after

a workout. Flattens you down.

Just after you've broken

your back to blow yourself up.

Like a poisoned dog.

Yeah.

Oh, Harold,

he's beautiful.

Yeah. Beautiful.

He has unnatural

natural beauty.

Not that

that means anything.

It doesn't mean everything.

Keep telling yourself that as

your hair drops out in handfuls.

Faggots are worse than

women about their age.

They think their lives

are over at 30.

Physical beauty is not

all that goddamn important.

Of course not,

how could it be?

It's only in the eye

of the beholder.

And it's only skin deep.

Only skin deep.

And it's transitory too.

It's terribly transitory.

Oh, yes. It's too bad about

this poor boy's face.

It's tragic.

He's absolutely cursed.

How could his beauty

ever compare with my soul?

And although

I've never seen my soul,

I understand

from my mother's rabbi

that it's a knockout.

I, however, cannot seem

to locate it for a gander.

And if I could...

I'd sell it in a flash...

for some skin-deep,

transitory,

meaningless beauty.

Forgive him, father,

for he know not what he do.

Michael, you don't know what

side of the fence you're on.

Say something pro-religion,

you're against it.

Deny God, you're

against that.

One might say you have

some problem in that area.

You can't live with it,

and you can't live without it.

Hot stuff coming through.

One could murder you

with very little effort.

You hang on to that

great insurance policy

called the Church.

That's right.

I believe in God.

And if it turns out there

isn't one, okay, nothing's lost.

But if it turns out

there really is, I'm covered.

Harriet Hypocrite,

that's who you are.

Right. I'm one of those

truly rotten Catholics

who gets drunk,

sins all night,

and then goes to Mass

the next morning.

Gilda Guilt. It all depends

on what you think sin is.

Will you just shut up

your goddamn minty mouth

and get back

in the goddamn kitchen?

Say anything you want.

Just don't hit me.

Well. Is it bigger

than a bread stick?

He's lying down

for a minute, Michael.

How does

the bathroom smell?

Better.

Before, it smelled like

somebody puked.

Now it smells like somebody

puked in a gardenia patch.

Dinner is served.

Bread. Isn't that great?

Emory, it looks

absolutely fabulous.

I'd make somebody

a good wife.

I could cook. I could

do an apartment and, um...

I could entertain.

Kiss me quick, I'm Carmen.

One really needs castanets

for that sort of thing.

And a getaway car.

What are you having,

big boy?

Alan McCarthy,

and don't hold the mayo.

Oh, I can't keep up with you two.

First you're mad at him, now

he's bitchin' you. What gives?

Never mind.

W-what is it?

Lasagna.

Uh, it looks like

spaghetti and meatballs,

all sort of flattened out.

It's been

in the steam room.

It has?

It looks like spaghetti

and meatballs,

all sort of

flattened out.

Oh, yes, Harold.

Truly enviable.

As opposed to you, who knows

so much about haute cuisine.

Raconteur, gourmet, troll.

It's good.

You like it? Eat it.

Stuff your mouth

so you can't say anything.

Turning!

Wine?

No, thanks. Water.

Oh, go on, kiddo,

force yourself.

Have a little

vin ordinaire

to wash down all

that depressed pasta.

Sommelier,

connoisseur, pig.

Aren't you gonna have some of that fantastic sauce you made?

No. My lip hurts

too much to eat.

I hear that if you puts a knife under the bed,

it cuts the pain.

I hear if you put

a knife under your chin,

it cuts your throat.

Is anyone going to

bring a plate up to Alan?

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