Emil, part one

All right, another of the Rogue's Gallery: Emil. Sounds like a Nazi name, doesn't it? Like Adolf or Hans or ... Wolfie.

He had pale skin, brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and these little "non-lips." You know the kind; those little slits some people -- have for a mouth. That was Emil.

While I still lived in New Jersey, we were in a community play, and after a rehearsal one of the cast had us all over to watch the TONY's.

"See that? That'll be you, one day," he whispered, snuggling beside me into a sofa which was already overcrowded.

"Shhhh, no talking during the show!!" somebody said.

"And I'll be able to say I knew you when..."

"Shut up, you guys!"

All of this was very confusing. Even at thirty, I was still naive enough to open up to a "straight" guy handing me a line like that. Hey, when you're starving, you'll eat Alpo. I just made myself sick. Let me get some Coke.

Okay, better. Where was I? Oh yes, Emil the dog. He was a songwriter and played in a band. This band had been playing on and off for years, just like his relationship with his (yes, here it comes...) GIRLFRIEND. Do I know how to pick 'em? What am I, some sticky wicket that trips up these losers on their way to the altar? Some depreciator of their Kinsey Six scores? Some merit badge (Task 7: screw Doug's head up) before they graduate from Cub Scout to Eagle Scout. Or Webelow? (I always loved that word; it's naughty any way you pronounce it).

The day after the party, I got calls from castmembers who were gobsmacked about the whole thing. Scandal!

"Hey, I have no idea."

"He has a girlfriend somewhere. New York?"

"I have no idea."

"Are you going to do something?"

"I have no idea." I just went for it. And by "went for it," I mean I launched into another one of those ill-fated affairs which are better left in Barbara Cartland novels. If she were gay.