Post 52, Oh Canada, Part 3: Our Ability To Accessorize, Boots to Hats

“Did you see that? Kit, did you just see that? Drew was moving his lips.”

            Well, of course I was, John. I have to move my lips to sing.

            “Nurse. Nurse. Can we get some help in here, please.” John sounds at once excited and then so far away.

            Relax, John. If it means that much to you, I’ll see if Tony will let me play one more. Your choice. John? And then vague voices deliver a conversation the words muffled like they’re coming through cotton. Then, bliss. Water. Brushed on my parched lips.

More of that please. Please?

                                            *

Palm Springs delivered the weather we were looking for. Halloween morning arrived cloudless, providing us with a perfect pool day. In addition to invitations to two house parties that night, Jamie flirted his way into an invitation-only midnight costume party at Debbie Reynolds’ storied home in Racquet Club Estates. “What can I say, boys?” said a satisfied Jamie over his second margarita, “I’m just a big ol’ star-fucker at heart.”

Evening came. Over a round of Cosmopolitans, we slipped into our uniforms, pulled on the calf-length black leather boots, adjusted the chin straps of our beaver skin hats, and examined the result in front of the full-length living room mirror.

We were a vision.

By any standards, we cut four impressive figures. We were all reasonably handsome, reasonably fit, and reasonably young men. The uniforms had what I’ve come to understand is called, “the tuxedo effect”: all men look good in a tuxedo.We even surprised ourselves.

Barry stared at his reflection. “Damn. I’m gonna get me one of these.”

Shane, already a little drunk and impossibly handsome in his uniform, put his arm around my waist and pulled me to his face. “You’re under arrest, big boy.” I blushed, my crush behind me but never fully resolved. And then, as quickly as he’d grabbed me, Shane was away, joking with the others.

Barry bartered limousine service in Vancouver for the elegant stretch Lincoln that was to be our ride for that evening in Palm Springs. Stepping from our limo, we donned our beaver skin hats in military-like unison, stopping to drink in the setting, the people and the electric mood.

In keeping with the Palm Springs ethos, we didn’t just arrive, we made an entrance.

It was fun to be noticed, and Shane used his “under arrest” line more than once to break the ice with the other guests.

The first house party was light hors d’oeuvres, which we managed to turn into dinner before an emcee began to call for entrants to the costume competition. He announced the rules such as they were: No group costume could have more than ten participants. All entrants had to wear at least one article of clothing.

“Do gloves count?” shouted an attractive man whose outfit could only be described as Drunken Sailor.

The rules continued: all musical acts must provide their tapes to the deejay no less than ten minutes prior to show time.

“Music, show time? Guys, are we supposed to perform?” I was instantly seven again, facing the judges at a piano competition.

Jamie, not fully drunk, but on his way, was still in his jovial phase: “Sure, we can perform,” he said gently grabbing his crotch, which evoked approving whistles from Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod who stood to our left. “All we’ve got to do is walk on, stand at attention, give a salute, and walk off. Piece of cake.”

As an act, our group needed a name. “We need something catchy. Drew, you give us a name. Something catchy.” Barry was a little repetitive, but overall communicative and upright. We found consensus in the name “The Long Arm of the Law,” which failed the eye-rolling test, but scored winning points for double entendre.

Thirty minutes to go, and worried about music and our lack of it, I approached the deejay for help. His name was Marc, “with a cee,” and he was handsomely decked out as Captain Hook, complete with eye patch and scabbard. Whether it was the alcohol, the atmosphere, or the uniform, Marc took pity on me and spent ten minutes rummaging through his music catalog. We’d almost had to settle for the dramatic but completely non-Canadian theme from “Bonanza” when Marc’s eyes lit up as he pulled a tape from his case. “This--my handsome Mountie from Canada who clearly doesn’t have a date and should come back after the show and have a drink with me--is it!”

“Great! What is it?”

“It’ll be a surprise. I promise you’ll love it.”

“But how will we know it’s our music?”

“Trust me, you’ll know.”