With that, the emcee called all acts backstage to assemble the lineup and begin the show. I opened my mouth to say “Thank you,” and found Marc’s lips on mine. He was a good kisser.
“You’re welcome. Now, go!”
It was easy to find the boys. Just look for the hats above the crowd. Already enjoying the attention, they were all smiles and remarkably well behaved, so far.
We stood in the wings as our competitors were called: Little Boy Blue, The Pointy Sisters, Tracy the Dick, two or three Madonnas, and a remarkable Cher impersonator, who brought the house to its feet. We were next.
“Oh fuck no. We can’t follow her! We don’t have a chance now.” Barry was approaching tears, and his current vodka tonic wasn’t helping.
Recognizing this, Shane deftly took Barry’s drink, handed him a bottled water, grabbed him by the shoulders, and said, “Buck up, kiddo! We’re Canadian, remember?”
The next thing we heard was, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, ‘The Long Arm of the Law.’” With the intended effect, our name arrived to hoots and hollers before we got on stage.
Straining from the loudspeaker came a full orchestral rendition of the Canadian national anthem, “O Canada!” As we took the stage, the audience went wild, clapping and cheering and yelling “Eh?” A contingent of ex-pat Canadians in the front row, as if on cue, rose and sang the anthem from the first “O Canada” to the last “on guard for thee.” All we really did was punctuate the visual by standing at heroic attention.
I had been skeptical, but Jaime’s minimalist choreography was just enough. The uniforms were the real stars, but we got to walk around in them and enjoy the attention. The music ended, we saluted, and the crowd was once again on its feet. “Well, Cher we ain’t, but the boys seemed to like it,” grinned Shane.
“Told ya,” beamed Jamie. Barry sat down before he fell down.
We were met off-stage with congratulations and pats on the back and elsewhere. I felt suddenly very warm and lightheaded, and reached to undo my collar. It was soaked with sweat, as was most of my serge wool uniform. Looking at my fellow Mounties, we were all a blotchy patchwork of crimson reds and black splotches of perspiration. As I unbuttoned my jacket for air, I glanced at the thermometer over the pool cabana, which read a balmy ninety-eight degrees.
It’s amazing that none of us suffered heatstroke.
Waiting for the judges to render their verdict, we broke from the crowd and stripped off our uniforms. Given the various stages of undress around us, no one noticed four more sweaty men in their underwear. We were more invisible, almost naked, than in our majestic costumes. Shane poured bottled water over my head and then over Barry and Jamie. He was grinning with pride. “How fuckin’ fun was that, kids?” Cooler and infinitely more comfortable, we all savored the moment.
The sun set behind the mountains to the west. We were just starting to dress when Marc came running up through the crowd. “Where have you been? They’re rounding up the finalists and couldn’t find you. Hurry up and get dressed and get to the stage now. I’ll go and tell them you’re coming.” And he was off.
As instructed, we dressed, collected ourselves, and were ushered onto the stage where Cher and one of the Madonnas were already waiting. “Nice of you to join us, boys.” Cher winked.
“Wouldn’t have missed it, bitch,” said Shane with a friendly grin.
Jamie was oozing charm, smiling at the three of us and waving to the crowd. Barry looked nervous, and I felt nervous. I did not, as my piano teacher Mrs. Solenson used to note, have a “stage demeanor.” I wonder what she would say if she could see me now, or for that matter, last night. I chuckled to myself.
Each act did a final turn on the stage, generating appropriate waves of applause from the approving crowd. On cue, a canned drum roll played through the speakers. All of us stood in a line holding hands, center stage. Shane turned and winked at me. “Second runner up is . . . Madonna!” Clearly a seasoned performer, Madonna did a gracious runway walk and blew kisses to her applauding fans.
Now, it was only Cher and us. More drum rolls. Following Jamie’s spontaneous cue, we all went into character, saluted to the crowd, and waited. They roared with approval, and the roar continued, almost drowning out the loudspeaker announcing Cher as first runner up and “The Long Arm of the Law” as the winner.
Like first-graders at an Easter egg hunt, we jumped up and down. We screamed. I hugged Shane, then hugged Cher, and then Shane again. Jamie was hollering and slapping backs and generally taking a victory walk. Barry was sitting down, but grinning ear to ear.
We never made it to Debbie Reynolds’ house.
I woke up the next morning, thankfully in my own bed, with Shane curled around me. We were both naked, and his skin felt lovely next to mine. He opened his eyes, and we said nothing.
Nothing had happened.
We had simply shared a night of completely unfettered joy playing make-believe. Winning had been the icing on the cake. I looked in his eyes and saw a wonderful friend who could promise to be nothing more. When he looked back, he saw a friend who was happy, truly happy, to be a friend and nothing more. He rose, and as he pulled up his white briefs, I admit I stole a last lingering look at his cute ass.
He caught me, grinned, and asked, “How about some coffee, big boy?”
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