Page 292 - Some Dance to Remember

262 Jack Fritscher

Logan’s flat asking Ryan to join them for supper—not like the beginning
when they had asked Logan to join them.
“One thing,” Ryan had long before told Kick, “when you’re dealing
with a writer, sometimes the writer has to decline what he might prefer
doing. Deadlines wait for no man.”
Ryan had a new project. He had Universal Appeal on his mind.
He disliked his own writer’s discipline. It was a tyranny he could
not escape. He much preferred his fancy of running around with Kick,
sunbathing at the ranch, tooling around in the Corvette, hitting the gym,
having a stoned good time. Somehow Kick always juggled life right. He
had his personal motives, showing up often enough unannounced in the
evenings, most often without Logan, dragging Ryan away from his manu-
scripts, thrilling him in the bedroom.
“You really know,” Ryan said, “how to keep a man hanging on.”
“You really know how to keep a man coming back for more,” Kick
said. “I have no intention of losing you to the typewriter.”
The early evening air on the Patio Cafe deck was warm. The crowd
was happy. Ryan scanned every clutch of patrons waiting to be seated.
Kick was not late. Ryan was early. Next to his coffee cup sat a novel
from Paperback Traffic and a folder with the final draft of the text for his
book, their photo book, Universal Appeal. For nearly three years, Ryan had
managed to keep up with Kick and with his own writing deadlines, but
Universal Appeal had impacted Ryan’s normal schedule. Solly’s concussion
and Tony’s Death had kept him away from his typewriter. The editors of
A Different Drum, In Touch, and Just Men sent nervous letters inquiring
where were his overdue manuscripts. His own Maneuvers, which he wrote
cover to cover, was about to publish its first late issue.
His own professional commitments were not as important as his per-
sonal project with Kick.
Separated from Kick, Ryan let the writing of Universal Appeal take
the place of what had been their constant time together. He hardly cared
whom he pleased as long as he pleased Kick. This evening meeting at
the Patio was his first night out in the month since the Folsom Street
fire. Ryan was radiant. Kick would be thrilled that the manuscript was
complete. No matter what he ordered from the Patio menu, Ryan knew
that Kick was his dessert.
On the phone, Kick had drawled his slow drawl: “Later on, do you
want to fuck? Or whu-u-a-t?”
The waiter asked Ryan if he wanted more coffee. Ryan waved him
away. He was already wired with stage fright: the kind of fear actors, and

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