If That's Your Beagle, Well He Wasn't Last Night

October 13, 1999

This past weekend, Jack the Beagle and I were invited guests at the country home of Antonia Antonopolous, a beautiful, friendly, young, Manhattan socialite whom I met awhile back at a gallery opening in Chelsea. Antonia and her fiance were hosting a few people up at "The Cabin" in the riverside town of Tomkins Cove in Rockland County. "The Cabin" turned out to be several large, well-appointed cottages nestled in the boulder-strewn bluffs overlooking the Hudson. With its swimming pool, tennis court, and rock-walled garden, it was a far cry from my laundry-strewn apartment overlooking an alley in Jersey City.

Among the guests at Tomkins Cove were Gabrielle Williams and Gerard Ritzik. Gabrielle very much resembled a young Ingrid Bergman. Tall, slender, elegantly-dressed, with dark hair, clear eyes, and soft, yet angled features, she carried herself with an ease and graceful subtlety of a confident, self-possessed young woman.

Gerard was a gay Frenchman who designed women’s accessories. A friend of Antonia’s since childhood, Gerard had gone to the Fashion Institute of Technology where he finally came out at the beginning of the gay nineties. Since then, everyone, including himself, referred to Mr. Ritzik lovingly as "Gay Gerard" or "GG" or "Gigi" for short. (When Antonia told me that Gay Gerard would be a guest at The Cabin that weekend, I first thought she had said, Gil Gerard from TV’s Buck Rogers. Several times that weekend, I slipped and called my flamboyant new friend, "Gil.")

While my thoughts were becoming increasingly occupied with the lovely Ms. Williams, Jack the Beagle took an immediate interest in Gay Gerard. He followed him around the entire weekend, attempting on several occasions to make sweet love to Gigi’s leg. While somewhat annoyed by Jack’s constant display of his pink lipstick, Gigi was nonetheless flattered by the attention. "I usually like a little more flirtation and coyness" Gay Gerard told my hound as he stroked his little canine head, "but I do admire someone who just goes right after what he wants."

While Jack was making progress with his new friend, I was making a fool of myself with Gabrielle Williams. Perhaps "fool" is the wrong word. I was just so tongue-tied in her presence that I came across as a dullard. Every sentence came unnaturally. My cadences were strained, my conversations stilted and short. I was as nervous as a gerbil in the hands of Richard Gere.

On top of that, Gabrielle has lived a life I have only read about or seen on E! Entertainment Television. Schooled in Paris, summers in Brazil, a year in China. Fluent in four languages. Always in style. Well-mannered, well-read, and well-off. When she casually and without the least bit of pretension told me she’d dated the owner of a prosperous national beverage company…a man who would fly with her around the world in his private jet…I couldn’t help but laugh. Just a few days after a paycheck, I can barely offer a girl a slice of pizza. If she only orders one topping, I can maybe afford the $1.50 for her subway ride home. There was nothing I could offer this girl in terms of status, wealth, or opportunity. And the one notable talent I sometimes possess—the ability to make people laugh—was completely absent due to my tongue-tied self-consciousness.

Jack, on the other hand, was having no such crisis of confidence. He continued his pursuit of Gigi with aplomb and daring. Jack stuck his nose in Gay Gerard’s crotch, his butt, wherever he could find an opening. After awhile, they were getting along famously; like peas and carrots.

That was the difference between Gigi and Gabrielle. I mean, besides the fact that one was a gay male and the other wasn’t, Gabrielle gave off an air of unattainability. And it was that unattainability that made her so appealing. (Isn’t that always the way.)

Looking at her, I remembered a story written by one of my classmates at West Point. If I could remember his name, or even his face, I’d tell you. But for the life of me, I can’t recall either. What I do remember was the brilliant story he’d written about his mother’s funeral. At the service, a dozen men whom the son had never seen before, showed up to quietly pay their respects and say goodbye to this woman. It dawned on the son that these men had been the unrequited admirers of his mother. Perhaps a few had been past lovers, but most had had to be content with just knowing her. The son was impressed and puzzled by the fact that some of these men had known his mother only very briefly, while the impact she made on them was intense and lasting. This classmate of mine concluded his story with a line about how his mother had collected a dozen penises throughout her life and now they had all come together to form a bouquet of mourning. I wished he hadn’t used the word "penises". I knew he was trying to make a visual parallel between a rose and an erect male organ, but it didn’t correctly identify what his mother had been collecting. More than anything else, she had been collecting these men’s imaginations.

Some girls you don’t like, some girls you do, and some girls you never know because they take your imagination from you so quickly. Once a girl has your imagination, there’s no really getting to know her.

Such dejected and grandiose thoughts were on my mind as I went to bed that night. Gay Gerard was in the next bed over to my right, while little Jack was fastened to the leash wrapped around my wrist.

I wasn’t asleep for long, when I received a strange visitor in my dreams. Gil Gerard, not Gay Gerard, but Gil Gerard from TV appeared wearing his Buck Rogers costume.

"What are you doing in my head, Gil Gerard?"

"Do you mind? There’s certainly plenty of room" he replied.

I let his big head joke pass. Gil Gerard, still smiling at his remark, continued.

"I’m here to tell you to stop being an idiot."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, stop being an idiot about this girl. You’re acting like a moron. Shape up man!"

"Hey, you can’t come into my head and start attacking me!" I shouted.

"What are you gonna do about it?"

With that, I lunged at him and pushed him down.

"You sonofabitch!" Gil Gerard shouted as he came at me. I felt the force of his hands lay into my chest just as I woke up. But the pressure on my chest was still there. When I opened my eyes, I saw Jack the Beagle standing on top of me. He was staring to my right, his panting tongue hanging down, his shiny pink lipstick fully turned out.

I looked over to my right to see what had captured his attention, and saw Gigi, spread out across his bed, sound asleep, wearing nothing but a G-string, which barely restrained his ample package.

The next morning, while Gigi was in the shower, I told the group this story. Everyone laughed, including Gabrielle.

I started to feel at ease.

Thank you Gil Gerard,

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		If That’s Your Beagle, Well He Wasn’t Last Night
		October 13, 1999 This past weekend, Jack the Beagle and I were invited guests at the country home of Antonia Antonopolous, a beautiful, friendly, young, Manhattan socialite whom I met awhile back at a gallery opening in Chelsea. Antonia and her fiance were hosting a few people up at "The Cabin" in the riverside town of Tomkins Cove in Rockland County. "The Cabin" turned out to be several large, well-appointed cottages nestled in the boulder-strewn bluffs overlooking the Hudson. With its swimming pool, tennis court, and rock-walled garden, it was a far cry from my laundry-strewn apartment overlooking an alley in Jersey City. Among the guests at Tomkins Cove were Gabrielle Williams and Gerard Ritzik. Gabrielle very much resembled a young Ingrid Bergman. Tall, slender, elegantly-dressed, with dark hair, clear eyes, and soft, yet angled features, she carried herself with an ease and graceful subtlety of a confident, self-possessed young woman. Gerard was a gay Frenchman who designed women’s accessories. A friend of Antonia’s since childhood, Gerard had gone to the Fashion Institute of Technology where he finally came out at the beginning of the gay nineties. Since then, everyone, including himself, referred to Mr. Ritzik lovingly as "Gay Gerard" or "GG" or "Gigi" for short. (When Antonia told me that Gay Gerard would be a guest at The Cabin that weekend, I first thought she had said, Gil Gerard from TV’s Buck Rogers. Several times that weekend, I slipped and called my flamboyant new friend, "Gil.") While my thoughts were becoming increasingly occupied with the lovely Ms. Williams, Jack the Beagle took an immediate interest in Gay Gerard. He followed him around the entire weekend, attempting on several occasions to make sweet love to Gigi’s leg. While somewhat annoyed by Jack’s constant display of his pink lipstick, Gigi was nonetheless flattered by the attention. "I usually like a little more flirtation and coyness" Gay Gerard told my hound as he stroked his little canine head, "but I do admire someone who just goes right after what he wants." While Jack was making progress with his new friend, I was making a fool of myself with Gabrielle Williams. Perhaps "fool" is the wrong word. I was just so tongue-tied in her presence that I came across as a dullard. Every sentence came unnaturally. My cadences were strained, my conversations stilted and short. I was as nervous as a gerbil in the hands of Richard Gere. On top of that, Gabrielle has lived a life I have only read about or seen on E! Entertainment Television. Schooled in Paris, summers in Brazil, a year in China. Fluent in four languages. Always in style. Well-mannered, well-read, and well-off. When she casually and without the least bit of pretension told me she’d dated the owner of a prosperous national beverage company…a man who would fly with her around the world in his private jet…I couldn’t help but laugh. Just a few days after a paycheck, I can barely offer a girl a slice of pizza. If she only orders one topping, I can maybe afford the $1.50 for her subway ride home. There was nothing I could offer this girl in terms of status, wealth, or opportunity. And the one notable talent I sometimes possess—the ability to make people laugh—was completely absent due to my tongue-tied self-consciousness. Jack, on the other hand, was having no such crisis of confidence. He continued his pursuit of Gigi with aplomb and daring. Jack stuck his nose in Gay Gerard’s crotch, his butt, wherever he could find an opening. After awhile, they were getting along famously; like peas and carrots. That was the difference between Gigi and Gabrielle. I mean, besides the fact that one was a gay male and the other wasn’t, Gabrielle gave off an air of unattainability. And it was that unattainability that made her so appealing. (Isn’t that always the way.) Looking at her, I remembered a story written by one of my classmates at West Point. If I could remember his name, or even his face, I’d tell you. But for the life of me, I can’t recall either. What I do remember was the brilliant story he’d written about his mother’s funeral. At the service, a dozen men whom the son had never seen before, showed up to quietly pay their respects and say goodbye to this woman. It dawned on the son that these men had been the unrequited admirers of his mother. Perhaps a few had been past lovers, but most had had to be content with just knowing her. The son was impressed and puzzled by the fact that some of these men had known his mother only very briefly, while the impact she made on them was intense and lasting. This classmate of mine concluded his story with a line about how his mother had collected a dozen penises throughout her life and now they had all come together to form a bouquet of mourning. I wished he hadn’t used the word "penises". I knew he was trying to make a visual parallel between a rose and an erect male organ, but it didn’t correctly identify what his mother had been collecting. More than anything else, she had been collecting these men’s imaginations. Some girls you don’t like, some girls you do, and some girls you never know because they take your imagination from you so quickly. Once a girl has your imagination, there’s no really getting to know her. Such dejected and grandiose thoughts were on my mind as I went to bed that night. Gay Gerard was in the next bed over to my right, while little Jack was fastened to the leash wrapped around my wrist. I wasn’t asleep for long, when I received a strange visitor in my dreams. Gil Gerard, not Gay Gerard, but Gil Gerard from TV appeared wearing his Buck Rogers costume. "What are you doing in my head, Gil Gerard?" "Do you mind? There’s certainly plenty of room" he replied. I let his big head joke pass. Gil Gerard, still smiling at his remark, continued. "I’m here to tell you to stop being an idiot." "What do you mean?" "I mean, stop being an idiot about this girl. You’re acting like a moron. Shape up man!" "Hey, you can’t come into my head and start attacking me!" I shouted. "What are you gonna do about it?" With that, I lunged at him and pushed him down. "You sonofabitch!" Gil Gerard shouted as he came at me. I felt the force of his hands lay into my chest just as I woke up. But the pressure on my chest was still there. When I opened my eyes, I saw Jack the Beagle standing on top of me. He was staring to my right, his panting tongue hanging down, his shiny pink lipstick fully turned out. I looked over to my right to see what had captured his attention, and saw Gigi, spread out across his bed, sound asleep, wearing nothing but a G-string, which barely restrained his ample package. The next morning, while Gigi was in the shower, I told the group this story. Everyone laughed, including Gabrielle. I started to feel at ease. Thank you Gil Gerard, Broadway Jim Jenkins