TIMOTHY JAMES BECK

by Tim Brookover

AUTHOR! AUTHOR?

The wordsmith of a new comic novel is more than meets the eye

Timothy James Beck has written a delightful sophomore novel, He's the One. Wait, that's not quite right. Timothy Lambert has written a delightful sophomore novel Š. No, that isn't correct either. Perplexed? Blame the Internet.

Timothy James Beck is the collective name for a writing foursome. One of this quartet is a gay man who now lives in Houston. Timothy Lambert (pictured)-who hails from Maine, then lived in Orlando and Manhattan before migrating to Montrose-and his mates have produced He's the One (Kensington), a smart and breezy new novel.

Lambert and his writing companions-Becky Cochrane, who also lives in Houston; Jim Carter of Long Beach, California; and Timothy Forry of New York City-met in an AOL chat room. "No, not that kind of chat room," Lambert hastened to aver in a recent interview. The four began a chain story. "I started with a faceless, sexless character," Lambert said. "The story went to Becky, then Jim, then Timmy." By the time the tale returned to Lambert, the character had assumed the identity of drag queen Princess 2Die4.

Still having never met face to face, the team continued writing. "All of our friends kept asking for more, and we said, 'This is a book.'" Timothy James Beck-note the blended name-was born.

Lambert then lived in New York City, having originally moved there to act. During his Big Apple decade, he played in a band, sold women's shoes at Barneys, and did onstage work as a background character for American Ballet Theater. "I lived with four ballet dancers for a while," he said with a look that conveyed volumes. After a year and a half of work, the first Timothy James Beck novel, It Had to Be You (Kensington), landed in bookstores.

By that time, Lambert had resettled in Houston. He decided to move after visiting co-author Cochrane several times. "I was looking for a change. I kind of just wanted to slow down. This seemed the perfect place to do that."

Lambert took a job at Crossroads Market, and worked there when the bookstore closed in July. He laments the current struggles of many gay-and-lesbian bookstores (including the historic Oscar Wilde Bookstore in New York City, owned by Lobo Bookshop & Café's Larry Lingle, which shuttered in January). "It just amazes me that a lot of people don't feel the same way about their bookstore," he said. "People probably take it for granted."

Lambert and his colleagues are working on a third Timothy James Beck novel. "It's a trilogy, but it's not," he explained. "We ague about that. I think of it as a series." Characters will link all three tomes, including the Princess (known out of drag as Daniel) produced in that first chat-room chain.

"Writing is something that I have always done for myself," Lambert said. "It became kind of a way to cope in rural Maine-sort of as a form of self-therapy."

When not writing, Lambert gardens. He has been designing a couple of private outdoor spaces. "The climate is so great for that here," he said.

Lambert, who is 30, is single and, for now, content with that state. "I'm not really looking right now," he said. "It's hard to find someone because I'm not a really nine-to-five person. Generally, I try to write after ten o'clock when no one is calling you or coming to the door or trying to sell you something. I try to write something every night, but that doesn't always happen"

Lambert and collaborator Cochrane are penning a novel set in Houston. Even though he may have only recently settled here, he already speaks like a diehard Montrose denizen. For instance, during his interview he uttered the mantra of the local urbanite: "I try not to go outside the Loop."

HE'S THE ONE EXCERPT

In this excerpt from He's the One, Internet-services entrepreneur Adam Wilson and new chum Sheila Myers, a New York model, flee a party thrown by the wealthy and irritating Wade Van Atterson. They set off for Club Chaos to hook up with the friend Blythe Mayfield, a pink-haired artist, and take in a show by the redoubtable Sister Mary Amanda Prophet.

Once we were in the elevator, Sheila exhaled and said, "I could kill Christy for stranding me like that. Thank you so much for rescuing me, Adam. You don't really have to let me go with you to the club. I just had to get out of there. Some man actually called me the 'douche girl'!"

"Ew," I said. "I'm sorry."

"That product will haunt me until the end of time," she said. "You know how big stars always have grainy little porn movies or nude photo layouts to come back and bite them in the ass? Autumn Dusk is my albatross."

"Albeit freshly scented," I reminded her, and she giggled. "I have a confession to make. Blythe didn't really invite me to join her and her friends at Club Chaos."

"Damn, I was hoping you'd let me go with you," Sheila said. "I love that place. Have you ever been?"

"Nope. But the night's young. We don't have to tag along with Blythe's group. If you really want to go, I'd love to. Escorting me there is the least you can do for a hometown boy."

"Yay!" Sheila said. "Let's do it."

I hailed a cab, and we settled in.

* * * * * *

We had stopped in front of an old stone structure on the corner of an intersection. I got out, then Sheila extended a high-heeled foot to the pavement and stepped out of the cab, one black satin pant leg at a time. She wore a thin black camisole top under her black leather jacket, which created a striking contrast to her fine features and glowing hair. Her expression exuded confidence as we walked arm-in-arm to the doorman, who acknowledged Sheila with a nod. We walked in without paying the cover.

"They know me here," Sheila murmured as she led me through the lobby.

I gazed in awe at the opulence of the club's interior. The walls were painted a deep scarlet. Framed pictures and paintings hung from the chair rail to the high ceiling. Two bars lined the walls on either side of the room, drawing people forward from the entry into what appeared to be a larger room on the other side of a wide doorway with curtained drapes held back by thick, black cords.

If Disorient XPress looked like Charlie Chan's estate sale, Club Chaos could be a set for Phantom of the Opera.

"This used to be a theater," Sheila said, obviously pleased to be in the know about the building's history. "It was a vaudeville house, then a burlesque house; then it was rebuilt and enlarged into a theater for dramatic purposes. You know, real plays. But everyone went uptown to Broadway for real theater, so it was turned into a movie theater, then was closed down for a long time. Andy bought it for a song before it could be demolished and made it into a club. Isn't it great?"

I had to agree that, yes, it was great. There were a lot of people packed into the bar, drinking, laughing, and talking. I noticed there were cocktail waiters working the floor and taking trays of drinks through the doorway into the other room. Sheila saw me looking in that direction and began pulling me that way.

"Come on, let's see the show," she urged.

We quickly ordered drinks, then made our way through the crowd to the back of the bar toward the doorway, where I got sidetracked by one of the pictures on the wall. It was a large black and white photograph of Princess Diana and Judy Garland standing arm in arm in the same room we were in. At first I was confused, because I was certain Judy Garland had died long before Diana even met Prince Charles. As I got closer to the picture, I realized it was a photograph of two men in drag, and I laughed. Their resemblance to the two icons was staggering.

"Those are my friends," Sheila's voice spoke from behind my shoulder.

"They look lovely," I said, meaning it.

"They both used to perform here, but I never saw them onstage. They were supposedly the acts to see here, too. It's a shame." Sheila's voice trailed off as she stared wistfully at the picture, and I wondered if there were more to the story than she was telling me. She snapped out of her reverie and said, "But my other friend still performs here. We should go in before his act starts."

We went into the performance hall, and I was once again struck by the elegance of the interior. There was a stage at the other end of a large space, which obviously had once held hundreds of seats in its days as a theater. The floor was now leveled and covered with bistro tables and chairs, except for the area under the mezzanine, which was a standing area. Most of the tables were occupied. I tried to search the room for Blythe's electric hair, but couldn't find her, as the lighting was quite dim. There were a lot of people in the standing area, talking in low whispers and laughing at the show, but I followed Sheila to the front of the crowd.

"Oh, good," she said softly, "my friend's not on yet."

Sheila scanned the area for a vacant table, and I looked at the club's high ceiling. Through the lighting grid above us, I could see a large mural of comedy and tragedy masks. One large mask smiled maniacally down at me, while the other frowned in gloom and despair. I turned my gaze behind me to the mezzanine. The ornate railing was still there, but the area where seats had probably once been was now a wall with a window and two large holes for spotlights to follow the performers.

"Quick! Grab that table," Sheila said, spinning me around and pointing at a table being vacated by two men who looked more interested in each other than the next show.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and queens, Club Chaos is proud to present our final act for the evening: Sister Mary Amanda Prophet!"

As we took over the table, a nun strode onto the stage and stood before a large microphone to thunderous applause. She took a few little bows and withdrew her hands from beneath her habit to gesture piously that she was not worthy. She attempted to bless herself, but poked herself in the eye. While the audience laughed, a piano was rolled onstage by two stagehands who promptly exited.

"Lord, please heal me in my minute of embarrassing pain," Sister Mary said, rubbing her eye. "Man, that smarts."

"That's my friend, Martin," Sheila whispered to me as she wriggled out of her leather blazer and hung it on the back of her chair. Even though Blythe had told me about the Club Chaos drag shows and I'd seen the photos on the way in, it hadn't occurred to me that the nun was a man until that moment.

"Today's sermon: Confession Cleanses the Soul! Sister Agatha, can you give it to me in G Major?"

Sister Mary pointed, without looking, at the piano behind her and waited for a chord that wouldn't be played, because nobody was there. The audience tittered and giggled, and Sister Mary looked aghast at the vacant piano then turned to the audience.

"Um, excuse me," she said and walked into the wings. After a brief pause, she returned, angrily rolling a chair on which sat a tiny, ancient, sleeping "nun." The audience roared with laughter as Sister Mary deposited the chair in front of the piano, then banged on the keys to awaken her.

"You'll have to excuse Sister Agatha," Sister Mary said to us. "She's with us by divine providence, and I don't mean a miracle. She served in a convent in Rhode Island for seventy years, and they shipped her to us by mistake when they were sending some stuff to the Salvation Army. We were gonna ship her back, but we found out she's a good piano player. Although she snores in church and has a memory like a sieve." Sister Mary clasped her hands over her mouth and gasped, "I can't believe I said that. But then again, Confession cleanses the soul! Agatha, a G Major?"

Sister Agatha played a chord and Sister Mary planted her feet and started a low, ominous chant.

Dominae Christae, what the hey

I know you all have things to say

You could tell your problems to a priest

But I'd rather you tell them all to me

This sister's lips will remain sealed

If you confess, you will be healed

I know about Lewinsky's trysts

But even I can't spill that dish

Madonna confides about her guy

Kato told me the real alibi

I've heard every story

From people rich and poor

I've heard lots of confessions

Now it's time for yours . . .

Sister Mary Amanda Prophet stepped from the stage and made her way into the seating area. She picked people, seemingly at random, and provoked them into telling her their secrets, which she then made light of, to everyone's delight. It could have come across as a mean act, but Sister Mary had the confessors laughing at their own misfortunes and foibles.

"And what would you like to confess?" Sister Mary asked a table of hunky men in tank tops and crew cuts.

"We don't like this table," one of them laughed.

"That hardly bears confessing. Still, I want my parishioners to be happy. Do you want a table in front?"

I was still laughing as Sister Mary Amanda Prophet managed to rearrange the seating area. I was so busy checking out the hunky guys that I didn't notice when she came my way.

"Well, well, this is a table of beautiful people," she said, gesturing to Sheila and me. "I know this one; she confessed a rather bawdy story to me on the phone last night. It seems there is this photographer she's dating, and they did something under the table at a restaurant that would-"

"Okay, that's quite enough," Sheila yelped, and the room erupted in laughter.

"How about you, child," Sister Mary said to me. "Care to give a confession?"

"I'm afraid I have nothing to confess," I said.

"Oh, now, that can't be true," Sister Mary responded, clucking her tongue.

"He writes porn on his laptop!" someone yelled. I followed the voice to the other side of the room and spotted Blythe at a table with four young men.

"Pornography!" Sister Mary gasped. "I don't know what to say. Yeah, I do. Can you print that out and get it to Sheila?" Even from across the room, I heard Blythe bray. "This reminds me of a story." Sister Mary gave me a reproving glare then returned to the stage. "One evening, I went out to minister to the people. I found myself in a dungeon of filth. Depravity. Sodom and Gomorrah. And you know what?"

She paused for effect, staring raptly toward the heavens with her arms up. She glanced down at the audience with a frown.

"What?" someone yelled.

"Well, thank you. I was beginning to think I was alone in here. Can we try that again with feeling? And you know what?"

"What?" everyone in the room yelled at once.

"I liked it!" she yelled. "I looked around at all those boys in their tight T-shirts, tight jeans, hot bodies, writhing, dancing, sweating, lusting, and I liked it! It was a celebration. The music was pumping a joyful noise to the heavens. Every day should be like that moment. We should all celebrate life! That is my confession!"

Sister Agatha struck a few chords on the piano as a music track began to play on the club's sound system, moving into a raucous version of "Ballroom Blitz" by Sweet, complete with a backing gospel choir of bewigged drag queens. The audience was up on its feet, clapping and singing along.

At the end of the act, Sister Mary Amanda Prophet crossed herself, high-fived Sister Agatha, and left the stage, twirling the cross tied around her waist while doing a penguin walk.

"He's great," I enthused to Sheila. "I've been to a couple of drag shows back home, but they were nothing like this."

Blythe suddenly threw her arms around me with that fat laugh.

"You bad, bad boy. Sister Mary didn't give you your penance, so I will. I decree that you must dance with this one," she said, letting go of me long enough to shove me toward one of her companions. All I saw was a flash of white teeth in a face that made my mind go lightning fast through the words tanned-beautiful-swimmer's build-surfer-hot.

Before I could speak, he laughed and pulled me to the dance floor, where we were absorbed into dozens of hot, gyrating men while lights flashed and music blared.

"Steve!" my partner yelled at me.

I laughed as I shouted back, "Adam!" I couldn't help but think of the bigots' mantra, God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve! I wouldn't be able to keep a garden of rocks alive, but right now I did feel like I'd wandered into Eden.

I decided to let the secretive Blythe and stunning Sheila take care of themselves while I surrendered myself to the night's pleasures.

From He's the One, by Timothy James Beck (New York: Kensington Books, 2003).

PUTTING IT TOGETHER

Four writers-two in Houston, one in Long Beach, one in New York-worked together to produce It Had to Be You and now He's the One. "Tradition has it that I start the story, and Becky [Cochrane] ends it," Timothy Lambert explained recently. "All four of us first get together and talk about a point of view, which character we want to start the story from. Then we outline it, and we all just pick a part that we like. A lot of this happens on line. Every Thursday we get together in a chat room. It's better and more creative to work in tandem, to pass it around in a chain. Sometimes we each can't even remember which sections we wrote."

TIMOTHY JAMES BECK IN PERSON

All four Timothy James Beck authors-Jim Carter, Becky Cochrane, Timothy Forry, and Timothy Lambert-will appear at Lobo Bookshop & Café on February 16 at 3 p.m. for a signing of He's the One. For more information on other appearances, check out www.timothyjameslambert.com.