COFFEE CUP
One day Sandy, the owner of the townhouse where David and I lived, asked him and me to help him throw a party for his secret group of gay friends from the Capitol. We would serve the drinks, prepare the buffet, and then serve the coffee. David, knowing my clumsiness, warned me to take care of the house’s tableware, which had been acquired from the Romanovs, as if it were my own mother.
The guests arrived, the cream of the gay closet in Washington. But to my surprise, there was none other than Edgar Hoover with his lover. I don’t know how, with his appearance, no one had dared to expose him like he did with all his enemies.
“Mr. Hoover, would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Of course, Jacob. I didn’t know your friend David.
You make a lovely couple.”
“Do you know me?”
“My dear little Jewish compatriot, do you think that as the director of the FBI, I don’t investigate who will be serving at the parties I attend? I have your photo and that of your entire family. Your mother reminds me of Sophia Loren. I’m serious. And you are like a cartoon.”
“Mr. Hoover, you surprise me.”