Tinderbox

  UNIDENTIFIED BODIES FROM the fire remained at Charity Hospital, although Coroner Carl Rabin had managed to positively identify twenty of the deceased people. Nine remained in question, of which several seesawed between being identified or not. One of the coroner’s tentative IDs, a white male named Norman LaVergne, later permanently disappeared from all lists.18 No one could be certain why LaVergne was finally ruled out: the authorities offered no explanations.

  Dental records from the practice of Perry Lane Waters—the dentist himself, sadly, confirmed among the fire dead—arrived and proved critical for identifying Glenn Green and Adam Fontenot. Buddy Rasmussen received notification that his lover, Adam, was what the coroner had been calling Body 26; Adam’s corpse would be released to the Fontenot family in Ville Platte, Louisiana. Despite their wearing commitment rings, one of which one was used to corroborate Adam’s ID, Buddy possessed no legal right to Adam’s remains. According to Up Stairs Lounge historian Johnny Townsend, and confirmed by cemetery records, Adam received a Catholic funeral at Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, the family’s home parish, but was not buried in the church cemetery.19

  Instead, Adam Fontenot was laid to rest in the Old Ville Platte Cemetery—a community burial ground. “It was reported to me that at the funeral of one of the deceased,” Paul Breton wrote, “the deceased was denied a church burial by his priest, and the priest made comment in a derogatory manner during the brief funeral service to the deceased’s homosexuality.” Considering the conditions of Adam’s internment, and the multigenerational legacy of Fontenots at Sacred Heart of Jesus, it is likely that Breton was referring to events that occurred at Adam Fontenot’s funeral.20

  Not all would be so degraded. Mary David, niece of Up Stairs Lounge victim Glenn Green, was made to wait several days in New Orleans before viewing her uncle’s body in the morgue. After Glenn’s expulsion from Michigan by his brother in the late 1960s, Mary and her uncle had grown closer through letters and phone calls. At one point, Mary had asked her uncle point-blank whether he was homosexual. “I love with my heart, Mary,” she remembered his telling her, “not with my eyes.” Offhandedly, Glenn had mentioned that his regular bar in the Quarter was called the Up Stairs Lounge. So when Mary first saw news reports of the Up Stairs Lounge burning, she’d booked an emergency flight on a credit card and arrived with but ten dollars.21

  Mary stayed with the parents of Michael Scarborough, Glenn’s lover, and got rides around town from her uncle’s old friends. “I couldn’t sleep,” she recalled. “I couldn’t eat. I was just a knot most of the time.” Mary finally did receive the call to come to Charity Hospital and tour the row of cadavers. Corpses, she recalls, were arranged beside small packets holding artifacts found near each person. “When we got to Body Number 11, it was just a small envelope,” she recalled. “It couldn’t have been more than six inches long, three inches wide, just a little postcard envelope. Yellow.” Opening the packet, she glimpsed a ring that she instantly recognized to be the wedding band of Glenn’s deceased father, Forest Green. It was a family heirloom. Mary asked the coroner to compare her uncle’s dental records with those of Body 11. They were an exact match. Straightaway, orderlies zipped up the man who was her uncle in a white, satin bag and placed him in a pine casket.22

  Mary flew home that evening, with her beloved uncle’s remains in the cargo hold. Back in Michigan, the Greens were arranging a full Catholic service at St. William’s Church, the local parish. Indeed, Michigan was too far from New Orleans for word of the scandal to permeate homeward, as it had for victims like Adam Fontenot. Several of Green’s friends from New Orleans attended as proxy for Michael Scarborough, who could not travel due to his life-threatening condition. Glenn Green would be praised posthumously as a navy veteran and a small-town hero by the more than forty mourners who signed the guest book at his wake.23

  BACK IN NEW ORLEANS, as bodies received names and Perry sought a willing church, Jim Hambrick, one of the three most critical survivors at Charity Hospital, finally expired in the presence of Reverend Paul Breton and family members. The burns across the forty-five-year-old’s face, scalp, torso, thighs, and back were too extensive for Hambrick to survive. His throat had been incised at the midneck for the insertion of a tracheotomy tube, and both of his hands and wrists had been removed, cut to halt the spread of gangrene.24

  His wounds had bled for five days straight, and he’d died slowly, his agony subdued only by a morphine drip. Hambrick’s passing raised the death count of the Up Stairs Lounge to an even thirty. The family scheduled a wake in town the next day and notified the local veterans association. Jim Hambrick, who had served in World War II, would receive full military honors at his funeral.25

  Pastor Bill Larson’s body also left Charity Hospital at this time. He was positively identified only through his dentures. Despite the testimony of Ricky Everett and the insistence of MCC members that their pastor had perished in the Chartres Street window, and despite the fact that four separate newspapers had run stories attesting to Bill Larson’s demise, official confirmation took almost a week. It appears that officials had trouble believing the witnesses.26

  When she was reached, Anna Howell, Bill Larson’s mother in Ohio, declined to accept the remains of her son. But the circumstances remain extenuating: Anna was now eighty years old and widowed twice over. It’s not entirely clear if Anna’s refusal was morally or financially motivated, although the contention circulated among MCC members that if she had never been able to accept her son in life, how could she in death?27

  Bill Larson, William Lairson, Roscoe Larison, Ros Larson—whatever his assumed name—was not a child Anna Howell had raised. Bill left his mother’s arms when he was three, and the state took over from there as the instiller of daily values. Repeatedly disciplined for his early gay proclivities in his twelve years at the children’s home, the boy somehow managed to blossom on his own. He loved music, plays, and Easter Sunday and was eventually confirmed at the First Reformed Church of Hamilton, Ohio, in April 1939. Thereafter, he displayed a remarkable passion for delivering sermons. In retrospect, all seemed to prepare the way for when the boy became “Ros Larison,” the Chicago nightclub performer, and then Bill Larson, the pastor.28

  Feeling a wellspring of gratitude, Bill took the step of writing his former caretakers as an adult to thank them: “The Butler Co Children’s Home. Who through patience and never failing trust, taught me obedience, trustworthiness, and the courage to face life. Who encouraged me in those things I set out to do no matter how large or how small.”29 These were Christian words from someone raised so harshly.

  According to Troy Perry, who spoke with Anna Howell, she was distressed at having seen her deceased son associated in newspapers with homosexuality. The Hamilton Journal-News, her local newspaper, had picked up the Up Stairs Lounge story from the AP newswire and published the name Bill Larson in connection with the tragedy. Although the article did not declare Larson or other bar patrons as homosexual, Anna Howell nevertheless did not want the remains of her unrecognizable child sent back to Ohio. “She made it clear,” said Troy Perry, “that she could not face her neighbors if his funeral or burial was held in her small hometown.” Subsequently, Anna released Bill’s remains to the MCC of New Orleans for cremation and permitted them to keep his ashes.30

  The MCC agreed to inter their former pastor and assume all responsibilities for his funeral expenses. “His legacy is our action,” wrote Paul Breton. “His estate is our commitment.” Breton held a quiet service and gave the eulogy, in which portions of Larson’s past were laid bare: “His father is deceased. His mother, two sisters and one brother still live. His child is deceased. His lover lives.” Many expressed shock to learn that Larson had a large family or a child that predeceased him. And who was this lover? Lucien Baril told The Advocate that he “was on board [a] ship” at the time of the tragedy because he “works for a shipping line,” but some were beginning to question the veracity of Baril’s assertions. Breton concluded the
service with this thought: “I sought my God, but I found him not. I sought my soul, but my soul alluded me. I sought my brother, and I found all three.”31

  Unable to afford internment, the MCC chose to store Bill Larson’s urn in the wooden altar that the pastor had salvaged. Considering that the MCC would unsuccessfully file for death benefits from the Veterans Administration to cover burial expenses for a “William Ros Larson,” it’s unclear whether anyone in his church—even Ricky Everett—knew the pastor’s birth name, William Roscoe Lairson. Filing the paperwork under his legal identity would have granted the man not just a private funeral but also burial in a national cemetery or a headstone in a private cemetery. “Due, I believe, to lack of identification, the Veterans Administration was not able to locate records on military service,” Breton would later write to Morris Kight. “Therefore, funds proceeding from the Veterans Administration for his burial are not available.”32

  With the Up Stairs Lounge funerals ongoing, the Times-Picayune chose not to publish an obituary feature story for any of the fire victims—not Adam Fontenot, Glenn Green, or Jim Hambrick. The paper also did not deem pastor Bill Larson a figure warranting such a “death feature,” although Bill Larson’s picture in the window had circulated internationally. “They probably didn’t want to publish anything that might remotely give any respect toward Bill because of his sexuality, if anybody even suggested it,” observed Ricky Everett. The Picayune, however, did provide a standard amount of space for William Ros Larson’s death announcement: a legal paragraph that called him by this alias and provided public notification of his passing and funeral information. A portion of this notice read, “Relatives and friends of the family are invited to attend.”33

  It is unknown if any of William Roscoe Lairson’s relatives accepted this invitation.

  CHAPTER 11

  In Memoriam

  Friday Through Sunday,

  June 30–July 1, 1973

  Clay Shaw’s proposal for an outdoor service proved to be unnecessary when someone asked Troy Perry if he had tried St. Mark’s United Methodist Church, an ultraliberal French Quarter congregation.1

  Standing on the edge of the Vieux Carré, with its notable cream-colored tower, St. Mark’s had long housed a ministry eager to support social causes. In 1960, when six-year-old Ruby Bridges became one of the first black children in the American South to attend an all-white school—New Orleans’s own William Frantz Elementary School—Reverend Lloyd “Andy” Foreman of St. Mark’s had bravely crossed racial lines and brought his own daughter, Pamela, to school as Bridges’ classmate. In retaliation, members of the White Citizens Council had heckled Reverend Foreman as a “nigger-lover” and vandalized his church by climbing onto the bell tower and tarring the building in creosote.2

  By 1973, St. Mark’s had a black clergyman named Reverend Edward Kennedy, whom Troy Perry approached with his request. Kennedy was impressed. Seeing similarities between Perry’s gay Christians and black Americans seeking equality, Kennedy approved the use of the church, which he said could easily seat several hundred mourners. The St. Mark’s board of elders, composed of five white women, also lent their support, which flouted decrees in their church’s Book of Discipline declaring homosexuality to be “incompatible with Christian teaching.”3

  Perry notified media of the plans and printed three thousand flyers to advertise the event. The leaflet proclaimed a National Day of Mourning that Sunday “in memory of the New Orleans Fire Victims,” with an ecumenical service taking place at 2:00 p.m. According to Paul Breton, so as not to embarrass anyone, “because not all of the deceased were gay, and because the committee was opposed to the labeling process that had taken place,” the delegation printed these announcements without any mention of homosexuality.4

  Eager to spread the word, Perry and Breton headed down Bourbon Street with several stacks of flyers. Gay-friendly businesses refused to post them for fear of being firebombed. Walking into Café Lafitte in Exile, Perry handed leaflets to several “A-gays” before John Meyers entered the establishment and saw who was present. “I did go up to Troy Perry and confront him,” recalled Meyers, “and say what he was doing was not helpful and was just going to raise a lot of problems for local gays.”5

  Perry listened incredulously, having heard the same argument from gay businessmen. “He wasn’t exactly cordial, but he heard me out and was very strong in his disagreement with me,” said Meyers. “I recall telling him personally that I thought that he was doing that more for himself and his church than for the city of New Orleans, that he knew nothing about New Orleans.”6

  Thus, despite attempts to thwart Perry’s service, Stewart Butler, Ricky Everett, and Henry Kubicki were among the 250 people who sat in polished pews at St. Mark’s Methodist Church on Rampart Street on Sunday, July 1. This was the largest public gathering for a gay cause in the city’s history. St. Mark’s looked to be filling up, although “it wasn’t packed,” according to Paul Killgore, who attended with his boyfriend.7

  The mood was solemn. Several bouquets of flowers—including an arrangement of pink and aquamarine carnations—had been donated by a French Quarter vendor. “It was quiet, it was orderly, it was respectful,” remembered Killgore, who readily admits that he and many others came curious to see Troy Perry, the famous preacher: “To me, he was a celebrity.” Stewart Butler agreed with Killgore’s assessment: “They had a star attraction, Troy Perry,” Stewart recalled.8

  As organ music played, Stewart draped his arm over Alfred Doolittle’s shoulders—a radical gesture in a religious setting. Ricky Everett, still in a haze, sat in front with the national celebrants. Henry Kubicki took his place hurriedly in one of the back rows. He couldn’t see or hear much due to sensory impairments, but he did his best to follow along. “Because I had profound hearing loss,” recalled Henry, “I was there, but yet I wasn’t there.” Even though he and Ricky were just a few rows apart, there was no way that Henry could distinguish his missing best friend among the blurry shapes.9 Ricky did not seek him out.

  Steven Duplantis remained in Texas, despite Stewart Butler’s entreaties for him to return and give a statement to police. They both knew that Steven could never do so, that he could never divulge what he’d heard from Roger Nunez. Buddy Rasmussen remained sequestered: he didn’t wish to attend any spectacle, even one that commemorated Adam’s death. Regarding Buddy, Lucien Baril told The Advocate, “He wanted no special recognition.”10 In spite of his saving so many patrons, he resisted efforts to label him as a hero.

  Troy Perry, resplendent in full clerical collar, stood at the altar alongside Reverend Kennedy of St. Mark’s. Seated close by, to the surprise of many, was Bishop Finis Crutchfield of the United Methodist Church of Louisiana, a man of serious bearing. After voicing approval for Reverend Kennedy’s decision to host the memorial service, the bishop had evidently felt the need to make a personal statement of support, and traveled to New Orleans specifically for this purpose. Perplexingly, Crutchfield was also a member (along with Archbishop Hannan and Episcopal Bishop Noland) of antigay Morality in Media of Louisiana, the group that had opposed homosexual obscenity. The bishop’s presence at the service suggested that, at least in private (and without the glare of the news), he had a more nuanced relationship with gay Christians than many assumed. “By my presence,” Crutchfield told Troy Perry, “I want every Methodist to know Reverend Kennedy is not a renegade pastor acting without permission.” No other churches in New Orleans sent a representative member of their clergy, despite invitations.11

  MCC of Washington, D.C., pastor Paul Breton opened the service with a solemn prayer: “Almighty God, we have come together in peace and harmony as mournful people to worship and to make a living memorial for your children.”12 After MCC of Atlanta pastor John Gill read from scripture, Gay Activists Alliance cofounder Morty Manford made a political speech:

  Many of our sisters and brothers who died at the Upstairs bar were Gay. They know what it was like to live in a condemning society
where churches called us sinners, psychiatrists called us sick, legislators called us criminals; where capitalists denounced us as subversives and communists denounced us as decadent.13

  Notably, Deacon Courtney Craighead did not rise to speak. It’s not clear if Courtney could or would not address the crowd. The deacon was at that point half himself, devastated by how his father had critiqued his very being. Lucien Baril, the interim MCC of New Orleans pastor, read a series of telegrams from churches and organizations around the country, including an unexpected message of sympathy from American Baptist Churches in the U.S.A. Many joked that, because of the Baptists’ conservative reputation, this telegram might have been sent in error.14 With a two-sentence message, the Louisiana State University in New Orleans’s Young Democrats became the first and only political body in the country to support the MCC’s National Day of Morning. The Young Democrats acknowledged “the national day of mourning Sunday July 1st in memory of the victims of the ‘Upstairs’ fire disaster.” The group also called for a “complete rewriting and strict enforcement of state and local fire codes.”15 The Louisiana Democratic National Committee—with its closeted membership—did not acknowledge this statement from their fellow party members. Yet, Tom Bradley, the new mayor of Los Angeles, sent a personal message, as did California senator Alan Cranston and John Burton, a member of the California State Assembly. These messages were, no doubt, stirred up at the request of Angelenos Troy Perry and Morris Kight. The words of these faraway politicians stood in contrast to the muteness of Mayor Moon Landrieu and Governor Edwin Edwards.16

  By the time Troy Perry took the pulpit, there was a palpable sense that something momentous was about to occur. He thanked Bishop Crutchfield for “having the guts to be here today,” and then expounded on a theme of gay oppression. “As long as one brother or sister in this country is oppressed, it’s our problem,” Perry preached. He declared such names like “faggots, queers, freaks” were “labels (which) will never put me down” and further advised mourners that “you can have dignity as a human being and hold your head high.” Perry related stories of men and women who had frequented the Up Stairs Lounge. “It was no den of iniquity,” he insisted. He roused the crowd with familiar memories. “The last song they ever sang was the one they always sang at the end of Sunday brunch. They all held hands and sang, ‘United We Stand.’ ” Perry went on to quote from that emblematic song, which patrons had once sung together, locked arm in arm. With these words—spoken rhythmically, reflectively, with reverence—the entire church broke into a powerful, communal sob.17