But looking at that guy in the khaki pants and white shirt that day—that whipped-dog look some people have, that he had—I knew: Brave meant you were afraid, real afraid, but you went ahead with it anyway. You invited fear in for a Brandy Alexander and kept going on with your life.
WHAT WAS NEXT on the street was causing a commotion. People were cheering and clapping way before you could see what was coming up.
When the crowd parted, what charged up the crowd this time was Rose, beloved Rose.
It’s the truth.
The gold vestments, the pointy hat, the miter and staff of a bishop: Rose in drag as the cardinal. Rose was walking like Palm Sunday, In nomine patris, filii, et spiritus sancti, blessing the crowd. On Rose’s right, a young bare-chested brown man waved the censer, the Catholic incense floating through the crowd. On Rose’s left, another brown man, all in white, who was a woman in drag to look like Jesus, carried a crucifix.
Six-foot-four Rose, a bright spot of yellow sun. Rose’s face and hands were blacker than ever in the sun and the gold. As he walked, Rose bowed to the left, bowed to the right, always making the vertical and the horizontal with his hand.
As he passed, the crowd fell to their knees and cried, Papa! Papa! Everybody scrambling to get to kiss his ring. One guy from the crowd ran up to Rose, unzipped, and pulled out his cock. Rose didn’t even blink; he bowed down and made a cross with his thumb on the man’s cock.
Rose was only ten feet away when he passed in front of me. I could see the sweat on his forehead, could smell him.
I stayed behind the lamppost.
ONE LAST THING: A man in a red ball cap, T-shirt, and plaid shorts. Just a gray-haired old guy, maybe sixty, ordinary-looking except he was smiling extra lovely. He wore signs on the front and back of him that said I AM THE PROUD FATHER OF A WONDERFUL GAY SON.
In my forearms, up to my shoulders, down through my arms, splash down onto concrete.
When I got my eyes open, I was surrounded by Catholic nuns.
Some of these nuns had beards and mustaches.
The sister holding my head said, Now just go ahead and have a good cry, honey, we’ve all been there.
In all the world, on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Washington Square North, snot flinging, crying my fucking eyes out, my head held by Sister Mary Fellatio, I was surrounded by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.
BUT THE DAY wasn’t over. That same night, about midnight, the front door opened and my Art Family gasped.
The vestments scratched against the walls of the narrow blue hallway. Rose’s step was heavy past my door, past the mailboxes. On the stairs, I heard him fall.
My Art Family froze in position.
Just like that I had my door open.
Up close, Rose’s gold vestments in the unrelenting fluorescents looked like cheap jewels.
My hand through the balusters, I reached and put my open palm against Rose’s cheek.
Never touch me.
Rose, I said, Are you OK?
Rose’s eye opened up, and the way that eye looked at me I stepped back.
Rose, I said, It’s me, William of Heaven.
Rose’s eye was wet and red. He was staring at something just over my shoulder, something he hated.
Rose, I said, I’m coming around, I said, And I’m going to help you up the stairs. You won’t go ghetto on me, will you?
Rose opened his mouth, the inside color of his lips. His lips were cracked and dry.
No, Rose said.
When I put my face down to Rose’s, what I got was a blast of Brandy Alexanders and Gauloises. And something else. Rose was able to kneel so I could get my shoulder under his armpit. We made it up the stairs, one step at a time. I kept stepping on his damn cape. Behind Rose’s door, the dogs were barking.
Down deep under twenty layers of drag was Rose’s pants pocket. I got the keys.
When the door opened, I wished I could carry Rose over the threshold, lay the fainting Rose onto the blonde-fainting couch, But there was no way.
I got Rose to his bed, undid the clasp of the red-velvet-lined golden cape, took the cape off, took his hat off, let the dogs up on the bed to kiss him.
In Rose’s gold-framed medicine chest in the bathroom, I found aspirin. It took some doing, getting the pills inside Rose’s mouth. I had to hold the glass to his lips, to the inside of his lips. Then I got up on the bed, shooed the dogs off, and lit the candles on each side of Buddha.
From behind, I lifted Rose’s shoulders up, then put one leg on each side of him. Rose was sitting on part of the gold chasuble, so I had to pull it out from underneath his butt in order to get the damn thing over his head.
When Rose leaned into me I felt the heat. The cotton robes tied around him were soaking wet.
Rose? I said, Are you drunk or are you sick?
Rose let his head fall back onto my shoulder. He reached out his extra-lovely Sahara palm and laid the palm on my arm.
A multifaceted ambivalent combination of the twain, Rose said.
Let’s get these clothes off you, I said.
Yes, please! Rose said. Divest me!
I got off the bed and stood myself in front of Rose. I pulled the scarf thing over his head and was just undoing the white cotton drawstring at his neck, when Rose said, The Vicious Totalitarian Assholes got City Hall.
We got helium, Rose said. We got floating fucking purple condoms.
Rose took a deep breath in, breath out. Rose kept his chin down, raised just his deep black eyes, put them square into mine. I tried to look back but couldn’t.
I saw you at the parade, Rose said.
In my forearms.
How could you? I said. I was hiding.
You can’t hide from me, Rose said.
The prizefighter bump on Rose’s nose, his eight-ball cheeks, the inside color of Rose’s lips, not sunset but purple red.
Then: Gay, Rose said. You can say it.
My lips were rubber bands around the word. The word that hurts.
Gay, I said.
And proud, I said.
I smiled.
Sweat all over on Rose’s face, his head, rolling down his neck.
Rose smiled too.
We’re queer, Rose said, And we’re here.
The lucid compulsion, I said.
Cop an attitude, Rose said. A fuck-you-motherfucker kind of joy.
WHEN I FINALLY got all the gowns, the cassocks, the surplices off Rose, the pile of Catholic drag filled up the whole front room. Rose lay down on the white sheets. The not-so-white sheets. I gave him two Valiums. In the bathroom closet, I got a Bloomingdale’s white one-hundred-percent-cotton washrag. Turned on the faucet, rinsed the washcloth in cool water.
When I put the washcloth to Rose’s head, I could feel the fever.
You going to tie me up, Rose said, And fuck me?
The washcloth across his lips, down his chin, onto his neck.
No, I said.
Quell dommage! Rose said.
I put Maria Callas on Rose’s stereo: “Norma.” I turned the rheostat down on the chandelabra. Lit the candles on each side of Buddha. Fed Mary and Mona and Jack Flash.
There in the light, under the stars and planets and moons of the Known Universe, I stayed with Rose, wiping his face, his neck, his arms.
When Rose was snoring, I turned off all the lights, blew out the candles.
At the door I whispered: I’m just downstairs, Rose. If you need anything, give me a call.
Then: Will?
From out of darkness, the dry of Rose’s mouth made his voice even deeper.
The Left will always lose, Rose said, Because the Left is passive. The Right will always win, Rose said, Because when all the talking’s done, when the marching’s done and the parade’s over, when the purple helium condoms float through the ozone layer, the rednecks will bring out their firepower.
Down the thirteen steps, past the mailboxes, at my door, when I locked my door, brushed my teeth, got into bed—the w
hole time all I could think of was eleven gay cops.
And four horse’s asses.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
On October 3, 1986, one year and a day after Rock Hudson died and four months after Gay Pride, I dialed 911 for Rose.
It was three-twenty-two in the morning when my red telephone rang. It wasn’t Ruby. It was Rose.
The moment that after, you’re different.
Fatum.
My waiter’s pants and white shirt were closest to the futon so I put them on. My red Converse tennis shoes. Only laced them up halfway. Upstairs, Rose’s door was unlocked. I opened the door and it was dark, and inside the dark something darker. Rose was lying in bed. Next to his bed was the red lava lamp going next to Buddha, and the votive candles, and the oil painting of Elizabeth Taylor in the white swimsuit in Suddenly Last Summer. The smell of the rooms was sharp in my nostrils.
Hello, Rose, I said.
William of Heaven! Rose said.
Rose turned the nightstand light on. The dogs were all lying around him. Rose was sweaty and his color was black under charcoal. The two horizontal lines were deep deep in Rose’s forehead, and between the two vertical lines down to his nose, Rose’s third eye, the clitoris bump, the little man in the boat standing up.
Rose’s navy blue sweatpants were on his purple-velvet overstuffed chair. My arm under Rose’s head, his neck slick with sweat, never touch me, I helped Rose raise up, moved his legs like in the No Hand Horn Spin—so black, his legs, dangling off the side of the bed—helped Rose put each foot on the floor, onto the red Persian carpet by his bed on the floor. Rose’s cock a grower not a shower. One foot at a time into the legs of Rose’s navy blue sweatpants. I put my arms under Rose’s arms, clasped my hands behind his back, and lifted. Rose helped, and we stood him up. Rose stood alone, held his arms in the air, bracelets clack-clack, and I pulled a burgundy T-shirt on him that said FUCK JERRY FALWELL. His leather-tooled studio flats.
Dialed. Rose’s phone, the fancy fuchsia French kind, with a gold dial and a gold earphone and speaker.
Nine.
One.
One.
I have to brush my teeth, Rose said.
Rose’s eyes were swollen and he was squinting. His voice a deep Tallulah Bankhead.
Your teeth are OK, Rose, I said. Just sit down.
No no Yoko Ono, Rose said.
In his fuchsia bathroom, his arm over my shoulder, my arm around his waist, I took Rose’s fuchsia toothbrush from the medicine cabinet, spread Arm and Hammer toothpaste on the toothbrush, handed the toothbrush to Rose.
Rose’s hand shaking shaking.
The brush a slow back and forth, back and forth, against his beautiful white teeth. The color of his inside lips in the gold oval mirror above the fuchsia sink was blue.
Rose bent over and spit out his toothpaste. I had my hand on his back, and just then the muscles of his back started shaking. Then it was Rose’s whole body shaking. Rose held on to the sink and I held on to Rose’s waist. Mary, Mona, Jack Flash barking barking. Like an earthquake inside Rose, shaking him, shaking the whole room, knocking the gold oval-framed photograph of Elizabeth Taylor into the sink.
I still don’t know where I got the strength to hold him up.
When the earthquake stopped in Rose, we looked at each other in the mirror, completely present, staring at each other, at the immensity of what had passed through Rose’s body.
What the fuck was that? Rose said.
God, I said. It was God.
But it’s not the truth.
I turned on the cold water, took a fuchsia washcloth from the cabinet, held the washcloth under the water, squeezed the water out, laid the washcloth on Rose’s head, then slow down his forehead, down onto his eyes, over his eight-ball cheeks, his nostrils, his lips, his chin, his neck.
Come on, I said. Let’s go sit down.
On Rose’s stereo, I put in the tape—Maria Callas, “Norma”—pushed PLAY.
Rose in his purple-velvet overstuffed chair, me on the arm of the chair, my arm aross Rose’s shoulders. Mary in Rose’s lap, Mona and Jack Flash on the floor at his feet.
The brocade blonde-fainting couch, the brass coffee table, the Dwight D. Eisenhower ashtray, the gallon bottle full of amber liquid, the Randolph Scott lunch box. The fancy fuchsia telephone with the gold dial and gold earphone and speaker. The Persian rugs. The red velvet drapes pulled. Only the light from the lava lamp. “Norma.”
Who knows how long Rose and I sat there.
Sitting in the space in between.
Rose and I are still sitting there.
IT TOOK THE ambulance half an hour.
The buzzer. I got up, walked to the buzzer.
Miss LaRue, five minutes.
Tell them I’ll be right down, Rose said.
They can come up here, Rose, I said.
Tell them I’ll be right down, Rose said.
Out the door, Rose’s arm over my shoulder, my arm around his waist. Rose leaned against me while I locked the door. The dogs barking barking.
The horrific whisper: I’ll be back soon, my puppies, Rose said.
Rose grasped the banister. Together Rose and I put our right feet onto the first step, then brought our left feet down. Then the second step, right feet, left feet, third step, right feet, left feet, unrelenting the fluorescence from above, sweat rolling off Rose’s brow, his black smooth ebony stone eyes facing the deep inside, Rose’s T-shirt soaked through, right foot, left foot, l’esprit de l’escalier shaking shaking down and down the thirteen steps, past my door. Mrs. Lupino’s door open a crack. A black cat ran out into the narrow blue hallway.
Mrs. Lupino raised her hand, caught the air with her fingers, brought her hand back down.
Rose? Mrs. Lupino said.
It’s nothing! Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. Just a touch of the flu, my dear!
The ambulance guys, one brown man, the other blond, were too tired, chewing gum, had the stretcher out, had the red-and-yellow light flashing.
Rose’s keep-your-chin-up kind of chin.
Lights! Camera! Action! Rose yelled, waving his one arm, bracelets clack-clack.
The ambulance guys, big smiles, each grabbed a side of the stretcher and started up the stoop.
Rose moved a swift karate chop across the sky.
Get the fuck away from me with that foul thing! Rose yelled. You’re ruining my exit!
The ambulance guys stopped in their tracks. The blond said something low.
Ex-cuse me? Rose said. If you have something to say to me, at least have the balls to speak it clearly so that I may hear!
Nothing from the ambulance guy. He just stared up like you do in movies when you have to sit in the first three rows.
Rose’s arm over my shoulder, my arm around his waist, step by step down the stairs. Not one step at a time, but one foot on the step and then the next foot on the same step. Eleven steps to the sidewalk.
Cool morning air, no traffic on the street, the mercury-vapor dust-storm light from another incarnation on Rose’s shiny head, on the chrome of the stretcher, the white sheets, the white ambulance. Across the street, the Doberman in Mother’s Sound Stages at the window, slobbering, bared its teeth at us.
On the rectangle of earth where I’d plant the cherry tree, Rose and I stopped.
Rose turned, pointed at the stretcher, his index shaking shaking.
Put the stretcher in the ambulance! Rose said. We’ll sit on it.
The ambulance guys looked at each other. The brown guy started to say something, but then he stopped. New York drop-dead fuck-you, they folded the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.
OK, the brown guy said, But he has to ride in front.
The ambulance guy was nodding his head at me.
Rose rolled his eyes up, Saint Teresa Gone to Heaven, his shoulders went up and his chin went down, Rose going ghetto, the black snake coiled up in him that kept him alive. The veins in Rose’s neck, his nostrils fla
ring flaring, his hard eyes dark bits of shining light. Arms every which way, then landing on my shoulders.
He, Rose said, Is my companion of many years, Rose said, And my dearest entrusted friend. This man is my brother. And I have every right to have him sit next to me wherever we are in the world, including in the back of this fucking little circus you call an ambulance.
Quiet only New York can get that fast.
The ambulance guys stepped way back, looked at each other. They put the stretcher in the ambulance.
Rose put his arm out in front of him, his hand dangling off his wrist. I took Rose’s arm, folded his hand into mine, my pink palm against his Sahara, and we walked that way, a queen and her consort, to the back door of the ambulance.
The lucid compulsion.
Rose’s leather-tooled studio flat on the back bumper of the ambulance, I put my arms against Rose’s back and Rose stepped up into the ambulance. He didn’t bump his head. I followed Rose in and sat down alongside him on the stretcher.
Rose put his hands on his knees, took a deep breath.
So even myself, Rose said, I am just here, isn’t it?
The brown ambulance guy stepped in, knelt down, looked at Rose for a good while, then said, May I have your wrist?
You may, Rose said.
Rose pointed his wrist to the ambulance guy, bracelets clack-clack.
The ambulance guy put his smooth brown hand onto Rose’s black wrist, looked at his watch, and stuck a thermometer in Rose’s mouth. The other guy jumped in, strapped a blood-pressure thing around Rose’s arm, pumped it up, and watched the heartbeat on the dial beat down. Stethoscope to Rose’s chest under his burgundy FUCK JERRY FALWELL.
The brown guy took the thermometer out between Rose’s cracked lips.
One hundred and four, he said.
High pulse rate, blood pressure OK, the blond guy said.
Flu, the blond guy said. Take some aspirin, drink plenty of liquids, get some rest.
The brown man looked at Rose, looked at me.
May I touch your neck? he said.
You may, Rose said.
The brown man’s brown hand rubbed up and down the ropes of Rose’s neck, behind his ears, down his throat.
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 36