Where the Boys Are

by William J. Mann

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, to start, maybe how you met.”

  He laughed. “At the White Party in Miami. Where else do gay men meet these days?”

  That much fit with Anthony’s story. He told me he had come back to New York with this guy after meeting him in Miami.

  “So tell me,” Randy said, clearly no longer concerned about crossing any lines. “Does he still disappear once a week overnight?”

  When I told him that yes, Anthony was still pulling his weekly disappearing act, Randy Phillips recounted a pattern of behavior that I recognized immediately. No talking about the past, a mysterious silence whenever the subject was pressed too hard.

  “You ought to tell him to be careful with that ID I got for him. He’s lucky I’m an old softie and didn’t turn him in.”

  “What ID?”

  Randy laughed. “He had nothing when I met him. He was just a total bum, getting by on his looks. If he was going to fly back to New York with me, I had to get him an ID. Good thing I have connections in Florida. With all the illegal aliens there, they’re experts at whipping up fake IDs. We had one for Anthony in a day.”

  His New York nondriver identification card. It was fake. I said nothing, just let Randy Phillips keep talking. I could tell as I listened that, despite the fact that they’d been together only a couple of months, Randy had fallen hard for Anthony. And in his questioning of Anthony’s past, he’d been much more aggressive than I’ve been.

  “I asked too many questions,” Randy said. “Made too many ultimatums. Guess that’s what drove him away.”

  “Did he ever mention anybody in Connecticut? Any connection there at all?”

  “Connecticut? No. Right before me, he’d been in Albany with some guy, some loser who drove him all the way down to the White Party only to have me snatch Anthony away from him at the end. Where he was before that, I haven’t a clue.”

  Albany. Yes, Anthony had mentioned Albany to me, too.

  “Take my advice, dude,” Randy Phillips said. “Push too hard, and he’ll bolt out of your life the way he bolted out of mine. The guy from Albany probably asked too many questions as well. Starting to see a pattern? We’re just links in a chain of sugar daddies, my friend. I’d advise you not to get too attached.”

  I look over at Anthony now. He’s watching Varla Jean suck down her trademark tube of Cheez Whiz while yodeling like Mama Cass. “Dream a little dream of … cheeeeese!”

  Anthony laughs uproariously.

  Is that all I am to him? A sugar daddy who pays his way to all these far-flung revelries, who buys him clothes and gives him a roof over his head?

  As fate would have it, that thought is immediately followed by the appearance of a tall, bearded older man in full leather, who grabs Anthony’s ass from behind as if to claim it for his own. Anthony looks up at him and smiles. Part of me wants to punch the guy out. And part of me really doesn’t care if he takes Anthony back to his dungeon and hog-ties him.

  That’s when I spot Henry and Shane in the crowd.

  Man, do I ever miss Henry right about now. I want his advice and counsel, his take on how I should handle the situation. I haven’t always given Henry as much credit as I should have; his advice usually turns out to be very solid. I miss our talks. What I know about Henry’s life these days comes primarily from Lloyd. Life sure has its interesting twists and turns.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say, coming up behind him.

  He turns and offers me a faint smile. “Hey, Jeff.”

  I notice Shane look down at me and quickly turn away. I can feel his contempt. Why he doesn’t like me, I can’t fathom. I put my arm around Henry’s shoulder. “Can we go for a walk?”

  He sighs, allowing me to move him away from the crowd. He’s shirtless but wears no leather. He seems not to want to call attention to himself, as if he just doesn’t have the heart to get into the spirit of the celebration. I know he’s been greatly affected by Brent’s death, too: like Anthony, he seemed to grieve far beyond the bounds of their friendship. Lloyd says it’s a personal grief, that Henry’s mourning the loss of something within himself. I don’t understand what it is that Henry’s going through, and he hasn’t allowed me near enough to find out.

  I look at him plaintively. “I miss you, buddy,” I say, finding his eyes.

  He looks away.

  “I was going to call you a couple weeks ago and surprise you with tickets to Southern Decadence in New Orleans.”

  He still doesn’t look at me. “I already had tickets,” he says. “I went with Shane.”

  “So I heard. That’s why I didn’t call.” I try to smile. “So how was it? We had a blast last year.”

  “It was okay.”

  “Just okay? God, Henry, last year we were wild at Southern Decadence. Remember that guy? What was his name? Gregory? The one with the feathered headdress and big dick …”

  Henry finally meets my eyes. He seems annoyed. “Why should I remember him, Jeff? He had the hots for you.”

  “No, it was you.” I’m sure of it. Or maybe it was Henry who had the hots for him.…

  “It was you, Jeff.” He’s looking away from me again.

  I sigh. “Henry, I was really hoping maybe we could hang out a little on this trip. Are you going to Universe tonight?”

  “No.” He looks at me. “I mean, I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  I squint my eyes at him. “You mean, you don’t want to make plans to go with me.”

  “Jeff …”

  I take him gently by the shoulders. “What’s happened to us, Henry? I thought we were sisters.”

  He just stands there, unable to respond.

  “You’re my best friend, Henry. And right now I could really use a best friend. There’s all sorts of stuff going on for me—”

  “Jeff, I can’t help you.” Henry’s eyes widen and he puts his hands up, knocking my own from his shoulders. “You just have to understand. I can’t get sucked into your life. Not anymore!”

  “Henry, I’m not asking you to get sucked in—”

  “But I do, Jeff.” He closes his eyes, calming himself, then opens them again. “I do get sucked in. Time and time again. Do you ever stop to think about what might be going on for me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You say I’m your best friend. But you have no idea what’s going on in my life.” He looks at me hard. “Do you know I went for an HIV test?”

  No, I sure don’t. I can feel cold terror rise up inside me like bile. “Henry,” I ask, my mouth suddenly going dry, “are you okay?”

  “Yes.” He seems almost reluctant to tell me. “It came back negative. I thought maybe Lloyd had told you. But I should have known he has far too much integrity and discretion to do that.”

  I’m touching his arms, shoulders. “Buddy, were you worried? I mean, did something happen? What made you go in …?”

  He looks away. “Jeff, I don’t want to go into it. The point is, you simply have no clue about my life.”

  I’m feeling exasperated. “That’s not my fault, Henry. If you’d let me back in …”

  “No!” He seems barely able to control his pique. “Look, for almost four years now, Jeff, you have been my whole world. My whole fucking world! And I’m grateful to you. Don’t think I’m not. You helped me find parts of myself I probably never would have found on my own. But it came with a price, Jeff. You require an awful lot as a friend. Complete devotion, and I can’t give that anymore. That’s not what friendship is.” He pauses, looking at me significantly. “And I think you know what friendship is supposed to be.”

  “Look, Henry, I tried to be there for you after Brent’s death. How many times did I call you? You wouldn’t let me even try to support you!”

  “Because I knew it would somehow just get turned around back to you.” He draws back and looks squarely at me. “All you could do for the whole time Brent was in the hospital was go on about what an asshole he was, what a jerk. Why would I turn t
o you when he died? Jeff, I don’t think you really know how to be there for anyone except yourself.”

  “That’s not fair, Henry.”

  “You failed me, Jeff.” He spits the words, almost as if he knows how they’ll sting. “Oh, sure, you taught me about drugs. Which ones you can safely party with, which ones should be avoided. But you didn’t mention one drug in particular. And that’s you, Jeff. You’re my addiction. And I can’t allow myself to remain addicted to you.”

  He stalks off into the crowd. I start to follow him when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Shane.

  “Let him go,” he says.

  “We can work this out!” I demand. “He’s wrong! I care about him!”

  “If that’s so,” Shane replies, “then let him go.”

  I look up at him. He’s wearing a rubber tank top, a silver-studded codpiece, and a pair of chaps that reveal his long, flat ass covered with blond hair.

  “What does he mean,” I ask, “he’s addicted to me?”

  “For such a bright boy, you can be horribly obtuse, Jeff O’Brien.” Shane folds his arms across his chest. “He’s always been there for you. Night and day. Whenever you wanted, wherever you wanted to go, he was sure to follow. He watched you trick, he watched you fall in love, he watched you wrestle with your conflicted feelings for Anthony and for Lloyd—and meanwhile, you never saw him as anything more than a sister.”

  “Sisters are important,” I say, defending myself.

  “Yes. And ever so easy to take for granted.”

  My eyes try without success to find Henry in the crowd.

  “Admit it, Jeff,” Shane’s saying. “You knew he had feelings for you that went well beyond sisterhood.”

  I can’t stand there and deny it. “Yes. But I always thought—well, I hoped—that whatever I was giving back, it would be enough.”

  “Well, it wasn’t.” Shane smiles, almost as if he takes some satisfaction in all this. “If you care about him as you claim, don’t pursue him anymore. Just let him be.”

  I turn my eyes to look up at him. “And why should do I that, Shane? So you can have him all to yourself?”

  He lifts his chin to spite me. “I can give Henry the kind of love and attention you never could.”

  “Maybe.” I harden my gaze. “But aren’t you just playing Henry to his Jeff? Think about it, Shane. When are you going to have your own little epiphany with him—the way he’s just had with me?”

  I see the look on his face. I see the smugness evaporate in an instant, the eyebrows relax their arch. I leave him standing there with his mouth open.

  I search the crowd for Anthony. He’s just where I left him. The leatherman is gone. He smiles when he sees me.

  Maybe it’s because I’m still riled up about Henry. Maybe it’s because I’m tired of games, of deceits, of half-truths. Maybe because Henry had the balls to speak his truth to me, I can’t go on another moment without being honest with Anthony.

  “Come on,” I say, taking his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  He follows obediently, like the little puppy I often think of him as. But he’s an adult, a grown man, and seeing him as a child hasn’t been fair to either of us. That the game has gone on this long is remarkable.

  I lead him out of the crowd. Across the street there’s a small patch of grass at the corner of the block; a few hippie types are sitting cross-legged, passing around a joint. We settle ourselves a few yards away. The tangy scent of marijuana wafts over to us. Anthony stretches out on the grass and looks up at the sky.

  “Do you remember when we were in New Orleans, Jeff?” he asks. “When we sat there on the corner of the street and you put your arms around me? I always think back to that moment, how happy I felt.”

  Yes, I remember. How could I ever forget? It was the night he sang that silly love song to me. We had gone back to the place where we were staying, and cooked dinner, made love, pretended things were different, imagined that we were free to fall in love.

  “We need to talk, Anthony,” I say, fighting off the memory. “You know that, don’t you?”

  He just closes his eyes against the sun.

  “We can’t keep avoiding the truth,” I say. “Things have changed between us.”

  He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at me. “Nothing’s changed for me,” he says calmly. “I still feel the same way about you.”

  “Not enough to trust me yet, though.”

  He sighs. “Maybe it’s not about trust.”

  “Then what is it, Anthony?”

  He just closes his eyes again. “I suppose I need to accept the fact that you and Lloyd are getting back together.”

  “Anthony, how could you have ever expected to have a relationship with me if you weren’t being honest with me?”

  “Stop saying I wasn’t honest with you!” He’s passionate about this, even though he keeps his eyes closed. “I have never lied to you!”

  I look down at him, his face turned up to the sun, his long lashes remaining defiant against his cheeks.

  “Anthony, I have a message for you.” I pause, considering the impact of what I’m about to do. I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Riley says she’s sorry.”

  There’s no discernable emotion on his face at first. A little quiver of his forehead, perhaps, but that’s all. His eyes remain closed.

  “Did you hear me? Mrs. Riley told me to tell you that she was sorry.”

  He opens his eyes slowly. “Mrs.… Ri …”

  The words fade on his tongue even as he says them. If there was some crazy flicker of a thought that maybe Mrs. Riley was somebody here in this crowd, somebody who maybe had elbowed him aside or stepped on his toe, somebody innocuous like that, it vanishes as soon as he begins to speak her name. Anthony knows who Mrs. Riley is. I can see that as his face begins to blanch, all the golden color seeming to drain out of his cheeks and down into his neck. His eyes lock on to mine.

  “Mrs. Riley,” I repeat. “I’ve been to see her. She told me to tell you that she was sorry. Do you know what she meant by that?”

  Behind us the hippies are laughing and lighting another joint. A man has joined them, carrying a leather drag queen on his shoulders, causing a bemused commotion. The drag queen is tossing condoms out to the crowd. They throw some our way. A couple of condoms land on Anthony’s chest.

  “Say something, Anthony,” I say.

  He just keeps staring up at me.

  “Let’s go back to Zed’s,” I suggest, taking his hands, feeling suddenly protective of him once more, wanting to take care of him. “No one’s there. We can talk.”

  “How …?” He’s trying to speak, but the words aren’t coming for him. “How …?”

  “Anthony, I’m sorry.” I sit up on my knees and grip his hands tightly. “I looked into your wallet. I saw his picture.” My mouth has gone dry as I try to speak his name. All I can think of are the horrible details, the grisly death of the man found facedown in his front yard. “Robert Riley.”

  Anthony makes a sound down deep in his throat.

  I lean in over him. “I know he was killed,” I say in a rush. “I know you were living with him. I can only imagine how that’s affected you.”

  He’s growling low, like some wounded animal.

  “I went to see his mother, Anthony.” I feel as if I’m blathering. “And she wanted you to know that she was sorry. She’s sorry, Anthony—”

  “No!” He sits up all at once, causing me to pull back. His eyes suddenly burn with an intensity I’ve never seen there before. I’m actually frightened he might hit me. “Don’t tell me that!” he shouts. “Don’t you dare tell me that!”

  “Why, Anthony? She wanted you to know—”

  “Stop it!”

  The hippies are looking over at us. Anthony leaps to his feet, with me quick behind him. I try to get him to calm down, but he pushes me away. He’s gone wild, like an unbroken bronco at a rodeo. He gnashes his teeth and runs his hands through his hair. He flinches and
twists as if he’s having an epileptic fit.

  “Is he okay?” some woman calls over to us in a marijuana daze.

  “You lied to me, Jeff!” Anthony screams. He’s ferocious. “You talk about trust! You said you would trust me until I was ready to talk!”

  “Anthony, I’m sorry, but I had to know—I care about you—”

  “Bullshit! You don’t care about me! You were breaking up with me!”

  “Anthony, please—”

  “Fuck you, Jeff! Fuck you!”

  I should have predicted it. In fact, I did predict it. He’s done it before; why not again? Anthony pulls out of my grip and runs off back into the crowd, just as he had at Disney World.

  All these people running off on me. I stand there alone, feeling like a fool.

  “He okay?” the woman asks again.

  I let out a long sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I tell her, crossing the street back to the fair.

  So let him run off. Let him stew in whatever it is he needs to stew in. At least it’s out in the open now. After all these months, maybe we can finally get to the bottom of it. Maybe after he’s run off his anger, he’ll come back and and we can actually talk. I can try to help him deal with all of the shit he’s been carrying around for years.

  Jeff, I don’t think you really know how to be there for anyone except yourself.

  “Shit,” I say to myself.

  I determine no one’s going to ruin my trip to San Francisco: not Anthony, not Henry, not Shane. I head back to the fair and put on a glad face, flirting with hot muscle leathermen and applauding the acts on the stages. But it’s all a masquerade, and by nightfall I can’t keep it up, constantly looking over my shoulder for Anthony. I walk back to Zed’s only to discover Anthony has been there and reclaimed his backpack, leaving no note as to when he’ll be back. I stay in, skipping Universe to watch TV, my ears ever on the alert for the sound of Anthony’s return. I fall asleep with the television on.

  When Monday morning rolls around and there’s still no sight of Anthony, I take the Super Shuttle to the airport, expecting to see him at the gate. I have his ticket, and I stand waiting for him until the flight begins to board. With each passing second I grow more anxious. Where is he? Did something happen? Is he all right? I feel terribly responsible for him, and a horrible sick feeling eats at my gut. I consider not getting on the plane, thinking I should head back to the city and search for Anthony. But where? How?