by Noah Harris
Tyrone laughed. “Shit man, you got to be the only cat I’ve ever met who brings a textbook to a cruise bar.”
Martin smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m a nerd.”
“Aw, I didn’t mean nothing.”
Martin shrugged. “No, I am. I got reminded of it all through school, and I still do with some of the Muscle Marys on the scene. I don’t care. If you look at the way computers and biotech are advancing, nerds are going to rule the world in the next couple of decades.”
“I read an article that predicted there would be a computer in every home by the year 2020,” Richard said.
“Yeah, that’s possible,” Martin said. He tapped the textbook and continued in a softer tone. “This is as much me as that darkroom back there. Maybe even more. I’m top of my class at NYU. Full scholarship. Thank God I got that. My parents disowned me when I came out to them. But you know what? I’m going to study my ass off, I’m going to get my Ph.D., and I’m going to be somebody.”
“You sure will, Martin, you’re a smart guy,” Luke said, serving him his beer.
Martin shook his head. “It’s not just about brains, it’s about willpower. It took more guts than I knew I had to tell my parents what I was and they threw it back in my face. I haven’t come out to anyone straight since then. Even hiding it, I get beaten up by thugs. But I’m going to be somebody, guys. I’m going to win the Harvard Biology Award or the National Science Foundation Award or the Nobel Prize. And when I’m up on that podium I’m going to hold up that trophy and I’m going to shout to the world that I’m gay.”
“Right on,” Tyrone said.
Martin wiped a tear from his cheek. He had spoken with his shoulders slumped like they usually were, and without looking anyone in the eye, but there had been a pride and determination in his voice Richard had never heard before.
Richard rubbed his back. “That would be a big step for gay lib.”
Martin gave a sad little shrug. “They’ll never accept us. All I really want is for them to leave us alone. Then we can enjoy ourselves, assuming we don’t kill ourselves first.”
“Yeah, as long as the Soviets don’t start a nuclear war,” Tyrone said.
Martin shook his head. “I’m not worried about the Soviets. They’ve had the bomb for thirty years and haven’t used it. They know they’d all die too. It’s us who are blind. Our community. We really got to change our lifestyle, and I don’t just mean all the drinking and the drugs. We should be wearing condoms.”
“Why?” Tyrone said with a laugh. “It ain’t like we’re gonna get pregnant!”
Martin blushed, then rallied. “It’s all the bodily fluids. It’s the most efficient vector for passing parasites and viruses. The booze and drugs help lower our immune systems, and all that sex leaves us wide open to infection.”
Luke, who was leaning on the counter listening, gave a dismissive shrug. “So what? I’ve gotten the clap more than once. All it takes is a trip down to the clinic and a shot, and I’m ready to roll a week later.”
Martin shook his head again. “That may be true for the infections we know about now, but sooner or later some new disease will come along. Bacteria and viruses are always mutating. We’ve made the perfect conditions for them to do so.”
Luke smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “You worry too much.”
Martin made eye contact for the first time in the conversation. “You guys don’t worry enough.”
Richard rubbed his back. The poor university student had been through a lot. “I do worry. That’s why I’m planning on expanding the Everard Fire Victims Fund into something bigger. I want to educate all these young, inexperienced guys coming to New York.”
“I bet you do!” someone in the crowd said with a laugh.
Richard grinned, although he felt a bit annoyed. He had established a reputation that would take some time to live down. He continued talking to Martin. “We need to keep them from partying too hard, like you say, or getting trapped in the skin trade. While I’m not buying your killer mutant virus thing, the guys sure do need some health advice. Want to help?”
Martin sat up a little straighter. “Yeah. I can write up some brochures if you want.”
“Cool. I’ll be in touch. Now if you guys will excuse us, we’re having dinner at a friend’s.”
Georgios’ new place wasn’t too far, a narrow storefront on a busy street. New white curtains covered the front windows. A rich smell of cooking came from within.
Tyrone pointed up at the sign that had been freshly painted above the door. It read “Andreas Siantos Greek Cooking.”
“Who’s Andreas Siantos?” he asked.
“His grandfather.”
“He tell you?”
“No, but I’m sure it is.”
Georgios opened the door to their knock. “Hey, it’s my favorite faggots! Come on in. See my place.”
Georgios swept out an arm and they looked at the front room of his new restaurant. Simple wood tables and chairs were arranged around the room, covered with clean tablecloths. The walls were painted to look like the interior of a stone peasant’s house, complete with windows looking out over a painted landscape. Between the false windows hung posters of Greece.
“Nice decoration, eh? The tourist office, they give me. And you must meet my painter. Come.”
He led them to a door at the back from which the smell of cooking emerged. Next to the door hung several old black and white photos. Men in simple peasant garb toting guns posing in rough mountain terrain. In one shot, a heavily armed group stood in a village square, standing on a Nazi flag.
Richard scanned the faces and pointed. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
Georgios beamed. “That’s right.”
“Damn, he looks just like you,” Tyrone said.
“He great man. Great cook too. Teach my father everything, and my father teach me everything. Come.”
They entered the kitchen. Alison sat at a table with an array of oil paints decorating some napkin rings. A book with Greek writing on it lay open in front of her, filled with pictures of designs.
“Traditional art of my country,” Georgios explained. “She good painter. Much better than her old job, eh?”
Alison got up and gave Richard and Tyrone a hug. “So good to see you!” She grew serious for a moment. “Is everything fixed?”
Richard nodded. “Everything. And how about you?”
Georgios had already pulled Tyrone away to look at his new stove, loudly boasting about how good it was. Even so, Alison lowered her voice.
“It’s perfect. I just loved the idea of opening a restaurant. We’re living in the apartment upstairs. He’s a funny guy, and nice too even though he’s always swaggering around. And you know what? I told him I wasn’t into sex anymore and he just accepted it. I figured I’d have to please him every now and then, I wouldn’t mind, but he hasn’t touched me once. We just cuddle in bed. It’s so comfortable. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was like you guys.”
Richard hid his smile by turning and examining the napkin rings. They were all decorated with geometric designs that reminded him of old temples.
“These are nice. You did the dining room too?”
“Yeah,” Alison said. “Art was my best subject in school.”
Georgios sat them down and bustled about the kitchen, soon producing dolmas, fresh olives, creamy yogurt, and a flaming platter of fried cheese called saganaki. Soon they were stuffing themselves.
“So you come to my grand opening? You will love it!”
“I already do,” Richard said, taking another bite.
Tyrone caught his eye. “Shall we ask him?”
Richard reached across the table to hold his hand. “Why not?”
Richard turned to Georgios, who had an arm around Alison. “Tyrone and I are going to get married, and we’d like to have the reception here.”
Georgios’ jaw dropped. “Faggots can get married in this country?”
Richard laughed. “That’ll
be the day! No, we’re going to have a private ceremony. It will be just the same.”
Georgios slapped the side of his head. “Faggots getting married! In my place!”
Richard paused. Had he taken a step too far? Georgios was sober at the moment, which meant he was pretending to be straight.
Georgios threw his hands wide and embraced them both. “Of course you get married in my place. My faggots are always welcome. We make it a private party, eh? I no want dirty cops and bald fascists in my place.”
“If they start harassing you, tell me and I’ll take care of them,” Richard said.
Tyrone gave him a nervous glance. “I thought we talked about that.”
“I didn’t mean that. We can always get that street gang again.”
“As long as they don’t take it out in trade,” Tyrone said. “I’m keeping you to myself.”
They kissed again, then toasted their upcoming nuptials.
The next morning, while it was still early and the sun hadn’t grown too hot, Richard and Tyrone left their new apartment and struggled down to the subway carrying an air conditioning unit between them. They took the long ride to the Bronx.
What Richard saw when they got off at the 138th Street Station stopped him dead in his tracks.
The place looked like a warzone. Many of the buildings were gutted, and those that were inhabited looked like they might have been nice a hundred years ago, but now had boarded up windows, cracked windows, or windows covered with plastic sheeting. Burnt out cars stood abandoned by sidewalks heaped with refuse. As they lugged the air conditioning through the crowd, getting more attention than Richard felt comfortable with, they passed a demolished building that was nothing more than a rectangular plot of rubble. A group of men of various races sat on a pile of bricks, laughing raucously and passing a bottle even though it was nine in the morning.
Richard felt immense relief when they made it to Tyrone and his mother’s building. It looked a little better than the rest of them. At least most of the windows were intact.
“We’re on the fourth floor. The elevator is out as usual so we gotta take the stairs.”
“Wonderful,” Richard muttered, wiping his brow.
They climbed up a dank concrete staircase with walls covered in graffiti. A group of black teens lounged on the second landing, smoking cigarettes, and sharing a forty. Richard tensed, but the teens ignored them, and they passed on up.
Tyrone’s floor was nothing but a long hallway with blank metal doors on either side. The paint was old and flaking, with new patches here and there that Richard figured were covering up graffiti. Tyrone opened the door and led him into a completely different scene.
The apartment was tiny—a cramped living room, a kitchenette, two tiny bedrooms, and a bathroom—yet it was spotlessly clean. Bright quilts covered the concrete walls. The cheap furniture was freshly polished. Not even Adam and Steve’s apartment looked this clean and tidy.
An older black woman sat in an armchair watching a game show on television. She peered at them through thick glasses that had been fixed with wire.
“Oh my, Tyrone. You actually did it. You’ve been promising me an air conditioner all summer!”
“Here it is, momma. I was worrying that it would have to be a Christmas present, but my shipment finally came in. Got a promotion at work.”
“Bless your heart. And who’s this?” she asked, peering at Richard.
They set the air conditioning down.
“This is Richard, the friend I told you about.”
“Oh, I see,” she said.
“Pleased to meet you Mrs. Jackson,” Richard said, shaking her hand.
“He even knows how to talk to a lady. It took me ages to teach Tyrone his manners. Oh my, but you look thirsty having to carry that big thing up all those stairs. Tyrone, go get us some orange juice while I talk to your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, momma!”
“Shut up, Tyrone! I’ve known you were a sissy since you were five years old.” Mrs. Jackson treated Richard to a warm smile. “The things sons think they can keep from their mothers. I’ve always wondered about his life in Manhattan and it’s nice to finally meet a part of it. You know, I worry about him going down there. Some of those queers get up to some strange things.”
“Momma!” Tyrone shouted from the kitchen.
“Get the orange juice!” She turned back to Richard and patted the chair next to her. He sat down. “You see, I’m a good judge of character. I can tell you’re one of the decent ones. You got a job and a future. Plus you don’t go in for all those drugs and weird parties you hear about on the news. Oh yes, I know all about that. I read the papers and watch the five o’clock news every day.”
“Well they sometimes misrepresent us in the press, ma’am,” Richard said, feeling awkward.
“What do you mean us!” Tyrone shouted from the kitchen.
“He means queers!” his mother shouted back at him. She turned back to Richard and treated him to a warm smile. “Oh yes, the news paints you all with the same brush. I’m not fooled. There are good ones and bad ones like everyone else. I can tell you’re not like the bad ones at all. No, you’re a decent young man, aren’t you?”
Richard smiled back at her. “I try, Mrs. Jackson. I try.”
So What’s Next?
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About the Author
Noah Harris is a 28-year-old bisexual man currently single and living in a small apartment in New York.
Being a natural introvert with significant extrovert tendencies he expresses himself through the world of writing MM books, often with a darker, paranormal twist. His books are written from the heart of his deep, sensitive and mysterious, but playful and creative, wild spirit.
Noah is dedicated to giving something back to the universe, sharing generously in his successes and inspiring and motivating others through his writing and in any other way he can. He believes in living a natural, healthy lifestyle and has embraced meditation as a way of clearing the 'noise' in his head and allowing his dark creativity to shine through in his books.
He is determined to reach out to as many readers, who he considers his 'friends', as he can through his unique personal touch and through building like-minded communities online. It is this personal touch, with his readers, that sets him apart from most other authors today. Join his newsletter to get in touch with him personally and receive his free starter library for free. Click here to join.