We Are Lost and Found

by Helene Dunbar

  I put the disc on the turntable, grab the worn headphones, and mouth the words to the songs, hoping that anyone passing will think I’m conjugating French verbs. Which I’m not.

  Then I read the wall. The story goes that some kids started writing on the walls of the lab back in the seventies. Things like: Even though I’m in ROTC, I don’t support this war, and I’m not sure how to feel about my brother getting out of serving in Vietnam by wearing woman’s underwear to his draft meeting.

  Now, there’s paper covering the marked-up wood, and everyone refers to this as the “fear room.” Now, it says things like, I missed a period and I’m afraid I’m pregnant and They’re calling this thing the gay plague, and I wonder if having sex is going to kill me.

  As Bono sings about blood-red skies, I grab a pen, and under the last comment, I write, Me too.

  I don’t sit around thinking about the fact that I’m attracted to boys, because then I start thinking about all the things I want and don’t know how to get.

  And I don’t talk about the fact that I’m attracted to boys because I don’t see the point, given that I obviously don’t have a boyfriend or anything, and the only reason I have somewhere to live is because, having heard nothing to the contrary, my parents assume I’m straight.

  Besides, Connor has done enough talking for both of us.

  I try to have dinner with Connor on Wednesday nights, but it doesn’t always happen. He’s cancelled so often that I’m surprised when he actually shows up.

  This week, he’s actually at the diner before me, wearing a black tux jacket over a gray T-shirt that’s probably supposed to be white. The block letters on the shirt say SAVE THE FUTURE.

  Connor works at a thrift store in the West Village. He sorts the clothes when they come in and keeps a lot of the best stuff for himself.

  He sticks his foot out—he’s wearing black-and-white saddle shoes—and says, Maurice.

  I stare at him. Then I ask, You’ve named your shoes?

  He hits me on the arm with the menu, and says, No, idiot. The designer. Maurice.

  I stare at him some more until he shakes his head. You’re hopeless, he says. Do you know how much these would go for at Charivari? I got them for a steal. I can’t believe anyone would throw them out.

  When I keep staring at him, wondering how anyone could get so amped about footwear, he says, You know nothing about the world outside of Mom and Dad’s. The thing is, you won’t learn anything about life until you move out on your own. I have a futon waiting for you. I’ll even get it cleaned. And you can have your friends over. Or, you know, whatever.

  I don’t point out that not knowing the name of a designer doesn’t mean I have no life.

  I get that Connor doesn’t understand why I don’t follow in his footsteps, tell Dad to shove it, get myself thrown out. So I also don’t point out that he isn’t even listed on the lease of the place where he’s living and could get evicted at any minute.

  Why would I want that for myself?

  Why would he?

  But realizing that makes me feel sorry for him. My brother lives in the moment. I have no clue how it would feel to be that carefree or how he manages to ignore all the shitty stuff that’s happened to him. He must take after Mom.

  So, knowing I might regret it, I ask if he wants to come with me to Echo on Friday. Connor might be almost five years older than me, but he still doesn’t have his shit together, regardless of what he thinks.

  A complicated expression flashes across his face. The same one he wore at St. Sebastian’s on Christmas Eve, and I think, for a minute, he might say yes.

  But then he glances away, smirks, and says, That’s your scene, not mine. I don’t need to jump up and down in front of a roomful of coked-up boys to get laid.

  I swallow an equally snotty comeback because I can’t win when he’s like this.

  I know he’d rather hang out with his friends and screw around at the baths or on the street or wherever else he thinks his next high or fuck will come from. There’s no way that spending time with his little brother can touch that.

  I think back to the writing on the wall of the fear room. Just be careful, I say so quietly there’s no chance of him hearing. Not like he’d pay attention anyhow.

  James tells me to take Connor up on his offer to crash with him. James tells me spending the next year at my parents’ before going to college is going to hurt my song writing. James tells me he knows a girl who knows a girl who can get me on the bill at The Bitter End. James tells me he smoked the best joint of his life last week. James tells me if I moved out, I could go dancing every night and just forget, forget, forget.

  February 1983

  Make sure you finish your homework at lunch so that you can come with me tonight, my dad says.

  There was a time when my father would invite me to come with him to ball games and work barbeques, to spend Saturdays with him in the office, and even once to join him at the bar with his buddies.

  But that was a long, long time ago.

  Come with you where? I ask, without thinking. Before he can answer, I have a flash of memory. Connor going with him to his poker game and coming home with a perfect imprint of my father’s hand on his arm.

  Alan’s son has been joining us, he says. You two can hang out together.

  Alan works at the insurance office with my father. I’ve met his son before and have no reason to ever do it again.

  I have a chemistry test to study for, I say. And I suck at poker, remember? You used to say you didn’t want me to come along and embarrass you.

  My father sighs and walks away. He’ll do anything to avoid being embarrassed around “the guys.” I’ve dodged a bullet this time.

  There used to be a time when Connor and I both wanted to go with him, just to see what happened on these mysterious jaunts to Queens. But that was before we understood the type of people our dad called friends. Before we understood that we were the enemy.

  Where’s Andy? James asks Becky. I think he’s trying to torture her or make her realize they should break up or something.

  James and Becky are always trying to get under each other’s skin, but something about this topic makes me squirm, because while Andy and James are polar opposites, Andy is a good guy and as long as he makes Becky happy, I think we should be happy for them.

  It’s like James is penalizing her for being the only one of us in a relationship.

  Becky looks up and answers, On patrol. Like always.

  James makes a point of not looking at me when he says, Well, there are other boys. Other girls. Other…

  I’m sure she knows that, I cut him off.

  James doesn’t like to think about my sordid past, she says.

  Like he’s one to talk, I joke.

  James rolls his eyes and says, Oh, you’d be surprised.

  Later, I wrap the phone cord around my wrist like a snake.

  So how wild is your past, Becks? I tease. I’ve heard rumors and all that, but it’s not like I really believe them.

  Oh, you know, she says. Before I met Andy…well, I’ve always liked falling in love more than being in a relationship.

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. Even though I’m not sure what it’s like to really fall in love or to be in a relationship. Or which I’d like better.

  I pull the cord tight around my wrist, oddly enjoying the way my fingers go cold and numb.

  But, she says, and I can hear her pause, figuring out the best way to string together her words. She settles on, Let’s talk about James. Can you name anyone he’s actually been with?

  Becky’s theory confuses me because James is always surrounded by girls, always surrounded by boys. Always in the center of a storm of admirers. Who knows what he does when he isn’t with us? And when would he have time to get to know one person and why would he bother?


  But no, I tell her. I don’t know anyone.

  Me either, she says. And don’t you think that’s strange?

  It’s just James, I answer. It’s like the way he taps on the top of a pack of cigarettes for luck before he opens them. Or the way he goes to dance clubs but won’t dance.

  There’s a pause while I try to picture James in a relationship, going on dates, too busy on Friday nights to go to rehearsal or develop a new show. Uninspired.

  I listen to Becky breathe out before she says, Yeah, or he’s hooked on someone he already knows.

  I’ve heard this theory from her before.

  And it still makes my heart race in an uncomfortable way.

  Regardless of what Becky thinks. Regardless of how I always feel a little happier, a little more energized around him, James Barrows is out of my league. And regardless of the fact that he probably spends more time with me than anyone, there’s no way he’s hooked on me as anything other than his best friend.

  ’Night, Becks, I say and unravel the phone cord. It leaves a red mark around my wrist, shaped like barbed wire.

  It’s Valentine’s Day and the girls from Student Council interrupt Mr. Solomon’s class. They’re weighed down with carnations for their fund-raiser. Red. White. Pink. The colors match the girls’ shirts and their lip gloss and the oversized bows in their oversized hair.

  A garden’s worth of flowers land on a classroom’s worth of desks. Two, one white, one pink, land in front of me. The white one first from Becky. The card reads: Pretend this is from the future and signed by your one true love.

  The pink one is also in Becky’s handwriting. James gave me a Kennedy half dollar to send this to you. Make of that what you will.

  Sometimes it’s like this: I can stay in my room with my books and my music and my guitar and my dreams, and stare out the window and be content.

  Leaving means opening the door and heading down the hall and dealing with the looks and the silences and the questions—Where are you going, Michael? and Is that eye makeup? You aren’t turning into a fag like your brother, are you?—and the glares and the anger, and sometimes it’s just easier to stay in my room.

  But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s worth the abuse.

  The Echo is crowded. Everyone freed from their snow caves.

  I sip a Coke and watch until I can’t resist the pull of the music. Then I dance. And I dance. Waiting for that feeling of losing myself in something. Becoming something. Something that isn’t me. Something more.

  There’s a boy in black watching me. We’re all in black, but there’s something darker about him, something even more than a typical Goth. He sways off tempo, like he can’t quite find the beat, his red eyes ringed with kohl against a drug-pale face that would be impossible to imagine breaking into a smile.

  I try not to stare back. Try and fail. He’s captivating in the same way as a gun, in the same way as the stained knife that Andy found last month on patrol. The boy is wearing a crop top under a wool coat far too warm to dance in. His emaciated ribs jut out every time he moves.

  He comes over and stands too close. Head cocked at an odd angle, the dark centers of his eyes, planet-like. I wonder what he’s on.

  You should come home with me, he says, under his breath, under the music.

  I almost laugh because I’m not the kind of guy that people say things like this to. But I look at the boy and his eyes flare with something like anger or hunger, and I wonder if this is how James feels being hit on all the time and why he doesn’t get involved.

  Thanks, but…

  He leans in, breath hot on my neck. We live in Brooklyn, he says. We have a coven. We would love you.

  I swallow hard and pull back.

  No, I say. I’m good.

  Figures. The only ones I can attract are nuts.

  He extends his middle finger as I turn and walk away. Apparently, drugged-out Brooklyn vampires can’t handle rejection.

  This week when I see Connor, I try to keep things light. Usually I drone on about Mom and Dad, and all the things he’s missing at home, which takes massive creativity on my part and usually revolves around food and space, and abundant hot water, because really, what else is there?

  This week, I let my brother do all the talking. Connor tells me he’s seeing a drag queen whose stage name is Destiny, but whose day job is in advertising, which really means he sells classifieds for The Daily News. But, Connor says, it’s an honest living. They’ve been meeting every night, but Destiny won’t go back to his apartment because it’s a fifth floor walk-up and he doesn’t want to work that hard. Not for my brother, anyway.

  I look at Connor, sure he’s lying, but it’s hard to tell about which part.

  When we get up to leave, I grab a plastic bag off the seat and hand it to Connor. I <3 NY the bag declares, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t designed by someone handing off bread, peanut butter, and the occasional fiver he’s saved from his allowance to his older brother.

  I know Connor’s working, but I don’t think food is at the top of his shopping list.

  And I know he hates this part because he never says anything, not even thanks.

  But he never refuses the bag either, and I guess that’s something.

  March 1983

  Have you read this?

  James tosses a newspaper at me. The New York Native. Even though we’re in my room, with the door shut, and my father is at work, and I know it would take him forty minutes to get here if the subways are running on time and he walks faster than normal and doesn’t stop on the way home for a drink or anything, the thought of how he’d react to finding a gay newspaper in my room makes me break out in a cold sweat.

  James…

  Read, he says. I’ll throw it in the bin on the corner when I leave.

  The article is bylined “Larry Kramer” and it’s filled with numbers and fear. Just the kind of things James collects.

  1,112. The current number of AIDS cases.

  418. The number of dead already this year. And it’s only March.

  47.6. The percentage of infected cases who live in New York.

  3 years. Life expectancy.

  I read the article. The facts. The anger. The call to action. The cataloging of the things that haven’t been done.

  My shoulders tense thinking of what it could mean.

  But James, I haven’t, I say, and then stop because for all that we’ve talked about—despite the fact that James knows me better than anyone—we’ve never directly discussed our sex lives. Or in my case, my lack of one.

  He grabs the paper from me and points to this:

  No matter what you’ve heard, there is no single profile for all AIDS victims. There are drug users and non-drug users. There are the truly promiscuous and the almost monogamous. There are reported cases of single-contact infection.

  All it seems to take is the one wrong fuck. That’s not promiscuity—that’s bad luck.

  Oh.

  So no one is ever supposed to have sex again?

  Where the hell does that leave me?

  Where does that leave any of us?

  Third period and I’m back in the fear room, even though I forgot to bring an album or something to make it look like I have a reason to be here.

  The same paper is up as last time. I kissed my best friend’s brother, one new note reads in purple ink. The “gay plague” note is still there, as is my response. Under that are two comments. I disregard the scrawled, Get a room, but the other, in the same ink as the first, says, It’s like, what’s the point, you know? Why deal with assholes like this ^ and the chance of getting the shit kicked out of you just for walking down the street and maybe getting thrown out of your house, and still be too afraid to get laid because no one knows what’s causing this damned thing?

  Have to admit, the author has a p
oint. I wonder if he’s read the article in the Native and what he’d think about it.

  James is finishing a show.

  There is always a show being written, cast, rehearsed. Opening, closing.

  Becky and I try to keep track, but I sometimes think that James doesn’t tell us about all of his work. And I sometimes think that’s a good thing.

  The questions don’t quit:

  Are you going to college?

  Getting a job?

  Volunteering for the Peace Corps?

  What are you going to do with your life?

  What are you going to do?

  WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO???

  I should help Mom steam the wallpaper off Connor’s old room so that she can use the space for exercise or sewing or something more than storage, given that it’s been almost four years.

  I should be writing a paper on Chaucer.

  I should storm into the living room and confront my father for kicking Connor out and convince him he’s been a dick.

  I should convince Connor to…I don’t know what. Move home? Not like that’s going to happen. And really, I can’t blame him, even though I want to.

  I should grab my guitar and learn the melody line to “New Year’s Day,” even though the really cool stuff is in the bass part.

  I’m jittery. All nervous energy and potential.

  Someone plays a sax on the street and the sound floats over the hum of the city and swaggers through our windows, even though they’re closed. My fingers dance to the rhythm. I need to be out. Out. OUT.

  I’d like to know where you’re getting all this money to throw away, my father says.

  He’s standing in front of the apartment door, blocking my way, and I can feel my mouth go dry.

  I still have a little money from Christmas, I answer honestly, taking into account the money I gave to Connor. But seriously, it’s just the price of a subway token and a Coke.

  Dad narrows his eyes in a way that makes me feel totally naked, and I wish I could punch something. I look down, glad I’ve played it safe in dark jeans and a white shirt. Then, remembering, I shake my head slightly, hoping my hair will cover my ear cuff. I’ve got eyeliner hidden in my jacket pocket, and I’m not stupid enough to put it on until I’m at the club. I wish it didn’t feel like Dad could see through the fabric.