We Are Lost and Found

by Helene Dunbar

  At the entrance, we’re stopped by a bouncer dressed head-to-toe in silver glitter, holding some sort of large cat.

  She—I think she’s a she—leans over and air-kisses James and then whispers something to him in French. He smiles at her. Cat that ate the canary.

  What did she say? I ask, eying the tricolored cat who can’t take its eyes off James.

  She asked if you were my lover, he says. Come on, I need a drink.

  You can’t escape Madonna, not even here.

  While James holds court—he seems to know everyone here; and everyone here, girls, boys, those in-between, or something else altogether, know or want to know him—I dance on my own a few feet away to “Holiday.”

  This is different than Echo, and not simply because the Friday night crowd there is always a little less adventurous.

  The crowd here is older. More glamourous. More intimidating.

  But still, I think of Gabriel.

  I close my eyes and dance and sway until I could be anywhere. On Mars, even. And when I open them, James is standing next to me, smiling.

  What? I ask. It takes me a minute to come back to reality.

  I envy you, he says. You’ve found a way to be content with simply your own company.

  Have I? I ask. You sound like Becky’s phone guy. What’s that supposed to mean, anyhow?

  He throws back a shot of something. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t need this, he says, waving his empty glass around at the crowd. I wish I didn’t need their attention.

  I think about trying to explain that I’m not alone because my head is filled with Gabriel, and however much I love playing the guitar and performing, I enjoy my time with him and James and Becky more, and I’d happily never write another song if that meant Gabriel and I would be…something.

  But a look in his eyes stops me, and, high on music and life and love, I lean in and hug him instead.

  Everyone is drinking champagne, and the liquid is reflecting the lights strung through the trees so it looks as if stars are dying in the glasses.

  While we’re in line for another round, I overhear a guy with a blond beehive say, I just wanted my freaking teeth cleaned. I mean, I’m not even sick. How could he kick me out like that?

  James shakes his head, sobering up, and says, Let’s get out of here.

  Are you okay? I ask.

  James shrugs and says, I don’t know.

  I wait, knowing James will eventually fill the silence with something of substance.

  He sighs and says, Raul had to pull out of the show. His parents wouldn’t let him stay in the city any longer. And maybe that makes sense. Maybe none of us should be here.

  You’d leave New York? I ask. Where would you go?

  James stops and looks up at the spire of the Chrysler Building.

  You have a point, he says. Then, under his breath he says, There really isn’t anywhere else for me, is there?

  I watch the news while I help my mom cut potatoes. Pictures of Pride are being used in some story about research funding, marchers carry a sign that reads WE NEED RESEARCH NOT HYSTERIA. Who could possibly argue with that?

  My mother coughs. Don’t cut yourself, she warns me. I don’t want blood on the counter.

  I open my eyes and stare at the knife I’m holding. At my hand. Picture my blood running red. Clean.

  But what if my blood weren’t clean? I guess I could expect the same treatment Steven got.

  And even though that’s not a surprise, it’s damn depressing to think about.

  The play that James has been working on all year is finally in dress rehearsals, and he wants us to see it.

  I page Gabriel and ask him to come with, but he doesn’t call back. I risk calling his home number, but the phone just rings and rings. And even though he said that he and his mom never answer it, even though he warned me not to get too hopeful of ever reaching him by phone, the silence once I hang up sits like a rock in my stomach.

  Becky comes over, wearing a dress made of layers of gauze and gloves that go up to her elbows, so I lead her to my room and make an effort, managing real pants and a shirt my mom ironed for me. Becky picks out a skinny tie, rolls up my sleeves, and pulls a stack of stretchy black and white crystal bracelets off her wrist and deposits them onto mine. Then she declares we’re ready to leave.

  The Space is a couple of blocks from James’s apartment, and a couple more from the Hudson River. It’s on a block with no streetlamps, and as we walk—past the hookers, past the tough boys in their leather and their sneers, past a group of preppy girls who must have gotten lost on their way in from New Jersey, past a bunch of jocks who follow us for two blocks, talking loudly about how all fags are going to die from this disease and that Becky should leave me for a “real man”—Becky, who is never frightened of anything, grabs my hand and whispers, Andy keeps telling me to carry mace or pepper spray when I’m out on my own. I think this is why.

  We’re fine, I say loudly and more confidently than I feel. Just keep walking like you belong here.

  And that’s what we do. Because we belong to the city and the city belongs to us. And we have each other, and Becky is going to try to maybe make things work with Andy, and James is opening a show, and I’m falling in love and done being dismissed, and everything, everything, seems possible.

  Part Three

  Blood Makes Noise is plastered on the marquee outside the theater, followed by James’s name, the names of two other actors, and that of the director.

  We show our school IDs to the guy manning the list at the door and wander into a warehouse-sized space more suited for a parking lot than a theater.

  Once we’re in, though, it seems fitting. It’s obvious that Blood Makes Noise is more of an event than a play. There are no chairs. Just open air. Huge speakers. Lights hung everywhere. Curtains on the walls.

  And people. People, everywhere.

  We mill around until the spots dim.

  Then James and the other performers enter the room from all sides. Each dressed in a single color, they float like a deconstructed rainbow. Sounds screech through the speakers at sometimes ear-splitting levels. A cat’s purr. Car horns. Some classical piece. Guitar sounds that I recorded for him. Noises I can’t quite recognize. A zipper being pulled, perhaps? A needle dragged across a record. Nails on a chalkboard. Humming. A thunderstorm.

  Then silence.

  And a heartbeat. Behind everything. That.

  Here’s the gimmick. Anyone who can stay silent through the entire performance gets their admission refunded. Anyone caught talking is asked to leave.

  Performers stop in the middle of the crowd. They’re wearing those clip-on mics, and they combine, then break apart and combine again in different combinations to discuss random facts about life. Politics. Sex. Love.

  It’s kind of like Dial-a-Daze, Becky whispers, trying not to move her lips so we don’t get kicked out.

  I’m guessing all those facts are from James, I whisper back.

  Then silence.

  Heartbeat.

  Beat. Beat. Beat.

  Silence.

  From all around us, speakers blare the words, I stay silent…

  Then the actors begin to speak, filling in the rest of the sentence:

  …because I don’t think anyone will believe me.

  …because I’m not sure I have anything to say.

  …because I’m not sure if I’m right.

  …because we are at war.

  …because I don’t know how I feel.

  …because no words can explain.

  …because I’m tired of arguing.

  …because I love you.

  The words overlap and get mixed up and tumble around each other until James, in the center of the crowd, ends with: …because I’m scared.

  The room is hot, but
the hair on the back of my neck stands up as if I were outside in January snow. Becky squeezes my hand. She looks at me, puzzled. I’m not sure what to tell her, which is fine since we’re not supposed to talk anyhow.

  The actors come together, performing small scenes—sometimes only a line or two of dialogue—that end in someone keeping their feelings to themselves. Threats. Attacks. Fights. Illnesses. Politics.

  They try to lighten things up a little as well with happier reasons: gifts, pregnancies, votes, love that the person is still coming to terms with.

  But just like life, it’s the negative stuff that’s really intense.

  They end with two guys trying to talk about their past sexual experiences before they go to bed together.

  I look away so Becky can’t see my face. All I’m thinking about is Gabriel.

  The question starts again: I stay silent because…

  Then the room goes silent.

  Then the room goes black.

  After a minute that feels like forever, a recording of someone inhaling plays loudly as the lights slowly come up; as if the lights and air are connected.

  A girl dressed in yellow dances seductively in front of a group of guys. A boy in green walks around tickling people. James stops in front of us wrapped in blue-gray cloth the same color as his eyes. He hugs us both, then walks over to a girl dressed in lace, dips her, and spins her around. When he’s done, she stumbles back, flushed, dizzy. He moves on, stopping in front of random people. Daring them to speak.

  Around us, people laugh. Someone screams. A boy’s stomach gurgles. A girl coughs. One by one, they’re picked out of the crowd and taken out of the theater as punishment for their transgressions. Only the quiet ones stay to the end.

  By the curtain call, Becky and I are standing with only a handful of survivors. Those who, for better or worse, have kept silent.

  We wait by the stage door, and when James comes out, Becky elbows her way through the crowd and throws her arms around him like she never wants to let go.

  He’s flushed and his long hair is damp against the top of his collarless jacket. He catches my eye and I feel like I need to say something, but “good show” isn’t going to cut it. And speaking still seems taboo, which I think he understands, because when he extricates himself from Becky and reaches out a hand to squeeze my shoulder, he only nods.

  We assume that, like he always does after a show, James will head out with the cast to review the performance. Becky and I walk toward the subway, with only the sound of her boot heels to accompany us.

  Finally, I break the silence. Well, that was intense.

  Yeah, she replies so quietly her voice is almost lost in the street noise.

  Then the silence wraps tightly back around us and there’s nothing left to say.

  When we hear from James a couple days later, Becky and I race to meet him at Howard Johnson’s where, instead of a cocktail, he orders a Jameson on the rocks.

  Whiskey? Becky asks, looking at the clock. It’s eleven thirty in the morning.

  James wraps his hands around the glass and says, Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

  The show, I start. That was intense.

  Becky interrupts. What I want to know, she asks, is whose heartbeat was it?

  James gives her a cockeyed look and says, Mine. Why?

  Becky laughs and says, Of course it was; I thought it sounded melodramatic.

  This at least makes him smile. Then our plate of clams arrives, and Becky says something snarky about her mom, and we pretend everything is back to normal.

  Becky leaves first.

  James has had a little too much whiskey.

  So have I, because he’s been pouring half his drinks into my Coke.

  What is it that you’re so scared of? I ask him.

  He shakes his glass and stares at the ice cubes crashing together. Everything, he says, under his breath. Then, before I can process it, Come on, let’s get out of here.

  It’s a relief to go to The Echo the next weekend and try to forget the world. Someone has a Polaroid camera, and the whole night, people line up to have their pictures taken for a buck, with the money being donated to Gay Men’s Health Crisis (GMHC). I feel like I haven’t seen Gabriel in a lifetime, and I can’t get enough of the sound of his voice, his scent, his fingers on the back of my neck.

  We wait our turn, swaying back and forth to Modern English singing, “I Melt With You.” I’m high on the whole night, with Gabriel’s arms wrapped around me, and the lights and the music and my hands in the air. I feel like I can fly. I feel defiant.

  Then it’s our turn and we stand in front of the camera, and I can’t stop laughing until Gabriel leans in and sings along to the music about how there’s nothing we won’t do and stopping the world to melt together and then I’m not sure how to breathe.

  I float home on a trail of his words.

  But then realize I don’t have the photo with me.

  Damn.

  Blood Makes Noise opens, and the next morning, we run to the newsstand at the corner of 86th and Broadway and wait for the papers to be delivered so we can read the reviews.

  James is wired and talking about how twelve blocks of the garment district near Macy’s have no power and won’t until next week and how all the cops have been pulled over there and Mayor Koch has invited any fabric buyers for market week to a party at Gracie Mansion if they stick around.

  I tune him out and watch as Becky rummages around in the coin return of the pay phone and pulls out a quarter. James stops talking and shakes his head in disgust. Really, kitten, he says, I’d happily give you money if it will keep you from sticking your hands in there.

  She’s about to reply when the newspaper delivery truck pulls up.

  The three of us freeze in mirror poses as the papers land on the curb with a loud thunk. We stay frozen as the clerk cuts the twine around the bundles with a pocket knife. As he pulls yesterday’s old paper off the shelves and replaces them with today’s.

  James moves first, pays, and hands the paper to me. I rifle through the pages and then scan the article quickly.

  This time there is no mention of James’s cheekbones. This time there is no photo of him in suspenders. This time there are only words, and the ones that stand out are these: Important. Stunning. Necessary.

  Becky pulls us both into a hug and doesn’t let go.

  I can feel James relax. The tightness in his arms loosen.

  For all of the shit that she and James give each other, this is who we are.

  Becky Kaplan is our heart. James Barrows is our soul.

  At some point, I need to figure out what role I play.

  Gabriel isn’t at Echo when I get there, but Brian waves me over to the bar and hands me an envelope.

  What’s this? I ask.

  I don’t read ’em, I just deliver ’em, he says, and starts washing some glasses that are still stacked up from the night before.

  I move to the wall. Hold the envelope up in the blue light. Examine my name written in straight, sharp letters. A thin knife of a line scored underneath.

  I feel something that resembles possibility. As if anything could be written inside. But then doubt kicks in. It could be bad news. Or a joke.

  I rip open the envelope and slice my finger along the edge.

  A quick drop of blood forms, and I suck it away before anyone can see.

  At the moment, a gun would cause less panic in New York City than a gay boy bleeding.

  My finger wrapped in a napkin, I pull the photo from the envelope.

  The Polaroid girl caught me staring up into the lights. Next to me, Gabriel is all muscles and innuendo, and he’s looking at me as if I’ve said something profound and interesting.

  I flip the photo over and read, in Gabriel’s loopy writing,

  Worth stopp
ing the world for.

  There was “before Gabriel” and there’s “now.” Places and times in my life he didn’t fit into, and places defined simply because I knew he existed.

  I was seeing him. I’d just seen him. I was counting the days until I could talk to him to decide when I was seeing him next.

  How do you know when you’re in love? I ask, although I suspect I know the answer because I know how I feel when I’m with Gabriel.

  It isn’t love, Becky says. You just want to get into his pants and he just wants to get into yours, and I’m not even sure that love exists.

  You don’t have to be so cynical, James says.

  Becky glares at him. Oh, what do you know? she asks and storms out of the room.

  My parents are going out of town for two days.

  Thirty-two hours to be exact, but that includes a night. An entire night.

  My mother says, I guess you’re old enough to stay on your own, but you’ll remember to call your brother if you need anything?

  Sure, I’ll call my brother, I think. Either it will take him two weeks to call me back because he’s out with his friends, or he’ll make plans with me and stand me up anyhow.

  Of course, I say to her. Nothing to worry about.

  I take more soup to Connor’s as a ruse for having a quiet place to make a call and figure that he’ll at least have something to eat in the apartment.

  Can I use your phone?

  What are you up to? he croaks from the couch, shielding his eyes from the sunlight I’ve invited into the room by committing the cardinal sin of opening the curtains.

  Can I use your phone or not?

  He waves at the wall in the kitchen. Yeah, whatever.

  I wait for the apartment’s radiator to stop clanging and then dial, counting the rings that tell me Gabriel isn’t going to answer.

  But just as I’m getting ready to hang up, he comes on the line, voice groggy.

  I glance at the clock. Half past two.

  Did I wake you? I ask. Hard night?

  Then I blush when I hear him stretch and say, It would have been if you’d been here.