I left the bar and walked home, the pain in my head subsiding enough for me to walk without stumbling. I knew I would have bruises for some time. The deeper wounds would take much longer to heal, if they ever did. I realized as I looked around me that I had fallen out of love with the city that had enchanted me as a 19-year-old seeing it for the very first time.
When I got to the house, I called out to Andy. When he didn't respond, I went to his bedroom and looked in. He was asleep, snoring loudly. Beside his bed was a mirror with just the faintest dusting of powder on it. An empty bottle of wine lay on the floor beside it. He'd slept through everything. Instead of waking him up, I went to the kitchen and found a fifth of Jack Daniels. I took it to the living room, where I sat in the armchair and drank it straight from the bottle until the pain inside of me became a dull thud, as if my heart had slowed down to the point where it beat only once a minute. I listened to myself breathe and thought unexpectedly of Dylan Thomas, the poet who had downed eighteen shots of whiskey at the White Horse Tavern in New York and died not long after. We had read some of Thomas's poetry in my English Literature class at Penn. I had found it dense, but wonderful, and had purchased a volume of his work, which I took with me to Vietnam, where I read it from time to time to remind myself that humans were capable of great beauty.
I went to the bookcase on the far side of the room and found the book. Battered and dog-eared, it was falling apart. I returned to the chair and held it in my hands, looking for one of my favorite poems. Titled
"Ceremony After a Fire Raid," it was written about the death of a child during a bomb raid on London in World War II. A meditation on grief and incomprehensible loss, I'd read it often when the strain of preparing bodies in the GR had become too much. I read it again now, stopping when I came to the third stanza.
Forgive
Us forgive
Us
Your death that myselves the believers
May hold it in a great flood
Till the blood shall spurt,
And the dust shall sing like a bird
As the grains blow, as your death grows, through our heart. Reading those words, my heart broke open. Although written about a child, I saw that Thomas's poem could have been written about Harvey Milk, or the city of San Francisco, or about anything that has been loved and lost to great disaster. I wept for all such losses, and for the holes they left in the souls of those of us who survived them.
I knew then what I had to do. As if a star had come out to guide me to safety through a storm, I saw where my course lay. The revelation frightened me, but I knew it to be true. Even through the fog of whiskey I knew it. And now that I understood what I had to do, I felt a strange peace come over me. Closing my eyes, I surrendered to it, and fell asleep with the sound of dust singing like a bird in my ears.
CHAPTER 41
On the night of December 8, 1980, the radio was playing Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland" when the song suddenly faded and DJ Vin Scelsa cut through. "This is WNEW-FM in New York," he said, his voice halting. "I have the extremely sad task of informing you that John Lennon died tonight." There was a pause as Scelsa drew an audible breath and fought back tears before continuing. "I am at a loss for words. I think for the first time in my career on the radio I don't have anything to say."
As the music returned, I looked at the Christmas ornament in my hand. I'd been just about to place it on the tree I'd bought earlier in the evening from a man selling them outside the West 4th Street subway station. He'd set up shop there just after Thanksgiving, and every night when I exited the station on my way home from work, I was met with his call to fill my home with a little holiday cheer. Finally I'd relented, handing over five bucks and walking to my apartment on Bleeker Street dragging the tree behind me. I'd set it up in a corner, then gone out and purchased several boxes of cheap ornaments and lights to decorate it with.
It was my first Christmas in New York, and I wanted to make it memorable. Now, hearing about John Lennon's murder, I knew I would forever associate the season with yet another loss. Searching for more information, I turned on the television and learned that Lennon had been shot in front of his apartment building, the historic Dakota at 72nd Street and Central Park West. Already a crowd of mourners was gathering, their empty faces turned to the windows of the huge stone building that had now become a mausoleum.
I realized that I was still holding the ornament. I put it down, pulled on my jacket, and left the apartment. Acting on instinct, I headed for the subway and traveled uptown. When I emerged at 72nd Street, I found myself in a crowd of hundreds. Across the street, police stood near the entrance to the Dakota, preventing anyone from disturbing the crime scene. Many of the building's windows were lit with flickering candles, and someone was passing out candles to the mourners as well. Several different Beatles songs played from half a dozen radios and tape recorders scattered throughout the crowd, and more than one person made their own music on guitars.
It was unseasonably warm that week, but I felt as cold as if I were standing in the middle of a frozen field. Like everyone else there, I had found in the music of John Lennon something that spoke to me. I thought back to the Beatles concert I'd attended with Jack all those years before. How was it possible, I wondered, that the joyful, wisecracking John had been killed? Who would do such a thing, and why? All I knew then was that a suspect had been apprehended. In the meantime, a beautiful man was dead. The irony of the moment was not lost on me. I'd left San Francisco the year before because of one murder. Now I was about to celebrate my first year in New York mourning another. Wherever I went, it seemed, death followed me. Was there any place I could go where I could be free of it? I was thinking that perhaps I'd made a mistake in coming to New York. But everything had pointed me in that direction. I'd been able to transfer to the VA center there, and leaving San Francisco had simply been a matter of packing a few suitcases and getting on an airplane. I loved my apartment in the Village, and I especially loved the excitement of New York. A world away from the laid-back atmosphere of San Francisco, it was a nonstop parade, always on the move and always demanding attention. It had been easy to forget about what I'd left behind, if only because I had so little time to think about anything at all.
I'd arrived in September, just in time for fall. Although it's easy to fall in love with New York in any season, fall is particularly suited to it. The crisp weather chases away the lingering smells of the hot summer, and the streets take on a cozy feel as the whole city begins to settle in for its long winter's nap. I spent much of my time just walking around, taking in the towering buildings and the people who scurried in and out of them as if their constant movement was necessary to sustain the city's pulse. On weekends, I walked from Greenwich Village to the Upper West Side, sometimes stopping in at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or strolling through Central Park, but generally just getting to know my new home. Several times, I'd stopped to look up at the Dakota. Familiar to me as the setting for Rosemary's Baby , I found its style fascinating. The building's high gables, steeply-pitched roofs, and port cochère main entrance built for horse-drawn carriages to pass through gave it a castle like appearance, which was enhanced by the profusion of balconies and balustrades adorning its exterior. With gargoyles tucked into its many niches, spandrels filled with elaborate carvings, and the statue of a Dakota Indian perched high above the entrance on 72nd Street, it was like something out of a European fairytale. The fact that some of the most famous names in New York lived in its rooms only added to its mystique. I wondered what those famous people thought about the death of their neighbor. Were they fearful that they, too, might be the target of a madman's gun? Did they mourn the loss of the poet who had asked the world to give peace a chance? Or did they simply find the police and the crowds a nuisance, an intrusion into their privacy that had been purchased at a price none of us standing outside the walls of their fortress could possibly afford? Were they standing now in their living rooms, looking out at us from behind
drawn curtains and wishing we would all go home?
I was thinking these thoughts when a young man came up and offered me a candle. Dressed in a blue pea coat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck, he looked at me with sad eyes. He wore a black knit hat pulled low over his forehead, and straggles of light-colored hair stuck out from around the edge. He held the candle out to me and waited for me to take it. When I did, he smiled sadly.
"I know," he said. "It's all a little ‘Dona nobis pacem,' but it makes me feel better." "A little what?" I asked, not understanding.
"Sorry," he said. "It's a chorus fag reference. 'Dona nobis pacem '? It's this round we used to sing every year at the school Christmas concert. You sing that one line over and over while you pass the light from your candle to the candle of the person next to you. By the time you've sung it a billion times, the whole auditorium is filled with light. It's corny, but it's really pretty, too." He looked at me and ducked his head.
"Anyway, it means ‘give us peace.' That's why I thought of it. I guess maybe you had to be there." "No," I said. "It sounds pretty."
He looked up. "It was," he said. "It was really pretty."
He began to cry, tears running down his cheeks as his face crumpled and his lips trembled. I reached out and hugged him to me, feeling him shake. His arms stayed at his sides, then slowly wrapped around me, holding me close. I had no idea who he was, but I understood completely what he was feeling. After a couple of minutes, he pulled away slowly and wiped his eyes. "You must think I'm totally nuts,"
he said. "I was what, like, nine, when everyone was getting excited about the Beatles? The truth is, I never even liked them all that much. But his solo stuff, it just blew me away." "I don't think you're nuts," I told him. "It's okay if you do," he said. "I'm used to it. Oh, here," he added as a woman beside us turned to him with a lit candle. He lit his from hers, then touched the flame to my candle. As it bloomed, his face was illuminated by the glow. His tears shone, and I felt myself wanting to kiss them away.
"I'm Ned," I said, fearing that if I didn't keep him talking he would move on.
"Alan," he replied.
He didn't move on. He stayed as more people came and our impromptu memorial stretched into the night. As our candles burned, we sang the songs of John Lennon, the words floating heavenward. Despite our sorrow, a sense of calm and love surrounded us, much as it had the night we'd all gathered in the Castro's bars to mourn the loss of Harvey Milk. When we grew tired of standing, Alan and I sat on the sidewalk, our backs against the wall bordering Central Park. We sang until our voices grew hoarse and dawn began to trickle down the darkened streets.
As it grew light, people began to leave, returning to their everyday lives as the city prepared for another Tuesday morning. Many of them were replaced by new arrivals who, awaking to the news of Lennon's murder, had hurried to the site of his death to express their shock and sadness. This fresh grief tore away the thin scab that had begun to form over my heart during the night, and I decided it was time to go.
"Would you like to get some coffee?" I asked Alan, whose weary eyes were threatening to close. "I would," he said, and I offered him my hand to help him up. We found a coffee shop and went inside. As we slipped into a booth, Alan removed his hat and vainly tried to flatten his messy hair. It stuck up at odd angles, making him look as if he'd just rolled out of bed. I found it charming, and resisted an urge to reach across the table and pat it down for him. Over coffee, I found out more about him. He was 24, originally from Indiana, the youngest of five boys. When I asked him what he did for a living, he told me that he was an actor, although, he added, his most well-known role was that of a waiter at one of New York's better restaurants. Like so many actors in New York, he was waiting for his big break. Until then, he said, he was sharing an apartment in Hell's Kitchen with two other Broadway hopefuls and trying to convince his worried parents that he wasn't going to starve.
"I told my mother I can just steal food from the restaurant when I need to, but that only made it worse,"
he said, downing his third cup of coffee. "So, what about you? You haven't told me anything. All I know is that you like John Lennon." I told him the basics, about Pennsylvania, the army, Vietnam, San Francisco. I left out the less-pleasant details. I told him I was working for the VA, but wanted to find a different job. "I'm tired of living in the past," I said, surprised to hear myself state so simply what had been bothering me for some time about my job.
Alan looked at his watch. "I've got to go," he said. "But do you want to get together tonight? A friend of mine is in Albert Innaurato's play, Gemini , and he gave me two tickets. If you want to see it, we could do that."
I had no idea who Albert Innaurato was, but I did want to see Alan again, so I said yes. We agreed to meet at the theater at seven-thirty, and he left. I drank another cup of coffee before I realized that I, too, was going to be late for work if I didn't hurry. I left some coins on the table, left the coffee shop, and headed for the subway.
That night I stood in front of the Little Theater on West 44th Street waiting for Alan to arrive. I'd been nervous all day, my anxiety growing as the hours ticked by. Finally, I'd done a little coke. Despite promising myself that when I moved to New York I would leave that habit behind in San Francisco, I had found the drug so readily available that I'd taken to using it again from time to time. It had worn off hours before, and now I was fidgety again.
My anxiousness only increased when Alan arrived. He'd cleaned up nicely since the morning, his hair tamed and his face shaved. He still wore the pea coat, but his jeans and T-shirt had been replaced by khaki pants and a dark V-neck sweater. He looked even more handsome than I remembered, and I found myself turning unusually shy.
"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I had to switch shifts with another guy to get the night off, and everything ran late. I just got out about half an hour ago, and I had to run home to change. I probably look awful. I grabbed the first things I saw."
"No," I said. "No, you look fine."
"Thanks," he said as we walked toward the theater doors. "Oh, and just for the record, this is a date. Just in case you weren't sure."
"I was sort of wondering," I admitted. "I mean, we never really…"
"Come on," said Alan, taking me by the hand. "But I should tell you, I don't kiss on the first date." I don't remember much about the play, which concerned two days in the life of a young man who might or might not be gay (he never quite figured it out). I do remember that it was very funny, and that I laughed a lot. But mostly I remember that Alan held my hand through most of it and the heat from his fingers warmed me more than any fire. When the curtain went down, I was reluctant to let go of him, and tried to think of a way to extend the evening. Alan did that for me, suggesting a drink at Mickey's Cabaret, which turned into two and then three drinks as we sat and listened to a not-very-good singer tackle Gershwin while he played the piano equally poorly.
As midnight rolled around and I started to feel the loss of sleep from the night before, I suggested to Alan that we take our conversation back to my apartment. He shook his head. "What did I tell you?" he said. "No kissing on the first date."
"Who said anything about kissing?" I replied.
"No," he said firmly. "But how about we go out again on Friday?"
"Friday?" I said, disappointed. "That's three days away."
"I have to work the next few nights," Alan told me. "But Friday I'm doing a show. I want you to come."
"You didn't tell me you were in a show," I said.
He waved his hand. "It's just this little thing I do on Friday nights," he said. "A little singing, a little acting. It's no big deal. So, you'll come?"
"Of course I will," I told him. "Just tell me when and where."
He wrote down the address for me and tucked the paper into my shirt pocket. "I'll see you Friday," he said. "Now be a gentleman and walk me home." I did, and at the stoop of his building he said good night with a hug. I watched him go through the door, wher
e he turned and waved. As I walked to the subway to go downtown, I asked myself what I was getting into. I was 30. He was six years my junior. It wasn't that much of a difference in years, but at the same time I had the impression that we'd lived very different lives. I wondered if the boy from Indiana who seemed to have had a pretty good life would be able to accept me with all of my emotional scars. As the days passed, I worried about it more and more, until I convinced myself that I might as well forget about Alan. I was sure that when he got to know me and saw how beaten up I was, he would run to someone far less screwed up. I told myself I was stupid for even thinking that someone like him would be interested in someone like me, especially in a city like New York, where every next man was better-looking than the last. But, I kept reminding myself, I had moved here to start a new life, and this was a chance to try doing just that.
On Friday I went to the Duplex, the club in the Village where Alan was performing, arriving a few minutes before the time he'd told me to be there. I was pleased to see that the place was crowded, although given its size, that was accomplished with a few dozen people. I also found that Alan had reserved a small table for me, where I sat and waited for his show to begin, hoping I would like it and wouldn't have to feign enthusiasm afterward.
A few minutes later, a man stepped to the microphone at the front of the room. "Ladies and gentlemen,"
he said, "and I use both terms very loosely, please join me in welcoming those delicious sisters of sweetness, Miss Taffy Chu and Miss Bitta Honey." The crowd applauded and whistled as two drag queens came out. One, clearly Asian, wore a pink minidress, white go-go boots, and an enormous beehive hairdo. The other was dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform complete with long blond braids and a Charlie's Angels lunch box. It took me a minute to realize that beneath the wig and makeup was Alan's face. When I did, I could only sit and stare as he and Taffy Chu launched into a riotous dialogue.
Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle Page 33