People in Trouble

by Sarah Schulman

PETER

  Peter couldn’t sleep. Not at all. Where was Kate? She was getting so flamboyant about this. It was out of hand. There was that one night when she hadn’t come home at all. Now she was doing that again. How could he face her the next morning sauntering in with someone else’s pubic hair between her teeth? He decided to go out for a drink. As he clambered down the stairs Peter hoped he might run into her sneaking up. She’d see how much she had hurt him then. He’d pretend he had some mysterious liaison and it would be her turn to worry. The shoe would be on the other foot then. He even lingered a bit on the ground floor landing, giving her one last chance to catch him leaving.

  Peter walked down Second Avenue past endless rows of people selling their stuff on the street. Over the years the quality of goods had diminished. Kate mentioned seeing some good stuff late at night on the way back from the studio, but all he saw was junk. There were so many sellers out even at this hour, mostly standing around trying to keep warm. The lucky ones were drinking pints of wine.

  Maybe he’d find a woman at a bar who was lonely too. Maybe he’d stumble home with whiskey on his breath and tell Kate he had been working late. The thought almost made him cry. But by the time he sat down at the bar with a drink in his hand, both of these scenarios seemed equally unlikely. Not knowing what else to do now that he had actually bought the drink, he slouched over the wooden bar and looked at the TV.

  ‘You want to buy a gold chain?’ some guy breathed down his neck. ‘Fourteen-karat.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Peter mumbled, slumping even further.

  On TV there was a man talking. If he didn’t pay close attention to the precise words Peter would have no idea of what he was trying to communicate because the man had no facial expressions and modulated all phrases with an absolutely identical cadence.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked the bartender, a short Polish guy smoking Barclay’s. ‘Is that the president?’

  ‘Nah,’ the guy said, sucking as hard as he could on the cig, trying to get more flavor than it had to give. ‘That’s the anchorman.’

  Mr. Anchor had a maudlin yellow glow over his skin, which was made of wax.

  ‘Since when is there TV news on at one thirty in the morning?’ Peter asked, trying to establish some kind of camaraderie with the bartender, who kept resisting.

  ‘It’s cable, buddy. Where have you been? They got news twenty-four hours a day now. They got a whole station that plays nothing but sports and one only for stocks and one only for music videos. You don’t have to switch channels anymore, looking for what you want. Now you know what is where all night long.’

  ‘TV is so shocking,’ said Peter, ‘when you don’t watch it for a while. Why would anyone want to believe a guy who looks like that? He’s in terrible shape and he’s got on too much pancake. Look at him. His skin is the texture of stale dough.’

  The commercials were more impressive, however. They were actually well done.

  ‘Not bad,’ Peter had to admit. ‘Not bad at all.’

  ‘In tonight’s news,’ said the anchorman, ‘AIDS.’

  ‘Oooh, I’m so sick of AIDS,’ Peter groaned. He couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Fuck you,’ said the gay man sitting next to him with a bottle of beer. ‘Sorry to spoil your party but people are suffering, you know.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that my wife is going gay, you see. And all I hear about nowadays is gay this and gay that. But you’re absolutely right. I apologize.’

  He ordered another drink. Only when it came did he realize how nauseated he felt.

  ‘Hundreds of AIDS victims have occupied the restaurant and lobby of Ronald Horne’s Castle in midtown Manhattan. They are demanding that the superstar developer rescind eviction notices sent to homosexual men in Horne-owned buildings. Many of the hotel guests have fled in terror, especially those from the Sunbelt region. Some are angrily demanding refunds and immediate AIDS tests. Mr. Horne remains unavailable for comment from his retreat in Hawaii, where he and his lovely wife Lucretia are vacationing with Imelda and Ferdinand Marcos. But Castle spokesman Bill Smith did speak earlier with Channel Z.’

  The camera zoomed in on a blustering red-faced gentleman wearing a grass skirt and a fuchsia lei, carrying a six-foot bull-whip.

  ‘Tell us, Mr. Smith, is this your usual attire?’

  ‘Why yes. Mr. Horne prefers that all management dress like tropical overseers so the guests can feel more comfortable and secure.’

  ‘Mr. Smith, as a representative of the Horne dynasty, can you tell our television audience how you think this demonstration will affect future business transactions at the Castle?’

  ‘I want to assure all future guests,’ he said, waving the whip for emphasis, ‘that all glassware and eating utensils will be replaced as soon as we clear the lobby. We expect the New York Police Department imminently.’

  The camera panned the crowd a bit, stopping in front of the black man that Peter had seen calling out at the cathedral.

  ‘Tell us, sir,’ said the persistently plastic reporter, ‘who is going to pay for all this damage?’

  ‘The hotel was built on tax rebates,’ James said through a huge grin. In the background Peter could see crowds of gay men laughing, dancing and popping champagne corks. ‘We’ve already paid.’

  The camera went back to the crowd. It looked like the Mets’ locker room after they won the World Series. Men were in varying states of revelry, sharing drinks at the bar, singing show tunes in the piano lounge, watching old movies on the huge video screen, conversing intensely in the smoking room. And they were all snacking on caviar and smoked oysters.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Peter out loud, unable to control himself.

  ‘What’s the matter now, asshole?’ yelled the gay man at the bar. ‘I’ve had it with you heteros. You don’t care about anyone but yourselves.’

  ‘No, it’s not you,’ Peter said, barely able to get out the words. ‘It’s my wife.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the bartender, whose interest had been piqued. ‘There’s all guys there.’

  ‘No, that’s her. The redhead with the crew cut in a suit and tie. That’s my wife.’

  ‘This is some world,’ said the bartender. ‘But you gotta live and let live. Fucking faggots.’

  There she was. You couldn’t miss her. That orange hair looked more mandarin on the eerie color TV. She was in earnest conversation with a tall man brushing out a silver mane of hair and braiding it into pigtails.

  ‘Nother round?’ the bartender asked and poured it without waiting for confirmation.

  ‘You may ask,’ resumed the reporter in the classic frontal electronic journalism pose, staring sincerely at his public, ‘where are the police? Well, according to Chief of Command Ed Ramsey of Manhattan South, his officers are not properly equipped to come into contact with large numbers of AIDS victims.’

  ‘Not victim, you breeder,’ screamed the gay man at the bar, who clearly couldn’t take it anymore. ‘People with AIDS is the appropriate term.’ He dropped his head down on the bar and closed his eyes.

  The reporter, however, continued as though at any moment he would say, ‘But first, the sports.’

  ‘The police have put in emergency requisitions for rubber gloves and are waiting patiently for the supplies to arrive. This is Roland Johnson for Channel Z. More later, but first, the sports.’

  When the picture switched to Mike Tyson and Robin Givens, the gay man next to Peter took out his Walkman.

  ‘Hold on, I can get WBAI.’

  He listened intently and then reported each piece of information to the inebriated bar.

  ‘It took the police forever to get rubber gloves,’ he shouted, constantly fidgeting with the dial. ‘They originally requisitioned them from the Veterans’ Hospital and the BAI guy interviewed someone from the VA saying they don’t even have sheets or pillows, how could the police expect to find a roomful of extra rubber gloves lying around …. Oh shit.’

  �
��What’s the matter now?’ asked the bartender.

  ‘It’s marathon week. They’ve stopped reporting the news until they get fifteen new subscribers. Turn on the television set.’

  Everyone resumed their places at the bar with a new round of drinks, eyes glued to the tube.

  28

  MOLLY

  Molly and Fabian spent the whole night listening to the radio. Once BAI announced their number as control central they started fielding calls from all corners. Mostly it was gay people from the five boroughs wanting subway directions and asking for updates.

  There appeared to be a standoff for a while when the cops couldn’t get their rubbers, but finally Overseer Smith personally commissioned three slaves to run out to a number of all-night drugstores and buy fifty pairs of Playtex Living Gloves, which turned out to be an unfortunate lemon yellow. It made the overweight cops look sillier than necessary, reported Bob from a pay phone in the lobby.

  ‘They resemble advertisements for dishwashing soap, or more appropriately, ducks.’

  The demonstrators, being in top form, took immediate advantage of this new situation by chanting ‘Your gloves don’t match your shoes’ as they walked out the front door, avoiding arrest altogether. This was actually a relief to the police, Bob thought, because they clearly had no idea of where they could put three hundred prisoners with AIDS anyway. Once outside, they lined up and serenaded Mr. Smith, who had climbed up a coconut tree for safety. Then they left the place completely depleted of roasted nuts and Courvoisier VSOP. Justice’s name rang throughout the land and Kate came back and took Molly to bed.

  ‘This has been a very important night for me,’ she said. ‘It’s given me a lot of ideas.’ Then she said, ‘I want to speak all this love to you but I’m too shy.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like sweetie and baby. But not baby as in baby talk. But more romantic and sensual, on an island beach with passion and warm cool breezes.’

  ‘Sounds all right to me.’

  ‘You know,’ Kate said, stretching back so her arms looked like branches of a madrona tree. ‘I worry a lot about being alone.’

  Molly turned over on her stomach and licked those open spaces behind Kate’s ears. Her head was practically shaved, leaving a slightly orange hue over her shell-pink scalp.

  ‘Kate, what if you’re like me and you don’t have someone there all the time?’

  ‘Then in your thirties you’ll feel like an outcast but in your forties you’ll get your revenge.’

  ‘Why?’ Molly asked, running her fingers over Kate’s nipples.

  ‘That’s when everyone else’s security shatters but only you know how to live on your own. They’re helpless. They can’t eat a meal by themselves or go to a movie solo without seeing it as a symbol of misery.’

  ‘So, Kate, are you telling me that I’m destined to always be alone?’

  ‘Please, Molly, I love you.’

  They started making love again in a violet haze where their features were close and very smooth. Kate was really working at it, all muscle and sinew, grunting and sweating, climbing across her body. When they were lying quietly in their own sweat, Kate pointed out Molly’s window.

  ‘The sun is coming up and there are birds everywhere. How unusual.’

  29

  PETER

  One morning Peter and Kate lay in bed for a long time. He rubbed her feet and cleaned out her toenails before clipping them. He oiled her legs and breasts until she smelled like a baby and then he rubbed her shoulders and the back of her neck. Then they made love. It was all physical. No talking. He made her a cup of coffee and held her closely under his arm and next to his body as they walked to her studio in the spring rain.

  ‘You’re so sweet,’ she said. ‘To take such good care of me.’

  They talked about painting the living room and which color would be the best, which store would be the best to buy it from and which day of the week would be the best to get the job done. They discussed a new restaurant that had opened on the block and each gave their opinion of the decor. Peter mentioned an article he had read in New German Critique and Kate told about an exhibit at PPOW Gallery she had dropped in on accidentally while trying to find something else. It was the murmurings and patterns of speech that were familiar. The actual information was just another way to share and fill time.

  Peter felt a pure satisfaction. It had been too long since he had walked down the street with Kate held firmly in his arm. Lately they had walked to and from various theatrical events with a distracted sense of habit and compulsive conversation about things no one really had to say, but someone was there and so you said them. But on this spring day Peter knew that they were in love and deeply bonded.

  ‘Here we are.’

  She turned to kiss him good-bye in the drizzle and he felt the heat of her body through her dark flannel trousers.

  ‘When we were making love and I went inside you,’ he said, ‘I could feel that you were on fire, inside, and you were gripping me, drawing me into the hot core.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Peter stood in the rain watching her walk into the building and he felt warm and sexual. He knew that everything was going to be corrected and set off for work.

  The show he was designing was called The Malling of America, a musical about urban sprawl. It took place in a vaguely Midwestern city that required three shades of gray and one sharp blue. Then he decided to add some sickly pink to stand in for the car exhaust. These generic cities, Peter knew, were ugly clumps of buildings hacked apart by the inevitable interstate. Putting highways through the middle of cities was the urban equivalent of strip-mining. It bored a hole in something organic that could never be repaired. The light had to reflect the lack of clarity, everything under a huge shadow. There would be no natural light, just stores with neon and fluorescent show windows with cars constantly whizzing by, a light source in perpetual motion.

  Today he needed to work in the theater and compare the available instruments with the room’s possibilities. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours. Then he could get in a quick workout at the gym and be home for Kate.

  He stepped into the theater, a one-hundred-seater in the West Twenties. Everything was adequate but nothing spectacular. The ceiling was too low, but it was only those fiberglass panels which were easily removable, but what a mess.

  ‘Hello, Peter.’

  He looked up. It was Robert, that young intern from Yale.

  ‘I’m working with you again,’ he said unflappably. ‘I’ve been hired on to this project.’

  Then he swung that same briefcase up on the tabletop and popped open the steel clasps with a snap.

  Same moves, Peter noticed. But with a different kind of edge this time. Maybe his girlfriend finally broke up with him.

  ‘Nice to see you, Robert. We are going to have a fun project ahead of us here. A complicated one. This is city light, not natural light and so every source is a human invention and decision complicated by circumstance. We have to justify all the placements and intensities with the story of the man who installed them that way. You’ll see. We’ll have fun. How many fluorescent lights are in how many offices? How many of those are blinking, or simply out? How many drivers are on the interstate that cuts through town? How many turned on their brights?’

  ‘Good,’ Robert said, flatly, soberly distracted. ‘I’m ready to work.’ Then he held out his hand to Peter, offering him a formal handshake.

  What’s this? Peter thought, but took hold for no reason. Then the young man seemed to crumple in Peter’s hand, beginning with the wrist and losing power systematically like an inflatable skeleton.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Robert said, not wiping his tears on the sleeve of his jacket, but instead producing a perfectly folded, white, ironed handkerchief in which he blew his nose. Then he stopped crying by pressing his thumb and forefinger against the ridge of his nose and shutting his eyes so tightly that no water could seep out.

 
‘My father’s lover died yesterday.’

  ‘Oh,’ Peter said, very uncomfortable. Then he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Let’s get to work,’ Robert said, regaining full composure. He took off his suit jacket, hung it carefully over the back of his chair and folded up his sleeves. ‘It’s the best way to feel better.’

  ‘You’re a real artist then,’ Peter said, feeling that was the best comfort he could give.

  First they counted lights and checked the bulbs to see precisely what they had to play with. They put up some basic piping for the hang. The room was small enough that Peter could size up fairly quickly what he’d be needing, and he looked forward to plotting it all out more precisely that evening at his desk.

  ‘Do you mind if I tell you what it was about him that I liked the best?’ Robert asked as they were wrapping and labeling cable.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, Curtis really was my friend. He wasn’t a parent and he wasn’t just Dad’s boyfriend. He was my friend because he was for me. We didn’t agree all the time but he wanted me to make the right decisions. But when I made the wrong ones he still cared about me.’

  Robert found a split piece of cable and started wrapping it with gaffer’s tape. He took out brand-new scissors from their special carrying container built into the briefcase.

  ‘When someone gets sick like that,’ he said, ‘it makes them decide what they really want from their life.’

  Peter felt a twinge of anxiety.

  ‘And what they really have, you mean.’

  ‘No,’ Robert said, convinced. ‘It’s more what they have always wanted but have continuously put off for another day. Of course, that is all dependent on whether or not they can accept what is happening to their body.’

  There was something so threatening in Robert’s voice that Peter felt terrified. He felt his throat constrict. When he intended to answer with a typically jovial response, there was no sound. He saw white. He felt cold. Kate was ruining everything. Things were so nice between them today, why did she have to stay with that little bitch? Peter started having pictures in his brain of ideas that weren’t relevant. If ever Kate was in a hospital he would have to fight for time with that other one. If Kate were ever really sick, he would have to do whatever she wanted and wait out in the corridor like a punished schoolgirl while the two of them sat giggling.