What Becomes of the Brokenhearted

by E. Lynn Harris

  Most people went to the Cotton Club in Harlem on Friday nights to dance, and to the Garage, located in the Village, on Saturday nights. Ninety-six West was like the Nickel with a slightly older crowd, and married men usually frequented it.

  When the bars would close, the lines at the gay male bathhouse formed around the block. None of my young adult fantasies could ever imagine something as decadent as the bathhouse. I entered the bars looking for love, but the bathhouse was the place to go when you were looking for lust. Most times I was unsuccessful at both.

  I went to the bathhouses only twice. No one ever spoke to me, and I had convinced myself that the competition in New York was too tough and I would never find love or lust. I couldn’t even engage people with cocktail chitchat, and I felt invisible as I watched black gay men picking each other and going into tiny closetlike rooms that were rented by the hour.

  Once I went to a bathhouse in the afternoon, thinking I would stand a better chance of getting chosen with less competition around, and I was right. Just as I was preparing to join a handsome stranger in his private room, I decided to check my office for messages. When I called the office, my sales unit secretary asked where I was and informed me that my boss wanted to see me and my sales forecast before the day’s end. I looked at my watch and realized that I had less than an hour to get back to my office and turn in a sales forecast I hadn’t even started. I quickly dressed and fled the four-story building on Forty-second Street without even saying good-bye or thanking the stranger for making me feel desirable.

  Of all the places I frequented, the Nickel Bar became my favorite watering hole, and almost every Friday evening, I would leave my office around 5:30 and walk the twenty-plus blocks to the popular bar before it got too crowded. Armed with a vodka and grapefruit juice, I would take a seat at the corner of the bar, near the door, so I could get a view of all the men who would start to pack the place around 6:30.

  Since the Nickel was so small, it seemed easier to meet people when they brushed against one another to order a drink or to get into the men’s room. The Nickel had its regulars, and I knew a lot of people not by their names, but by smiles or what they usually drank, since I didn’t budge once I got a bar seat.

  Thanks to the Nickel, I would meet some of the best friends I’d ever had and another major love. The friendship happened first. They were a group of three, sometimes four, men and a woman who came to the Nickel every Friday. Sometimes they would arrive together, or when one came alone, the others were not far behind. They always seemed to be full of laughter, and I wanted to laugh with them, but I didn’t have the courage to go over and introduce myself, fearful that instead of inviting me to join in their conversations, I might become a victim of their quick-witted reads I often overheard.

  I learned from the bartender that the best-looking member of the group, with the soft and boyish face, was named Randy Johnson. I did say hello to him once, and he returned my greeting with a warm smile. A few weeks later, I would learn the names and meet the other members of the group.

  I first noticed the group not only because of the laughter but because they were all so loud. They seemed to know everybody who walked into the Nickel, and if they didn’t, you’d never know it. Nothing stopped them from engaging in lively conversation. They were like the popular kids in high school you desperately wished would speak to you and get your name right.

  One Friday evening the group came in and, after assembling in the corner, began giving Randy gifts. He squealed with delight as he held up a pair of aqua-colored bikini swimming trunks. Along with a couple of members of the group, Randy walked over to the bar. This time when he noticed me and gave me his usual pleasant smile, I finally got the courage to say something.

  “Is it your birthday?” I asked.

  “No, I’m going to Puerto Rico to celebrate finishing grad school,” Randy said.

  “Congratulations. Where did you go?”

  “Columbia J School,” Randy said. Just as I was getting ready to tell him that I had a degree in journalism, Randy’s bespectacled and tall friend returned to the bar and noticed that Randy and I were engaged in conversation and said in a friendly voice, “Why are you sitting over there by yourself, darling? Come over here and join us. We don’t bite unless you want us to.”

  I smiled shyly and moved from my barstool and went over to the corner and introduced myself to Randy and his friends. The group included William “Willa” Rhodes, the man who had invited me over; James, a handsome brown-skinned young man with wire-rimmed glasses and dark, short, curly hair, who when he had too much to drink loved to talk and sing in a high-pitched voice; and Denise Johnson, the lady in the group, a stout woman with skin the color of a cinnamon roll and a short Afro, who always seemed to be carrying a rolled-up copy of the New York Post. At first I assumed she was a lesbian, but I later discovered that she simply loved hanging out with gay men and reminded me of my friend Deborah Long from Dallas.

  I told the group my name and immediately began to feel a little uncomfortable, like I was sitting at the cool kids’ lunch table and I didn’t quite belong.

  “So where are you from, darling, with that cute old southern accent?” William asked.

  “Texas. I just moved here from Dallas,” I said, failing to mention that I’d grown up in Arkansas.

  “Is it true what they say ’bout Texas?” he asked as his large eyes seemed to loom over his glasses and peer toward my crotch.

  “What do you mean?” I asked stupidly. Even though I noticed his eyes, I really didn’t know what he was talking about. I must have looked bama, like I was wearing a purple suit with matching tennis shoes.

  “Now come on, darling. You know what I’m talking about.” My face changed colors from embarrassment. Randy noticed, and he looked at William and said, “Stop it, Willa,” then looked over at me, smiled, and said, “Forgive her. She doesn’t mean any harm.”

  I smiled and said, “No offense taken.”

  We shared our first laugh. As the evening wore on, I learned more about the group. Willa was a graduate of Dartmouth College and Columbia University and was an elementary school teacher in Jersey City. Tall and regal-looking, he was my first male diva close friend. I remember one occasion when someone at the bar complimented him on his beautiful full-length mink coat and he replied as he draped the coat over the barstool, “You talking about this old thing?” One year for his annual birthday bash he sent out invitations with a photo of him lounging in the coat and leather pants and the question “What Becomes a Legend Most?” printed underneath in bold letters. One year the theme was “Dreamboys.”

  James had graduated with Randy from J School and had simultaneously completed a law degree. He was also a part-time preacher. He didn’t have a church, but he was a preacher.

  A Marymount graduate, Denise was an administrative assistant at one of the record companies. She was always full of good stories about famous people in the music industry and loved to twirl around on the barstools after a couple of drinks.

  I discovered that no members in the group were lovers but simply good friends. Willa had some cute and usually sexual anecdote that he would share about almost every man who came over to speak to them. It was as though he was not only the leader of the group but the sexual historian of the Nickel Bar. If a couple met at the Nickel, Willa knew the details.

  Over a long weekend, the group practically became my family in New York. They became my role models, because they seemed so self-assured, proud to be black and gay, while I was still unsure of who I was and if I would ever be comfortable with who I was, and the details of that identity. New York gay life was different from that in the South. Everything was out in the open and nobody seemed to care. I had a lot to learn, and they were willing to be the perfect teachers.

  Members of the group cruised any man they were vaguely interested in with a staggering success rate that left me in awe. I would have been happy to simply take their rejects. The only time I had the courage to appr
oach a man in a bar was after I had about four drinks, and even with the aid of liquid courage I was rarely successful in getting dates.

  I have to admit that initially I found myself attracted to Randy. He was smart and his eyes were a smoky topaz color and his mouth seemed to form a perfect bow. But Randy made it clear in one of our early conversations, without being mean or bitchy, that I wasn’t his type. He quickly added that even though he had several close friends, he was always looking for new ones.

  With Randy as my friend, and with Willa’s approval, I became a member of The Group, as I began to call them. It was like being a member of a small gay fraternity or gay gang. There were many nights when we would get drunk and terrorize gay establishments from Harlem to the Village. When I say terrorize, I mean making a spectacle of ourselves and anyone who crossed our paths. All, of course, in good fun.

  On Saturday nights we would meet at one another’s apartments for potluck dinners, drinking and watching The Golden Girls and 227. We would be joined by two more of Willa’s friends: Robert Mason, a banker and one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, and Stuart, Willa’s schoolteacher cousin.

  After the shows had gone off, we would gather in the living room and sit in a circle and talk about our hopes and dreams for the future. Randy wanted to be a famous writer and was already working on a novel, James wanted to become a world-renowned preacher like Reverend Ike, and Denise wanted to meet and marry a totally straight man. My only wish was to meet someone who would love me as much as I loved him. Willa talked about buying a huge house in either Harlem or Jersey City, where we could all live and grow old together, like the Golden Girls. After a few drinks we would head to Keller’s, a bar in the village we liked because it was similar to the Nickel.

  When we would become bored with New York, Willa would organize trips to Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, New Orleans and Chicago. He had a great travel agent and usually had close friends in these cities who would make sure we were welcomed properly, which usually meant some type of dinner party in our honor. Dinner guests would always include the best-looking gay black men the city had to offer.

  Willa was born on the Fourth of July, and every year he threw a huge bash to celebrate his birth and the holiday, in that order. An invitation to Willa’s party was coveted by many of the Nickel bar regulars, and Willa passed them out as though they were gold credit cards with no limit. One year he changed clothes every hour on the hour, producing a fashion show that would put any diva to shame. At the top of the hour Willa would saunter into the middle of the room, drink in hand, and twirl as the crowd roared its approval. Willa would smile, soak in the adulation, and say, “Well, darlings, it must be seven o’clock: Eight must be just around the corner.” He ended the evening in a gold sequin bolero jacket and tight-fitting black slacks. The rest of the group could only smile and shake our heads as Randy whispered to me, “This bitch has lost his mind.”

  Life for me in New York was turning out to be wonderful, even though there were still remnants of my life in the South. I had three different groups of friends: gay, straight, and those who fell into a little crooked category, meaning they were not always straight when the lights went out.

  Lencola was still my roommate and close friend, as was Tracey Nash, a successful New York model, a friend from my Dallas days whom I had met at Rascals and later at Southern Methodist University when I was taking some grad courses in the business school. Tracey was an engineering student. She is a lovely young lady whose kindness equaled her beauty. I never quite understood why she wanted to be my friend, because I knew her father was a big-time doctor in St. Louis, Missouri. Rumor had it that if you were born black in St. Louis, then Dr. Nash most likely was your pediatrician.

  My lack of self-esteem was not limited to my involvement in the gay lifestyle. I basically thought that everybody I met during this period was better than I was. None of these friends, to the best of my knowledge, knew about my gay life or my new friends, who weren’t going to pretend to be straight for anybody. Lencola knew only of my dates with women, not the men I brought home when I knew she wouldn’t be there. At times I felt like I was living in my mother’s house, with all of the sneaking and late-night creeping.

  Tracey lived a couple of blocks from Lencola and me in a new high-rise on Ninety-sixth and Broadway and was always inviting me to great straight parties, usually attended by a lot of New York buppies from Ivy League universities with high-paying jobs on Wall Street. I was intimidated by a lot of these people, often envious of their education, occupations, and the air of confidence they seemed to possess. I would mask my insecurities by drinking and lying, creating more lies about my background and station in life. Even though I was making a decent salary at Wang, I was a terrible money manager and was definitely living above my means with the help of credit cards. On occasion I would meet young ladies who captured my attention and really made me feel like one day I could get married. I would send them flowers and escort them to Broadway shows and dinner at places like the Russian Tea Room and Sardi’s. But once the evening or the weekend ended, it was off to the Nickel Bar and The Group, where I was slowly learning that maybe some of my truths could set me free.

  ON THE FIRST WEDNESDAY in August 1983, a friend, Hank Lamar from Dallas, was visiting, so I took the day off, and along with Willa we went to a matinee of an off-Broadway play, The Miss Firecracker Contest, starring the future Oscar winner Holly Hunter. During the summers, Willa and I often went to plays, because being a teacher he was off for three months, and I rarely went into my office, scheduling sales calls and meetings from home around my social schedule.

  After the play the three of us met Randy, James, and Denise at the Nickel for evening cocktails. Willa and I were sharing some of the play’s best lines with the rest of the group when Willa noticed a tall, caramel-colored man with tender brown eyes and thick curly black hair sitting alone at the bar. He was wearing a white linen shirt, which was open enough to reveal think black chest hair, and he had on white walking shorts and black sandals. He was slim but not skinny, and there was a sense of athleticism about him. Willa was quickly smitten. He invited the young man over to join the group. The man agreed and introduced himself as Mario Robinson. He smiled and shook the hands of each member of The Group and gave Denise a hug like they were old friends. “Damn, you smell good,” Denise said as she winked at Willa.

  Good-looking men were a part of the regular fare at the Nickel Bar, but Mario had a sweet innocence that led me to believe that he had no idea how good-looking he was. Willa ordered another round of drinks for everyone and went into his witty routine of twenty questions.

  I learned Mario lived in Harlem, was a software salesman like myself, and was the son of an African American father and Italian mother, which explained his smoldering looks. I could tell from Willa’s questions that his forwardness was making Mario nervous. The poor man looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat several times. Trying to help out, I cut in and asked him how long he had a been a salesman. He gave me a smile of thanks as we talked about our mutual career interests.

  When it came to men, Willa sometimes had the attention span of a fly, so when he noticed how well Mario and I were getting along, he shifted his attention to someone else. My eyes met Mario’s in a swift, private smile as he turned toward the bar and ordered another beer. I started to offer to buy his drink, but before I could make a decision, a guy on Mario’s left slammed money on the bar. Mario looked at him and gave him a polite smile and then turned back toward me.

  About an hour later, Willa decided that it was time for us to move the party down to the Village, but before telling everyone he whispered in my ear, asking if I liked Mario. I smiled and said, “Yeah, I think he’s real nice.” I wanted to add that there was no way he would be interested in me, but I didn’t because Willa was always getting on me about my lack of self-confidence.

  “Okay, baby,” he said. “Mother will close the deal for you.” He moved over and positioned himself betwe
en Mario and the guy who had bought Mario’s beer and quickly whipped out one of his cards. I heard him tell Mario he was having a dinner party on Tuesday of the following week and he wanted him to come. Willa could pull together an elegant party quicker than B. Smith and Martha Stewart working together. Mario looked at me with a tense look on his face, then asked Willa if he could bring his lover. I kept the smile on my face, but I felt my heart sink. Always quick on his feet, Willa leaned on Mario’s shoulder and quizzed, “Do you really have to?”

  “I think I better,” Mario said.

  As we were walking from the club and toward the subway station, Mario tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned around, he said, “I really enjoyed talking to you. Do you think your friend would mind if I put your home number on the back of his card? That is, if you can give me your number,” he said, and smiled.

  “Sure, I don’t think he would mind,” I said. I was wondering why Mario wanted my number, since he had a lover. I really wasn’t looking for any new friends outside The Group. But I took the pen he held out and wrote my number on the back of Willa’s card.

  The rest of the evening, Willa and Randy kept teasing me about my fascination with Mario and his apparent interest in me. When I protested, reminding them that he had a lover, they all agreed that didn’t mean anything. Maybe they were hoping that my dream of finding a love of my own was about to come true.

  MUCH TO MY SURPRISE and delight, Mario called me the next day and we talked for almost two hours. When we started to end our conversation, he said he was looking forward to seeing me again soon, and without a pause out came “How about Saturday?”