That night in his apartment in Chelsea, Paul put the Doors on the stereo and looked at himself in the mirror. Pouring himself a scotch, he wondered about Matthew’s daughters— what they looked like, what they thought of their father and his silk flowers. He thought about Everett. He had seen Everett the week before, leaving the bar he owned on Greenwich Avenue; he had recognized Everett’s shoulders and remembered the freckles on his back. Everett had a salt-and-ginger mustache that Paul had liked. He considered calling Everett, but decided not to. Too much time had gone by. It wasn’t often, though, in these last few years, that he had dated someone nine times.
THE SUMMER WAS THE HOTTEST Paul could remember. The streets seemed to glow with perspiration and the Puerto Rican construction workers walked shirtless down Fifth Avenue past Paul’s library window.
Mrs. Kolwicki had gone back to Keansburg, New Jersey, and now took the bus up only on weekends. Annie had gone back to work part-time, belligerently wearing her silk blouse without a bra. “This way they won’t have to strain their eyes,” she said. In early August Ted announced he was taking a job in San Diego; he wanted Jeremy to visit for Labor Day, if he could get the boy a free flight.
During the last week in August Paul flew up to a resort near Bar Harbor and met two men. One turned out to have a lover in the next room: “We took separate rooms so we could have our own adventures,” Paul was told. He went sailing with a physician named Michael who was fifty, trim, and weather-beaten. Michael had invited him to fly out to Lansing for Thanksgiving.
The day after Paul got back, Annie invited him over. When she opened the door, Paul saw Jeremy playing with the airplane from F.A.O. Schwarz. Jeremy put it down guiltily.
“Coffee?” Annie asked. “Or Valium?”
“Scotch, please.” Paul took off his jacket, poured them both drinks, and sat down on Jeremy’s bed while Annie took off her sandals and put on the ruby-colored ballet slippers Paul had given her that spring. He reached over and turned on the air conditioner.
“Jeremy—” Annie said.
“I know. Go play in the hall.”
Annie laughed. She closed the door behind him and locked it; with her back pressed against the jamb, she grinned at Paul. “At last, I’ve got you alone, you beautiful man.”
“Are you going to ravish me?”
“You bet. How was your trip? Are you married now?”
“No, but I had a good time.”
“What a shame.” Annie picked up her drink and sat down on the bed. “It’s recurred in the scar.”
She lit a cigarette, handed it to Paul, and lit another for herself. “What now?” Paul asked, finally.
“Chemotherapy. I found out last week while you were away. The worst part so far is that my armpit hair has fallen out. It had just been growing in again. Plus, I want to throw up all the time, like Jeremy.”
Paul felt his hands start to shake. The air conditioner blew against his ear.
“So what do you think?”
He made himself look into Annie’s eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“Be friendly, let me cry on your shoulder once in a while.”
“Let’s eat out—just you and me.”
“I’m not hungry. And what about Jeremy?”
“We should do something tonight.”
They were quiet for a while. Annie stubbed out her cigarette and took the butt from Paul’s hand. “You know, lots of young people die all the time—wars, floods, famine, AIDS. You could die, too.”
“That’s silly.” Paul stood up.
“Of course you could. You’re as mortal as the rest of us.”
“I mean you shouldn’t think like that.”
“Sooner or later I’ll shuffle out. And I want to talk to you about Jeremy.”
“We should all go to a movie.”
“I want you to take Jeremy.”
Paul went cold.
“In the event of my death, I want you to be Jeremy’s legal guardian. I’m going to write it into my will tomorrow.”
“Annie, I don’t think—”
“No, we can’t talk about it later. You always avoid things.” Annie’s mouth was tight.
“But Ted,” Paul said feebly. “Or your mother.” He felt himself sink into a chair. A picture flashed into his mind of Annie’s apartment empty of its rugs and plants—and of endless days in Central Park with Jeremy’s hot hand limp in his.
“My mother’s a fool. She’s old, she wants to move to Florida, she watches too much television. Jeremy cries before she comes to visit. I don’t want Ted to have him. And Ted doesn’t want him.”
“Annie—”
“I don’t think you like Jeremy very much.”
“Of course I do.”
“He’s a very difficult boy to love. He’s ugly. He picks his nose. I’m not even sure he’s smart, although he may be. He’s been through a lot. Ted never wanted him; I think he would have preferred a dog.”
“But Jeremy won’t even talk to me!”
“I mentioned this to Ted before he left for San Diego,” Annie continued. She poured herself another drink. “I’ve never seen such relief on a grown man’s face. I’ll get him to give you child support, in return for visitation rights, and I’ve got a college fund for Jeremy. Now I still have to talk to my mother. She’ll bitch and moan and complain about you, but she’ll be putty in our hands.”
“Annie, no!”
Paul felt his sweat trickle into his mouth.
“No what?” Annie said.
“No you’re not going to die.”
“You mean, no you don’t want Jeremy.”
“Annie, I’m a certified all-American homosexual. I’m nobody’s father—I sleep around, I’ve got a small apartment. Jesus Christ, I have friends who wear dresses!”
“As far as the apartment is concerned, you should move in here so Jeremy can stay as P.S. 31—and if Jeremy is going to wear dresses, he’s going to wear dresses. You’re a good man. You can be dippy sometimes, and I’m not sure you know what you want your life to be, but you’re basically a good man. Jeremy loves you.”
Paul stared at his knuckles; they were the color of paste. “I don’t love Jeremy.”
“You will, after a while. He grows on you, like athlete’s foot. Besides, you need him. He’ll do you good, loosen you up. He’ll keep you out of the bars. You’re too old for that anyway.” She stood up. “So will you take Jeremy? I know this is all sort of sudden—”
“No!” Paul banged his drink down on the table. “No, you’re not going to die, and no I’m not going to take Jeremy!” He walked dizzily toward Annie. The room seemed smaller, all color.
“Damn it, Paul, do you think I want to? Do you think—”
“Put him up for adoption.”
Annie gasped.
“Put him up for adoption. Get Ted to surrender custody and talk to an agency. He’ll get a good home, with plenty of money and freedom, two parents. He’s white—”
Annie began to cry in thick sobs that exploded from her chest. She sat on Jeremy’s bed and pushed her hair into her face.
“Annie.”
“Get out.”
Paul touched her hair and she pulled away. “Get out.”
Taking his jacket, he walked like a drunk man to the door, but it wouldn’t open at first; he panicked and fumbled for the lock. As soon as the door shut behind him he started to cry. He felt the hiccup in his shoulders and he could barely see.
Jeremy didn’t hear him. He had his arms outstretched and he was making airplane noises, swooping toward the elevator door and swerving up and out just in time to avoid crashing his head against the wall. His lips sputtered. Sweat glistened on the back of his neck and his hair was wet. With his knees bent, he started to dive toward the ground and then, seeing Paul, he stopped sharply, almost losing his balance, but not quite.
“You’re crying.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s wrong?” Jeremy looked suspicious, then curious.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” Jeremy hesitated a second, cocked his head, and then took Paul’s hand. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to the cigarette urn. Paul sank down on top of it. Jeremy was blurry before him, but Paul could see that the boy was smiling his little rabbity smile, the smile he had given to the juggler. “Now tell me,” Jeremy said. “What’s wrong?”
ONCE IN SYRACUSE
David Brendan Hopes
I WENT SLINKING NIGHTS TO Clinton Station, singing to the warped tracks, “Like a Rolling Stone,” to make myself feel cold and forlorn. I took my leisure when the downtown stores closed and the down-eyed walkers emerged and the nighthawks set to hunting around the sky-high neon. I flattened against walls at the purr of the approaching police car. I joined dazed souls wandering between Clinton and the Park, seeking nothing in particular, seeking anything misplaced or forgotten in the frowsy dark. I learned which mean drunk to steer clear of. I learned which alley was safe, which back door left open. If I had known what I wanted I might have known where to look. But I walked, night after night. I lounged on glassy walls, poked into grates, nosed the trash of courtyards, listened at cracked windows, prowled parks and street-glared plazas, through radical night.
Cops must have thought I was hustler long before I was. I don’t know what the hustlers thought at first, but they saw me watch them. I learned their feint-dance to the tentative car doors. I learned their slouch and swagger, how they machoed protectively when the streets were empty and they were thrown back lonely on each other. I learned the moves. I was good, and when it was for real the cops never saw me. Cars stopped. Need a ride? I’d shrug, look bored, get in. They drove for a while, feeling me out to see if I were a cop or a crazy, and I them. They stopped in the shadow of a building, or in an open parking lot where you could see trouble coming a long way. Touch me. Suck and nuzzle, I kicking the floor and arching my back against the seat. They took me to the Baths over Dunkin’ Donuts. Dark and stench, men supine in tiny rooms, waiting, the dim light turning flesh to wax and corpse. They’d lay me down. Crushed, smothered, wanting more. I heard a voice groaning in the salt and heat, and it was mine. At morning, light lay on Warren Street, pristine, accusative. You’d look both ways at the door to make sure nobody would see you leaving.
I had a girl friend then. She didn’t ask what I was doing because she knew. Her marvelous self-confidence would not permit even a moment’s jealousy. It was something I had to get out of my system. She was certain that when I had sampled it all I would see what was better and return to her, so lovely. In a perfect world she would have been right.
I knew the major cruise bar long before I dared to enter. Yet could one simply walk in? Was there a membership ritual? A card? A password? Once admitted, what did you say? I practiced “gin and tonic” in the shadow of the Dunkin’ Donuts until it had an easy, familiar ring. I would say “gin and tonic.” Just here for a drink. They might think I had come by accident. If it were horrible I would turn and go. If it were horrible enough perhaps it would shock me normal. I might have deliberated forever if it hadn’t been for the cop cars passing, slower each time they cruised my corner and saw I hadn’t moved, if it hadn’t been for the whores asking every five minutes, each time with greater vehemence, if I didn’t need a date. I filled my lungs, ran Warren Street, let that mysterious door click shut behind me.
Men danced on an elevated platform caught in a crossfire of strobes. The air was hot and tinctured with a clash of colognes and piss and old beer. A bartender in beard and pearls asked me what my pleasure was, and, although I don’t remember uttering a syllable, a gin and tonic wafted through the smoke into my hands. The tonic gleamed with black light. My shirt was a purple conflagration. I had never seen that before, and I took it for a baroque and peacock omen. The bartender put his mouth to my ear and said, “This one’s on us, honey. Relax and enjoy. We are fam-i-lee.”
I relaxed and enjoyed.
In succeeding months I ran at rolling boil. I was consuming fire. In one week I slept alone one night and in ten other weeks not at all. I stopped keeping track. I would leave one asleep in his bed and crawl out into the wee-hours streets cruising for another. Usually I made them take me to their place, but if that were impossible and the weather was not right for the bushes of Thornden Hill, I brought them home humping and groaning in my room until the spent sleep of morning.
I saw in the bar mirrors that I was golden. Men said, “There’s nobody in the bar like you,” and I believed them. I perched on my stool, legs spread, looking bored and sexy, waiting. And I met August.
I have given up trying to imagine what August thought first seeing me. In memory what I thought at that instant was beautiful! What I tasted was longing. What I saw was a face thin and angular, the effect refinement rather than emaciation. It tapered severely toward the mouth, its one weak feature. High Inca cheekbones. Skin coppery under curled hair that seemed sometimes silvery, sometimes jet black. The blue eyes shown huge and luminous, their blueness the more striking for being housed in that Minoan face. A scar like a tiny lightning bolt divided the right eyebrow. Around him stirred a scent of spice. Without realizing what I did, I leaned in to smell the spice. He touched my face to welcome me.
Never had I felt more beautiful. We met at the theater bar when he was starring in a bad production of a bad Albee, without distinction other than the melancholy grace with which he moved amid the disaster. His social smile altered to surprise, then delight, then a multi-valent seductiveness calculated to suggest at once the Marlboro Man and the coquette. His facility of expression confused me. Such openness could belong either to a whore or a naif. Of course it was a performance, but anyone who has ever performed knows that to “perform” at moments of high emotion does not necessarily imply insincerity, but the desire that appearance might duplicate passion. I stared. He stared back. He looked like a man turning a diamond over in his hand before naming a price.
August asked the barmaid for a pen. He wrote a note on a cocktail napkin. He folded, gave it to me, telling me not to open it until he was gone.
When he had swept through the door I opened it. It read just, Midnight. I knew where. Of all the assignation bars along Warren Street, to only one would you be drawn by the single word midnight on a cocktail napkin.
As I hustled to the Bunkhouse I checked my look in the back store window. I was all right. I was golden. The whores knew me by then and let me know with their eyes whether the streets were safe. Andi swayed on her stilettos in the flower dress that meated her bones. She lifted her eyes up and to her right. OK, CD. Copless. Sultry. Can’t talk now, risk losing the John in the red Camaro. Everything copasetic.
I pushed back the Bunkhouse door, let it swing shut in a slow arc. The visible thing inside was August, a pale flame, imperial, drawing light from around and concentrating it in himself, bent over a sparkling drink at the bar. He was dressed all in white. Maybe there were other colors, but I saw only the white of August in the dark of everything. His belt studded with polished metal glinted like mirrors in the barlight. I felt myself breathing hard, as though I had run a long way. A man stood beside him, with his hand looped in the mirror belt. But August was not looking at him. August was looking at me.
I strutted to his side. I lifted my hand to touch him. His escort’s hand met mine midair. He moved to stand between August and me. He said, “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I said, “you can get out of my way.”
Maybe it was August’s dancing on the strobe-lit disco floor, shifting and weaving with black-lit tonic in his hand, the gas blue whiteness of his shirt. Maybe it was the fire when we danced that first or any time, when in the world there were two dancers, dark wings of sweat across our backs, angels stigmataed by sweat and liquor in the smoky light. There was nobody like us. Maybe I loved him for the eyes that hooked us from the shadows when we danced, eyes that loved and wanted us as daily men are never loved and wanted. We were antelope and crane, steel gear, white silk. We stol
e something from the night beyond the room, something from the real stars the bar light mocked. The Dance came in, drumming through our feet as the disco one/two thumped out against the trash street. Had it been just love I could have ridden it better, survived unscathed as I had survived before, or at worst wept bitterly with my knuckles in my teeth a night or two and been at peace. But he was not another pick-up, not another man. He was the first Lover. Whatever man he was already counted less, was already forgotten.
August’s escort laughed. He stopped laughing when August pushed past him into my embrace. I saw the man’s face twist with loss. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t; I was exultant; I was sick to my guts with exultation and triumph and fear. August breathed to me, “Let’s dance,” and we danced, hard, hot, so the men backed against the wall clapping rhythmically, shouting Go! into the smoky strobes. When we were done, we turned our backs like gods done with goding for the night.
August waved down a cab on Warren Street and took me to his apartment. I remember shying from him, because of the driver, but the driver was his regular and had seen everything, and August’s tongue moved on my neck. I wrestled him to the floor just inside his vestibule, unable to wait, unable to get close enough no matter how I gathered him in. August laughed, high and clear. I’ve always hated screamers, but I heard myself screaming. His blue eyes floated over mine, sweat bright on his face in the candlelight, the black hair curled with damp on the back of his neck. A cloud of spice. I ground him into the sheet with my chest, unable to get close enough. He laughed, pulling, holding, of whatever I gave him wanting more. By the candle my skin was snow on his honey, ivory against gold. I couldn’t believe two men could be so beautiful.
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