How Long Has This Been Going On (40 page)

"You're cryin'," said Blue.

"No, I'm not."

"You ain't got tears, but it's cryin' just the same. So come here." Blue made room for the Kid and patted the bed. "Lie down, son. Whitey Blue's gonna fix you up."

"No."

"Come on." Blue gently pulled the Kid down to lie beside him. "I want to date you some more."

A few blocks to the west, along the river, a youngish man in jeans and bomber jacket strides up Eleventh Avenue, hands in pockets because of the heavy wind. (He has plenty of gloves and scarves at home, but bourgeois accoutrements look sissy in the Strap, whither he is headed.) As theman crosses Eighteenth Street, he sees two teenagers armed with baseball bats coming toward him from the northern side of the street, and he instinctively turns to run south. But no sooner has he whirled around than two more teenagers come up on his rear, similarly armed. As they close in, one of them says, "This'll even the score for last week, faggot."

Paul was on the phone with Henry, moaning and lecturing. "It's hopeless," Paul said. "In the last six months, we've picked up exactly two new members. How can we accomplish anything until we're a
crowd?"

"Calm down, Paul. That's the point of the dance—to get a whole gang of us together to—"

"Dancing?
We're going to change the world by
dancing?"

"Dancing is the
introduction,
Paul. Political organization is the goal, but we've got to start somewhere. We're having flyers printed up to hand out at the door, and of course if the dance turns out to be hot, everyone will want to join the group so they can—"

"A
dance!"
said Paul, seething. "How could a dance lead to sociopolitical
awareness?"

"Paul, we're not registering voters. We're trying to institute the notion of a community."

"I only agreed to this dance in the first place because I wanted
some
event that I couldn't be left out of."

Henry laughed. "I'm sorry, Paul. But you know there's a generation gap here."

"Gay boys are so heedless of mature men. We're invisible."

"Paul, American youth in general is heedless of mature people."

"And what
was
the Red Party, anyway, since nobody told me about it?"

"Same old thing. Somebody hired a loft and invited all the circuit beauties and everybody wore red."

"Red suits? Red shoes? It's ridiculous!"

"I can't say I noticed any suits, Paul. It was more like a black top over red shorts and then you'd take the top off. Jezebel came in a red ball gown with an orange whatever-it-may-be around his shoulders. He was pretty stunning."

"I don't see the
aim
of it, and I'm getting impatient."

"I've got to go. I'll see you later."

Henry hung up and went on to Andy, who had been listening to the whole thing with a smile. They were in Andy's apartment after a long day of living their lives, and Andy was tired and happy.

"Poor Paul," Andy said, as Henry dropped next to him on the couch, holding him, in control. "He's always cranky."

"He's annoyed because he missed out on all this. They didn't have gay dances when Paul was twenty-two. Or gay plays."

The two had just been to gay plays, in fact, on a double bill entitled
Geese,
about the sexual relationships between, first, two young men and, next, between two young women. "Relevant" theatregoing was part of Henry's program to construct his relationship with Andy, to create an emotional bond using the available social norms. They went to movies and off Broadway, sampled cookbooks, did the grocery shopping together, took exploring walks in odd parts of town with guide in hand, caught the same cold together: in short, mated.

The sexual component was less easy to maintain than the rest of it, but Henry was imaginative and Andy was willing. They experimented. They made love in the shower, or partly dressed. They pretended to be strangers picking each other up in the A & P; frat brothers coming out to each other in their room after months of nursing a secret crush; two sailors on leave, with Henry cooing redneck come-ons into Andy's ear, such as "We're gonna shack up tonight, see?" and "You know what it means to be asshole buddies?"; a nervous john (Andy) picking up a hustler (Henry, who modeled his part on Blue). They tried a threesome with Martin, who directed them in a "fuck sandwich": Henry screwed Andy on his stomach, then turned him over so Martin could blow him. Andy said it was interesting but he wouldn't do it again for all the rice in China; and Henry rather liked hearing that. He knew that he was not born to be monogamous, that the excitement of the multiplying possibilities in gay life would always inveigle him. But he resented the loss of control; he felt like a lion having to hunt for dinner every day; Henry wanted to have it right there, like a container of cottage cheese. There were certain hazards to worry about as well. He actually knew someone who had had syphilis—which, to Henry, was like knowing Nana or Doctor Pangloss: fantastical. Henry wanted everything plain and true. He was twenty-eight and contemplating the future. He fancied the image of the settled-in, middle-class gay—could there be such a thing? He would give up bars for brunches, cruising for homesteading. He didn't like the idea of becoming a man whose address is the street.

"You want a nightcap?" Henry asked Andy, heading for the fridge. "There's some white wine left from last night."

"I'm pretty beat. I was going to shower and hit the sheets."

Henry smiled. "Go on. I'll have a glass and then we'll..."

"Okeydokes."

They had come back to Andy's place right after the show, and, while Andy went to the bathroom, Henry had unplugged Andy's phone, just in case Andy's parents tried to horn in. Sipping the wine, Henry glanced at the phone—yep, still neutralized. Control. Andy's family was going to break this habit of checking up on him whether they liked it or not. More important, Andy was going to have to do the breaking.

This is easy, Henry thought, lounging and drinking, listening to the running water. It's comfortable. It flows. And it's very pleasant absorbing Andy's admiration. The kid has seen so little of life that attending the theatre is his Book of Revelation. I could learn to love his style, couldn't I? He has the makings of something.

Andy came out of the shower lazily toweling himself, his hair a mop and his eyes dreaming. He started to grin at Henry, but broke into a yawn, like a child kept up on Christmas Eve. Henry got up and undressed, and they moved to Andy's little bed. Tonight, Henry decided, the sex was going to be conventional: kissing and stroking, sixty-nine, then some buddy-up penetration, Henry on top, with Andy on his stomach first and then flipped over for the climax. They were still blowing each other when Andy's buzzer rang.

"Ignore it," said Henry; but it kept ringing, a series of long and insistent buzzes, a rest, then the buzzes again.

Andy scrambled up to answer as Henry said, "It's some drunk"—but listen to what Henry heard Andy say after hello:

"Well, it's probably just disconnected."

"I don't
need
to check it now. I'm in bed. I'll check it tomorrow."

"No, you can't, I
told
you, I'm in bed."

Then Andy turned helplessly to Henry with his hand over the speaker and said, "It's my father. He wants to come up."

"Let him," said Henry, stroking himself. "Let him right in here."

"Jesus, what do I do now?"

"Tell him that if he doesn't back off and leave you alone, you will cut him and the rest of your fucking family off for one full year, no less. And if he makes any attempt to contact you during that year, you will double it and start counting all—"

The buzzer interrupted Henry, ringing over and over, longer and longer, demanding and pushing and taking and mashing.
I own you,
it said. You
give
me what I
want!

Andy was hugging himself and weeping as the buzzer continued tosound. The tenant next to Andy, disturbed by the noise, was banging on the wall.

Henry bounded up and held Andy, comforted him. "Let's call the police," he said. "I'll get dressed and leave, and when the cops arrive—"

"You can't call the police on your father," Andy sobbed. "They're all fathers, too. They'll arrest me!"

"Have we any molten lead? No, right, it's a rear apartment."

"Oh, thanks for joking at a time like this."

But you know what? The buzzing had stopped.

"We won," said Henry.

"Yeah." Andy wiping his eyes, poor kid.

"Listen," said Henry. "When you move—I'm dead serious now—you
must not tell them your address.
You hear me, Andy? The only reason they can do this to you is, well, you let them. You empower them to—"

Now it was angry knocking on Andy's front door.

"Adreiano! Open to me or I will break it down!"

"Who is that?" said Henry. "Mussolini's gardener?"

"He has a slight accent."

Andy's neighbor was banging wildly on the wall.

"Adreiano! You
open!"

"You can't go on like this, Andy," said Henry.

"Adreiano, who is talking?" Kicking the door, slamming into it, the father who is God.

"Andy, I swear to you, if you don't lay down the law to these disgusting idiots, I'm through with you."

"No,
Henry! You know how much I count on you! You shouldn't even joke about that!"

"Adreiano! What voices I hear?"

"I'm not joking, Andy. Just... just
look
at how you live!"

Henry gestured at the door, at Mr. Del Vecchio's continued assault and the neighbors' infuriated reactions—besides the hammering on Andy's wall, two people were shouting at Andy's father in the hall.

"Look at how you let them trap you. He'll keep that up until you let him in."

"Adrei
an
o! Adrei
an
o! Adrei
an
o! Adrei
an
o!"

"And if you do let him in, he'll see me and figure out what you are."

"No! You're a friend who is visiting."

"In the nude?"

"Well, let's get—"

Henry grabbed Andy's arm. "You can lie about it. I won't."

The banging had stopped, and other voices were heard talking in the hall: Apparently someone had called the police. Andy was jumping into his clothes, calling out "Just a moment, please!" over his shoulder at the cops' summons, a sharp rap and "Open up, police." Henry just stood there, to let it be what it is, as Andy opened the door so slightly a fleeing mouse would have passed it up. Slipping outside, Andy talked to the cops, who had to restrain Mr. Del Vecchio from attacking Andy. The law made short work of the incident, sending Andy back inside after he declined to press charges and warning Mr. Del Vecchio that if they were called back this night he'd spend the rest of it as a guest of the city.

"Got me, pal?" said one of the cops, in closing.

Mr. Del Vecchio muttered something, the cop rapped again on Andy's door, called out, "G'night, there, kid," and the hall was empty.

Henry and Andy were immobile, staring at each other, Henry serious and still naked, Andy miserable and clothed (with his pants on backward). Henry shook his head.

"Tell me what to do," said Andy, "and I'll do it."

"No, you won't. They've got you. You're not their helpless victim. You're their enthusiastic dupe."

"Tell me the cure," Andy pleaded. "I want to live the way you do, Henry. Can I put my arms around you?"

Henry was silent, and Andy stayed put.

Then Henry said, "I can't respect someone who accepts this... this unspeakable terrorism. Sacred Acts wants the world to grant legal protections to the most despised people on earth, and one of its members can't even get his father and mother off his back for one night. What a worm you are, Andy."

Henry reached for his shorts as Andy came up behind him.

"Henry, how can you be so hard with me?"

Henry shrugged. "You like it when your parents do it."

"I
don't
like it."

"If you didn't like it, you wouldn't let them do it. You don't try to stop them, so you must like it."

"I've told you and told you, they're like an octopus. You get some tentacles off and they wrap more around you." Andy started crying. "Just hold me." "No."

Andy moved away and sank onto his couch. He wiped his eyes and watched Henry finish dressing.

"Henry, please talk to me."

Henry seemed to be weighing the next move in his mind. Leave? Not leave? Say something?

"Tell me what to do, Henry" came out of Andy with such quiet decision that Henry immediately responded.

"All right," he said. "Listen. One, first thing tomorrow you change your phone to an unlisted number. Two, call your parents. Tell them you won't be over for the Sunday dinners for a month, because of what happened tonight. Tell them you will institute these boycotts every time they impose on your privacy. Three, you'll say, My phone is now unlisted and out of your reach. I will not give you the number until the day dawns when you stop telling me what to do."

"What if there's an emergency?"

"There, see? You
are
their slave. You've internalized their propaganda so devotedly that you can spout the party line for them when they're not around." He laughed. "Andy, my friend, there are no emergencies."

"Someone could die."

"So? You can't raise the dead."

Andy was silent.

"There are no emergencies," Henry repeated. "There is only their desire to crash you, and your willingness to let them. I can't take this poison into my life."

"No. I'll do it. I will, Henry."

"Maybe you shouldn't." Pensive Henry. "The way you live, you'll only be exchanging one tyrant for another. Frankly, I don't see myself as a tyrant."

"You're my
hope!"

"Really? Because I'm Give Me Liberty or Death, and you're—"

"I want it, too, Henry. Liberty."

Henry blinked at him.