fruity metallic smell? But I’d walked the entire seven miles, not even bothered by the sand in my sneakers, the blisters on my feet.
I kept threading down the halls, if only because I couldn’t stand still. I didn’t want anyone to greet me, or touch me, or pay me the slightest bit of attention. But I liked being in the thick of it, little dramas of pursuit and rejection crackling around me like fires. Gathering my nerve, I glanced at the faces of the—customers? There was an old man—tall, slouchy, wedding band tight on his finger—who might have been on his way home from choir practice. There was a coke dealer, I presumed, with vibrant blue eyes and sunwrecked hair. There was a businessman, sleeves still crisp from the cleaners; a dark-skinned guy with tiny red rings in his ear. All told there were nearly a dozen—fat, skinny, old, young, rich, poor—none with anything in common, but for a melancholy expression, which clearly masked what I felt too: a longing for escape, otherness, transgression, connection.
I calmed down soon enough, fed my coins to the soda machine: a lighted box with a smeared, eye-shaped logo. The soda tasted delicious, an abrasive splash against the back of my throat. Actually, most of these fellows seemed to be having a decent enough time. Doors kept banging shut, then opening, admitting and releasing the hungry. One trucker-type practically danced a jig down the hall. Another strolled past with a look of dumb wonder on his face. “Oh, what the hell,” I said to the graffitied walls. It was time to stop thinking so much.
Still, I imagined William staring down at me through a hole in the ceiling, cataloging my gestures. I imagined his footsteps clomping across the parking lot, his husky brusque voice taking over the sound system. The music faded to static. “What are you doing here?” he said, grabbing me by the collar. “I can’t believe you’d punish me like this.”
Foolish thoughts. Foolish.
I found an empty booth and bolted the door. I panted slightly, dazed. Was I going to be sick? It still held the scents of its last inhabitant—perspiration, Right Guard, spilled semen, body heat. I rested my head on my knees. I glanced upward. Al Parker floated across the flickering screen, legs shining like the flanks of some heavenly animal. My vision blackened for a moment. I loved Al Parker. I concentrated on his exuberant brown beard, his hard vascular chest, his rakish Semitic nose. I concentrated on his dick, an enormous fleshy thing that wagged when he walked, with a jaunty personality all its own. But there was more to him than that. It wasn’t just his body, or his personal warmth, or his casual, fluent masculinity. It was his very persona, which told us that sex was fun, that there was a wide, wide world out there, more complicated and various than we’d ever assumed. He’d never call anybody else a faggot because he himself was a faggot, and he felt just fine about that, thank you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t here anymore: another soul, lost, like half the world, to AIDS. At least his image still quivered with life. I looked at the screen, then down at myself. There was Al, there was me.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Al was fucking a tall, rangy kid with a gap between his teeth. Together they gyrated over a workbench. The camera panned the kid, surveying every square inch of his skin, grazing past a deep violet mark on his wrist. A burn, a bruise, or what I feared it was? His hair—parted down the middle, shaggy over the ears—seemed right out of 1979, just before protected sex had become an issue. I hated to think the kid had done this while sick, all for the sake of making a few fast bucks. But who would have known then? Who would have thought the world was on the brink of such threat?
I went soft in my palm. I wanted to be home. I wanted its banality, its routines, the anonymous sanctuary of its dull gray rooms. Already I thought of the dogs barking as I worked
I kept threading down the halls, if only because I couldn’t stand still. I didn’t want anyone to greet me, or touch me, or pay me the slightest bit of attention. But I liked being in the thick of it, little dramas of pursuit and rejection crackling around me like fires. Gathering my nerve, I glanced at the faces of the—customers? There was an old man—tall, slouchy, wedding band tight on his finger—who might have been on his way home from choir practice. There was a coke dealer, I presumed, with vibrant blue eyes and sunwrecked hair. There was a businessman, sleeves still crisp from the cleaners; a dark-skinned guy with tiny red rings in his ear. All told there were nearly a dozen—fat, skinny, old, young, rich, poor—none with anything in common, but for a melancholy expression, which clearly masked what I felt too: a longing for escape, otherness, transgression, connection.
I calmed down soon enough, fed my coins to the soda machine: a lighted box with a smeared, eye-shaped logo. The soda tasted delicious, an abrasive splash against the back of my throat. Actually, most of these fellows seemed to be having a decent enough time. Doors kept banging shut, then opening, admitting and releasing the hungry. One trucker-type practically danced a jig down the hall. Another strolled past with a look of dumb wonder on his face. “Oh, what the hell,” I said to the graffitied walls. It was time to stop thinking so much.
Still, I imagined William staring down at me through a hole in the ceiling, cataloging my gestures. I imagined his footsteps clomping across the parking lot, his husky brusque voice taking over the sound system. The music faded to static. “What are you doing here?” he said, grabbing me by the collar. “I can’t believe you’d punish me like this.”
Foolish thoughts. Foolish.
I found an empty booth and bolted the door. I panted slightly, dazed. Was I going to be sick? It still held the scents of its last inhabitant—perspiration, Right Guard, spilled semen, body heat. I rested my head on my knees. I glanced upward. Al Parker floated across the flickering screen, legs shining like the flanks of some heavenly animal. My vision blackened for a moment. I loved Al Parker. I concentrated on his exuberant brown beard, his hard vascular chest, his rakish Semitic nose. I concentrated on his dick, an enormous fleshy thing that wagged when he walked, with a jaunty personality all its own. But there was more to him than that. It wasn’t just his body, or his personal warmth, or his casual, fluent masculinity. It was his very persona, which told us that sex was fun, that there was a wide, wide world out there, more complicated and various than we’d ever assumed. He’d never call anybody else a faggot because he himself was a faggot, and he felt just fine about that, thank you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t here anymore: another soul, lost, like half the world, to AIDS. At least his image still quivered with life. I looked at the screen, then down at myself. There was Al, there was me.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Al was fucking a tall, rangy kid with a gap between his teeth. Together they gyrated over a workbench. The camera panned the kid, surveying every square inch of his skin, grazing past a deep violet mark on his wrist. A burn, a bruise, or what I feared it was? His hair—parted down the middle, shaggy over the ears—seemed right out of 1979, just before protected sex had become an issue. I hated to think the kid had done this while sick, all for the sake of making a few fast bucks. But who would have known then? Who would have thought the world was on the brink of such threat?
I went soft in my palm. I wanted to be home. I wanted its banality, its routines, the anonymous sanctuary of its dull gray rooms. Already I thought of the dogs barking as I worked
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