Irving A. Greenfield — A Symphonic Afternoon

A Symphonic Afternoon
by Irving A. Greenfield

Mario’s fourth epiphany occurred in Avery Fisher Hall. He came into Manhattan from Fairfield, Connecticut, to attend a 2 o’clock performance of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and the featured soloist, a young Russian violinist, who would play Dvorak’s Violin Concerto.

Mario bought a ticket for the cheapest seat—a third tier box seat—though he readily could have afforded to buy a center orchestra seat. But he was there to immerse himself in the music and not be distracted by the conductor’s bouncing movements. In his opinion, having a conductor was just another example of showmanship and had nothing to do with the music.

Though there was an elevator to the third tier, Mario slowly climbed the marble steps. He told himself it was good for his heart, and therefore worth enduring the pain in his arthritic knees and hip joints.

Settled in his seat, Mario laid his coat neatly over his lap, took out his white metal frame glasses and began to read the program notes. He read carefully. None of the three pieces to be played were familiar. In addition to the Violin Concerto, there was another Dvorak composition, the “Overture” to The Devil and Kate, and Tchaikovsky’s Second Symphony, the Little Russian.

When he finished reading the program notes, Mario replaced his glasses in the outside breast pocket of his brown tweed jacket; and the folded program went into the inside breast pocket to show Anya, his wife. But he knew that she wouldn’t even bother to feign an interest in how he spent the afternoon. Rather than think about Anya and become upset, he gave his attention to what was happening in the concert hall. A French horn player and a trombonist tuned their instruments. Two violinists began to bow.

Suddenly the woman on his left said, “Isn’t it exciting to see and hear such a talent?”

He was about to answer, because the soloist will be on the conductor’s left, we will not see him. That would have been an accurate statement. But instead, he smiled and said, “Certainly to hear him.” Though it was half an answer, it seemed to satisfy her.

More of the players drifted to their places. The timpanist tuned his drums.

Mario’s attention was again diverted by the woman next to him. She said, “I have a subscription. I spent the morning in the museum and come here in the afternoon. Friday is my culture day,” she laughed.

Because it was an open invitation to engage in conversation and the woman seemed to be so jovial, Mario answered. “I’m in the city for the concert,” he said looking at her. She had gray hair done up in a bun, tortoise frame eyeglasses and wore a white jacket with a green sweater under it, and black slacks. In his opinion, carelessness not fit for a concert hall. He, on the other hand was fittingly dressed for the occasion: wearing a white shirt, a Brown tie and tan slacks and a brown Harris Tweed jacket, perfect attire for the afternoon event.

“I live within walking distance,” she said.

“I don’t think I could take the city on a full-time basis,” Mario responded. “I’m always thankful when I return home.”

Her round face became pensive, and several moments passed before she said, “I like the country, especially the seashore. From time to time, I go to Cape Cod or Sag Harbor. I’ve done paintings of each of those places. But the city—well, it throbs and I like the throb.”

Out of courtesy, he asked, “Should I know your work?”

She laughed, “I’m just an amateur painter with a means to indulge my amateurism.”

He was going to say she was in an enviable position. But he was in one too. He had been left a considerable sum of money by his father and received a substantial monthly pension check from the university where he had taught philosophy for thirty years.

“Painting provides me with another language, a way of expressing myself,” she said.

It was the way she said it—the self-congratulatory tone that immediately rankled him.

During his thirty years of teaching, he had heard and had read so much about self-expression that he had come to believe it was just another excuse a certain type of person would use to avoid responsibility either for an act of omission or commission. He wondered which of the two it was in her case.

“I’m not very good, but I have a great deal of fun being not very good,” she said with a smile.

Mario wanted to end the conversation before the woman said something that would disturb him. At sixty-six he was easily disturbed. Luckily the house lights dimmed, and there was a burst of applause for the concertmaster who began tuning the orchestra.

“Enjoy,” the woman said.

Mario managed a smile.

The conductor came on stage, and the applause was louder than it had been a few moments before and lasted longer. Eventually the applause subsided. A heavy silence filled the hall broken by several staccato coughs. Then, the music began.

The first selection, the overture to The Devil and Kate, didn’t last long enough to impress Mario. But the audience applauded wildly. The conductor took his customary walk offstage, returned and left again for several minutes while the stagehands rearranged the chairs to accommodate the additional instrumentalists for the Violin Concerto.

“The last piece had such lovely dance music,” the woman next to him said. “You could just feel the youthful exuberance.”

“Perhaps that youthful exuberance was a youthful lack of ability,” Mario suggested. “And to cover, if you will, to hide what he lacked the talent to express.”

The woman looked as if she were about to answer; but another burst of applause signaled the arrival of the conductor and the soloist.

The house became quiet and the music started.

Closing his eyes, Mario listened intently. The soloist played deftly and with emotional involvement. The music was intricate, and Mario found himself drifting away from it. Anya was the cause. She was his third wife. Lily was his first. He had been married to her for twenty-three years, long enough for his son, Paul, to graduate from college. He had endured almost a quarter of a century of marital and agony. He would have ended it sooner; but he not only had a son to consider, he also at that time had been a practicing Catholic.

The marriage ended without any explosion, not even a whimper. On a Friday afternoon he walked into the kitchen and said, “I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.” Lily didn’t even bother to look up from whatever she was doing, washing her hands, Mario remembered.

Four years later, Mario married a former student of his, Ellie. The marriage lasted two years. The woman was pathologically jealous; and he was guiltless of any marital indiscretion.

Shortly after his divorce from Ellie, his father died. His mother had died while he had been married to Lily. With a sizable inheritance from both his parents, he no longer had to scrape by on a professor’s salary out of which he had to pay two alimonies. His new status had enabled him to consider marriage again. By this time, he had met and had fallen in love with Anya, an Indian woman.

Of his three wives, Anya was the most beautiful and twenty-three years younger than he. She had a classic Indian face, black flashing eyes, waist-long, black hair that at times seemed to be iridescent, and exquisitely proportioned body. Her beauty captivated him; held him spellbound. Looking at her nude body not only gave him erotic pleasure but also artistic delight. Her breasts were high in fall with large pink nipples. Her ivory colored skin had a unique scent, especially when she oiled it with body lotion. And, unlike his supremely first wife, she thoroughly enjoyed every aspect of sexual intimacy.

Mario frowned; and the flow of the music caught him again. But the frown lingered. His own sexual needs and her ability—obviously her desire to fulfill them waned as he became more cognizant of the intellectual disparity between them, or so it seemed. But in truth he was aware of the difference between them before they married. She was an ordinary woman with no more than a secondary education while he had a doctorate in philosophy and taught aspects of it, especially those connected with Platonism, at the University. He hoped his overwhelming feelings for her would compensate for her lack of intellectual maturity. Even with this hope for their future, he came close to cancelling the marriage, but couldn’t see any way to do it and continue to maintain his dignity.

The sudden eruption of applause wrenched Mario away from his thoughts and back into the concert hall.

“Wasn’t that wonderful?” The woman next to him asked.

“Yes, quite spectacular,” Mario answered.

“It’s soulful music,” she said.

“Soulful?”

She laughed. “You know—the longing that is expressed. Something just beyond reach.”

Mario cocked his head to the left and raised his eyebrows.

“Haven’t you ever had that feeling that—you know something is out there but you can’t grasp it? I feel that way about my painting. Even with my dabbling, I feel I could do something… something better. But it’s not within my grasp.”

Mario nodded gravely. He understood what she said. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.” His tone of voice matched his considered nod.

The conductor returned for the last number on the program, The Little Russian Symphony.

Mario thought about the woman’s words. They expressed something about his own ideas about art, but they also expressed his concept of love—the passion, the sexuality, and the intellectual ties between a man and woman. He knew his problem: he wanted to be loved absolutely; and none of the women he married were capable of that kind of absolutism. Lily was passionless. Ellie’s accusations killed his desire. Though Anya had the passion, but she mistook soap opera reality for REALITY never bothering to think about those things that he spent his life thinking about. Once he asked her what she thought about good and evil; and she answered, “They exist.” He waited for some sort of development, a follow-up. But none came. “Why do they exist?” he pushed.

Anya shrugged. With her eyes glued to whatever nonsense she was watching on the TV she said, “Does it really matter?”

Mario wanted to scream, Of course it matters. It matters very much. But he restrained himself and walked out of the room.

Suddenly Mario sensed the end of one of the symphonies’ movements was coming. But because he had not been following the music, he had no idea which one it would be.

The music’s last three chords sounded and the applause exploded.

To Mario surprise the symphony had ended.

“What a delightful afternoon!” The woman next to him said; and she clapped vigorously each of three times the conductor reappeared on the stage.

The applause subsided. The house lights came up; and the people began to gather up their coats and move into the aisle.

Mario followed the woman.

When they reached the corridor behind the box, she said, “It was a pleasure to speak to you.” She held out her hand. “My name is Florence Winter, but my friends call me Flo.”

Mario took her hand and shook it. “The pleasure was mine,” he responded “I’m Dr. Mario Fusco.”

“A medical doctor?” She asked.

“To my father’s disappointment, only a Dr. of philosophy,” he answered. They were still holding hands, and he liked the feel of her hand in his.

“I’m impressed with anyone who has the stamina to get any kind of doctoral degree,” she said.

Mario nodded and released her hand.

“Will you be here next week?” She asked looking at him as they walk toward the stairs.

Mario hesitated looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, and with a smile, he answered: “Yes, I think I will.”

Adam F. Cornford — This Cambridge

This Cambridge
by Adam F. Cornford

Silvertone light after light rain’s on the learned city
where I grew from two to eighteen in waking time
Now I’m tipsy in this bar in a Tudor-built pub cellar
black timber-rivers mapping the white plaster walls
as outside the dreamed river eases under stone bridges
that echo in ripples the calls and laughter from boats
In here too hilarity rings off downhung glasses
glinting among translucent irises of gin and ale
I stand handshaking and glad at the heart of the crowd
festive in black and white you dear father beside me
have gathered to celebrate my return my campaign
to serve on the town council you began before I came
But father I already govern this brain-city the only
one where as you wished I can stay with you always

Nonnie Augustine — The Most Beautiful Lady

The Most Beautiful Lady
by Nonnie Augustine

I saw my first ballerina when I was four.
And that did it for me. That is what I would do
and like her is what I would be. She twirled
on her toes on the blurry TV, and she wore
the fanciest dress I had ever seen. The man
lifted her high over his head and swung her
in a circle. He dipped her low—I knew
he wanted to kiss her. And I thought he loved
her more than Daddy loved Mommy,
or Uncle Bob loved Aunt Peg,
or anyone loved me.

Juliet K. R. Cutler – Morogoro Markt

Morogoro Markt
van Juliet K. R. Cutler

Weifelend over het verlaten van de betrekkelijke veiligheid van de Land Rover, zat ik voor enkele minuten de openlucht markt te bestuderen alsof getuige er van zijn voor het betreden mij meer op mijn gemak zou laten voelen. Ik declameerde hardop een paar eenvoudige Swahili zinnen in de verstikkende wetenschap dat ik niet genoeg wist, en ik sloot kort mijn ogen en haalde diep adem. Zo graag als ik in Tanzania wilde zijn, de waarheid was, op dat moment, dat ik ik mij wilde verstoppen.

Een lappendeken van rieten dakbedekking, plastic dekzeilen, en jute zakken beschermde de geïmproviseerde markt tegen de intense namiddagse zon. Stapels van tomaten, avocado’s, sinaasappels, mango’s en papaja’s waren netjes gestapeld in kleine groepen op geïmproviseerde tafels in felgekleurde manden. Vrouwen, jong en oud, deelden het nieuws van de dag terwijl zij zorgden voor het het fruit en de groenten (wassen, sorteren en verkopen)—en kleine kinderen met elkaar aan hun voeten speelden.

Aan de rand van de markt zat een pezige, oude vrouw op de grond, haar benen uitgestrekt voor zich, een platte ronde mand op haar schoot. Zij sorteerden stenen van de rijst.

Meerdere zon-gerimpelde mannen leunden op hun stokken in de schaduw van een nabijgelegen mangoboom—hun silhouetten samen gebogen in een rustige, ontspannen discussie. Vrouwen kwamen en gingen met kalme, oplettende gratie—een mand, een emmer, of een enorme tros van bananen balancerend op hun hoofden.

Kijkend naar hun, voelde ik me dwaas in mijn angst, doch angstig niettemin. Als een mzungu, of blanke persoon, wist ik zodra ik de Land Rover verliet, ik meteen het middelpunt van de aandacht zou worden, iets wat ik gewoonlijk probeerde te vermijden zelfs in een bekende situatie. Maar hier was er geen plaats om mij te verbergen. Voor hen was ik bleek, stralend wit in een zee van gewaagde kleuren belichaamd. Toen ik met tegenzin uit de Land Rover glipte, probeerde ik mijzelf kleiner te maken, om onzichtbaar te worden, om op te gaan in het geheel, maar het was onmogelijk. Elk hoofd werd omgedraaid. Ieder oog was op mij gericht.

Ik bewoog op goed geluk over de markt, op zoek naar niets in het bijzonder, en speelde mijn rol als yen, het onwillige spektakel. Ik vermeed oogcontact. Ik sprak niet. De kleine kinderen keken met grote ogen, en klampten zich nog strakker vast aan hun moeders. De oudere kinderen fluisterden met elkaar en wezen. Een vrouw buigt zich naar mij: “Zuster, zuster, ik geef je een goede prijs.” Stof en menselijke arbeid, zonlicht en stank, vliegen tussen verruking—ik was overdonderd.

Het duurde niet lang voordat ik besefte dat ik gevolgd werd. Een groep van drie jongens volgde mij, op een paar stappen na. Ik keek naar hen uit mijn ooghoek, toen ik mijn rugzak van mijn rug deed en dicht tegen mijn borst hield. De jongste leek vier of vijf en de oudste misschien acht of negen. Ze waren gekleed in vuile, overdreven wijde blauwe korte broeken en rafelige gekleurde shirts, en ze droegen geen schoenen.

Ik wilde niet direct naar hen kijken. Ik wist niet wat te zeggen als zij me om geld zouden vragen. Ik stelde mijn Swahili zin in gedachten voor, ‘Hamna Shillingi kwa wewe. Er is geen geld voor jullie.’ Een bericht, veronderstelde ik, dat ze op vele manieren gekregen hebben.

Ik vermeed intuïtief het binnenste van de markt toen ik hier en daar grillige bochten begon te maken in een poging om mij van de jongens te bevrijden. Ik hield de Land Rover goed in de gaten die me van de talenschool waar ik studeerde naar de markt heeft gebracht om mijn Swahili “in een authentieke omgeving te oefenen.” Ik keek nerveus naar de groenten en het fruit, en ik knikte afwezig in reactie op elk gebruik van Swahili. De kleine stoet van jongens hield aan.

Ik telde de minuten tot mijn real-life taalles voorbij was en ik kon terugkeren naar de veiligheid van mijn kleine logeerkamer op de taalschool. Net voor de afgesproken vertrektijd, stond ik binnen sprint afstand van de Land Rover and draaide mij naar de drie jongens, voorbereid met mijn Swahili zin.

De kleinste jongen reikte uit naar mij met een brede, sappige glimlach en bood mij kalm de helft van zijn gepelde sinaasappel aan. Hij at van de andere helft.

Ik knipperde hete tranen toen ik neerknielde op ooghoogte van de jongen en glimlachte naar hem. We deden dit een hele tijd, terwijl de kakofonie van de markt langzaam naar de achtergrond verdween. Hij had me onvoorbereid betrapt, maar het maakte niet uit. We hadden geen woorden nodig, Swahili of anderszins, voor deze uitwisseling.

Vertaald door Bryan R. Monte en Marian van Loon

Rink – Photos of San Francisco

Photos of San Francisco
by Rink

Rink has photographed San Francisco’s LGBT community for over 44 years. His photos have been published in more than 40 books and appeared in more than a dozen films including Academy Award winners Milk, The Times of Harvey Milk and Common Threads in addition to The Castro, which won a Peabody Award.

Less well-known but just as important as his work with the LGBT community are Rink’s photographs of the landscapes and the other people that make San Francisco so distinctive.

[gdl_gallery title=”Photos of San Francisco by Rink” width=”120″ height=”120″ ]

Bryan Monte – Amsterdam 2013 LGBT Canal Parade

Photos from the 18th Annual LGBT Canal Parade, Amsterdam, August 2013
by Bryan Monte

Amsterdam and the Netherlands has had a reputation for toleration and cultural diversity for decennia. One “reflection” of this is the annual lesbian, gay, bisexual and transsexual boat parade that encircles the Grachtengordel (translation: canal belt) of Amsterdam with a route starting on the Prinsengracht, then over the Amstel River and ending at the Ij. The theme of this year’s parade was “Reflect.”

In addition to boats from LGBT businesses and organizations, the parade also featured floats from some Dutch political parties, the police and the armed forces. On board three of the boats were the Ministers of Defence, Finance and Education, Culture and Science. This year’s parade also included a float sponsored by the KNVB, the Dutch National Football (American English: Soccer) Association with players and coaches including former Dutch national team coach, Louis van Gaal and former Ajax (Amsterdam) footballer, Patrick Kluivert.

 

[gdl_gallery title=”Amsterdam 2013 LGBT Canal Parade by Bryan Monte” width=”160″ height=”160″ ]

Tobey Kaplan – Travel Guide for Raymond Carver

Travel guide for Raymond Carver
by Tobey Kaplan

Egregiously out here
fribbling away August
what poems I’d like to forge
epicene dreck
cyclopean memories
turn the handle fill my chest

*
accuracies of anger
what’s gone too
*
these summer nights accordion
Perseids dust of light streaming across the sky
a gallery of flames

Tobey Kaplan – bridges and crossings

bridges and crossings
by Tobey Kaplan

leftover rain that had clogged clouds
now seeping into homes of ground squirrels
where dogs dig deep when does the longing cease?

scores of boxes full of books we love
manage randomly filed papers changing the sheets
before the party offerings of cream puffs and wine

cross the one of the bridges for a view of three bridges marina park
named for a field labor union organizer of grape workers
a story of patchwork lingering conversational interiors

where planes soar through clouds switching codes sorting
the accordion echoings through tunnels of squirrels
energetic trouble-bound trains and chances of wind

(what are the odds two days in a row this week
in a commuter car going under the Bay under one of the bridges
I’d see the same woman who works for a worldwide construction company)

crossing over a language of migrant workers
engineers and architects how movements take us
a projected movement through fields’ performances

dripping moonlight and rain downtown Castle Bridge apartments
owned by refugees no poets or pets or random persuasions allowed
crossing the cold floors smoky air carpet absorbed voices

in the doorway footsteps reaching keep going their names shouted
dog noses in muddy holes my hand a bridge over the earth
the sun drifts light and early colors edge of clouds

as airplanes soar over the metal spans morning
afternoon evening in any direction narrated
scattered evidence coded conversations

a chance meeting trespassers and pirates of history
when life looks like easy street there is danger at your door
facts never reveal their sources

through monologue or conversation perches
those glowing or fog covered arches of music
where we will wonder about the hardest days.

Jim Dalglish – The Black Eye, A One Act Play

The Black Eye, A One Act Play
by Jim Dalglish

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
NARRATOR, a large, powerful man in his mid-forties to late fifties.
YOUNG MAN, a dangerous-looking man in his early twenties

SETTING Boston suburb, tonight, 2:20 a.m.

SCENIC ELEMENTS Bare stage with the exception of three chairs that suggest the driver’s seat, passenger seat, and rear seat of a car. The driving wheel, car door, etc. should be mimed by the actors.

(Lights up.)

Narrator: (Addressing audience:) For the most part, I’m going to tell you the story. I’m going to tell you exactly what happened, exactly how I felt, and exactly what you should think. It’s easier that way and you won’t have to work so hard. Neither will I. I guess I’m lazy. Just like you.

(He crosses to group of three chairs. [Car] He sits on downstage left chair. [Driver’s seat)]

I’m driving my car. You choose the make, model, and colour. 2:30 in the morning. I’ve just wasted three-and-a-half hours in a leather bar. Three-and-a-half hours of standing half-naked in a smoky room wearing leather bands around both my arms and an orange hanky hanging out of my back pocket . . . little signs that say I’ve done it all before and would do it all again… with the right guy.

But there was no right guy at the bar that night. So I’m driving home alone.

I’m tired. And I’ve got a sour taste in my mouth. Stale nicotine from second hand smoke. My ears are still ringing from the beat of the goddamn deep-house disco shit they play loud enough to drown out any awkward small talk. I’m paying enough attention to the road, but there’s only so much you can do when some drunk stumbles off a curb right in front of you. I break. In time. The guy sprawls out over my hood.

(Young Man enters. Crosses to space in front of chairs. Speaks to “Friend” sprawled across “car hood”.)

Young Man: Hey, you miserable drunken fuck. Get off the car, man. Get off the fucking hood.

Narrator: You’ll have to imagine the drunk guy. He’s just an innocent bystander. The story is about something else.

Young Man: Drunken fuck. What’d I tell you, huh? What’d I tell you? Can’t even stand up.

Narrator: He isn’t hurt. But when his buddy helps him up, I don’t drive off. Hit and run is just what I need on my record. (To Young Man) He okay?

Young Man: Not feeling a thing. (Re-considering:) Hey! You know what time the last city bus leaves for German Town? We’ve been standing here an hour.

Narrator: They stop at twelve.

Young Man: Shit! The fuck’s so drunk he can’t fucking walk! We’ll fucking be here all fucking night!

Narrator: He’s in his early twenties. Dark. Lean. Has a hot ass, big blow job lips, and blue bad-boy eyes. (To Young Man) Need a lift?

Young Man: You going that way?

Narrator: I can.

Young Man: Sure. Hey, asshole. Get in the front.

(Young Man mimes placing “Friend” on front passenger seat [chair stage right] and sits in the bag seat [chair behind others.])

Narrator: Fat drunk gets in. Says “hey” and bad boy gets in back. I drive. Looks like you two had fun tonight.

Young Man: Shit.

Narrator: Where you go?

Young Man: Flanagans. Been there?

Narrator: Not my kind of place.

Young Man: Yeah?

Narrator: Yeah.

Young Man: They got that Karioke thing there on Saturday night.

Narrator: The drunk starts singing “Born in the USA.”

Young Man: Hey, shut up, man! Dude doesn’t want to listen to that shit.

Narrator: I look into the rearview mirror. Bad boy’s staring at me with those big blue bad boy eyes.

Young Man: Where you been tonight?

Narrator: Ramrod.

Young Man: In Boston?

Narrator: Heard of it?

Young Man: No.

Narrator: (To audience) That was a lie.

Young Man: Boston. Long way to go on a cold winter night.

Narrator: Sometimes it has what I’m looking for.

Young Man: Yeah?

Narrator: Yeah.

Young Man: Like what?

Narrator: He’s a little shit. I’m on to him. If I felt like it, I could freak him out. Tell him that I go there because I get a kick out of the fisting videos they play, or because picking up there takes the guesswork out of cruising, like going to a grocery store with all the fruit tagged and labeled – arm band right side, bottom. Left, top. Blue hanky, blow job. Red, fucking. Black, bondage. Yellow, piss. Orange, anything you can think of. I could explain that I go to that bar because I can get a quick hand job just standing there in the middle of the floor and no one would say a word. I could tell him I need that place because I’m a kinky perv. That because an average of two tricks a week for twenty years adds up to about two thousand men and once you’ve had a good five hundred the novelty of holding hands starts to wear out and it gets a little harder to get your nut in any old fashioned kind of way, unless of course you have a taste for vanilla, which I don’t. I could tell him that everything gets old fast . . . fades with time . . . French, Greek, TT, bondage, discipline . . . that every few hundred tricks you have to trade up to the next thrill. That you need to because every perv pales over time. Everything except for that basic ache of desire . . . that untamable flame that still burns as hot as it did when I was fourteen. I could tell him that’s why I was in that bar that night. Because that flame . . . that demon flame was burning white hot in my soul. (To Young Man:) Sometimes that bar has just what I’m looking for.

Young Man: Like what?

Narrator: Whatever I want.

Young Man: Doesn’t look like you got it tonight.

Narrator: Where are we heading?

Young Man: Keep going. I’ll tell you when.

Narrator: I’m driving on a peninsula that juts out into the harbor. German Town. One thin artery connects it to the mainland. Mostly projects filled with Irish rednecks and Vietnamese immigrants. The projects were a mistake in the fifties when they were built. Most of them are boarded up now. The streets are empty. I look over at the friend curled up in the corner of the passenger seat. Looks like he made quite a night of it.

Young Man: Asshole. He’s my cousin. It’s his twenty-first birthday. I showed him how to get drunk legit. Left next corner.

(Narrator mimes turning left.)

Narrator: He’s still working the rearview mirror. I look up right into his eyes. Little shit. But something’s going on here. Yeah. Ok. Ok, buddy. How long can I stare before we veer off the road. We play chicken with the rearview mirror until he looks away. I win. We drive another block and fat boy starts having the heaves.

Young Man: Shit!

Narrator: I pull over.

(Narrator gets out of “car,” crosses around to “passenger seat,” and mimes opening the door.)

I open the door in time to grab his head and aim the first stream of puke into the gutter.

Young Man: Geez, man!

Narrator: Fat boy’s so gone he can’t even hold his head up. (To “Friend:) You done? I use my orange hanky to wipe the puke from his mouth. He moans as I get him back into the car.

(Narrator closes “car door” and gets back into the “car.”)

Young Man: Sorry about that.

Narrator: It’s okay.

Young Man: Stupid fuck. Can’t even hold a six pack.

Narrator: You grow up out here?

Young Man: Yeah, but I escaped. I’m just back for a few weeks.

Narrator: Between jobs?

(Young Man doesn’t answer.)

He’s working the rearview again. Those beautiful blue eyes. This is where it happens . . . every time. This is how you know. This is how it’s done. It only works with a man. To another man. It’s a dare. It’s a come on. It’s a warning. He’s calling me out. He’s doing it instinctually. Like it was handed down from dinosaurs or something. It’s part of his DNA. It’s a threat. It’s a glimpse into the lair of the hidden demon. It’s a cry out for love on a cold lonely winter night. It’s what I live for.

Young Man (Sarcastically:) Nice leather pants.

Narrator: (Returning sarcasm:) You like those, huh?

Young Man: Oh, yeah.

Narrator: Yeah. I thought so.

Young Man: You’re a tough guy, aren’t you.

Narrator: Oh, yeah.

Young Man: Pull over.

Narrator: I pull over in front of one of the more inhabitable projects.

(Young Man gets out of “car,” opens “passenger door.”)

Young Man: Come on fuck-for-brains. This is your stop.

Narrator: He can’t get Fat Boy out of the car.

(Narrator exits “car,” crosses around to “passenger door.”)

(To “Friend:”) Okay, buddy. This is what you’re going to do. When you get inside, go to the john, kneel in front of the bowl, and shove your finger down your throat until you puke. Puke until your gut is empty. Then you’re going to go to bed and lay on your side . . . not on your back but on your side. Got that? Don’t give me that shit. You know why you’re going to do that? Because I had a buddy once who got fucked up just like you. He went home alone, passed out, puked, and choked on it. I carried his coffin into the church three days later. You don’t want to make your buddy do that, do you? Good boy.

(Narrator mimes pulling “Friend” out of “car.”)

I pull him out of the car. Bad boy props him up.

(Young Man mimes helping “Friend” off the stage.)

Young Man: (To Narrator:) Can you . . . Wait up . . . for a second?

Narrator: Fat boy’s walking now. He staggers up the steps.

(Young Man exits.)

Young Man: (Voice from offstage:) See you tomorrow. . . . Because I’m crashing with a friend. . . . I know my stuff’s here, asshole. . . . I know. . . . Just fucking get in there, you fucking drunk. What’re you, my mother?

(Young Man re-enters.)

Narrator: He struts back. But I see through that shit. He can’t meet my eye and I can tell his heart is racing faster than a thoroughbred in the home stretch. He knows he shouldn’t, but something . . . not his mind . . . is telling him to get back into my car. Something way down deep inside some part of him he’s tried like hell to hide all his life.

(To Young Man) So . . . where?

Young Man: A friend’s.

Narrator: Where?

Young Man: Down the road.

Narrator: Yeah?

Young Man: Yeah.

Narrator: Get in.

(Young Man sits in “passenger seat.” Narrator crosses around to “driver seat.” He sits.)

We drive.

(Silence.)

It was easier for him in the backseat. He could do anything he wanted behind my back. Now he’s within reach and he doesn’t like it. He knows he has to say something.

Young Man: He’s not such a bad guy. For a stupid fat fuck.

Narrator: He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. But I do.

Young Man: Is that true . . . about your friend?

Narrator: Yeah.

Young Man: That sucks.

Narrator: Yeah.

Young Man: Right.

(Narrator mimes turning right. Silence.)

Narrator: I let the silence ride. Sweat starts to bead on his eyebrows. And his breathing is shallow and quick.

Young Man: You got a girlfriend?

Narrator: Why would I have a girlfriend? He won’t look me in the eye now. That thing inside him is starting to emerge.

Young Man: You’re queer. Right?

Narrator: Yeah.

Young Man: Not my scene. But it’s cool. It’s cool. It’s cool.

Narrator: Yeah.

Young Man: Right.

(Narrator mimes turning right.)

Narrator: He’s never done this before. Maybe another guy when he was twelve or thirteen . . . but that was just kid stuff and it doesn’t count. This is different. He’s a man now. He’s supposed to be in control of this kind of shit. Why did he get back into the car? I know why. And he knows I’m on to him. But he’s lost . . . in his own back yard. And he’s scared shitless. He has every reason to be.

Young Man: Things weren’t working out for me where I was. That’s why I came back.

Narrator: Sorry to hear that.

Young Man: I needed a change. But look at this place. Fuck.

Narrator: If I jump on this . . . it’ll be over. This one’s a dead end. I know how to handle trade. I know how to lay a hot straight boy. You got to wait things out. Wait for that demon to emerge on its own. It wants to come out. Get close . . . warm up to the fire, but it doesn’t want to singe its fur.

Young Man: I need . . . a change. You ever need a change? Just throw everything away. Start again? You ever do that?

Narrator: Read his mind. It’s saying “What the fuck am I doing? Where the hell am I going?” His mind is turning in circles. He needs it. He wants it. From a man. But it disgusts him. It’s hideous. Repulsive. Terrifying. Beautiful. Sublime. Around in circles.

Young Man: Right.

(Narrator mimes turning right.)

Narrator: We’re driving in circles.

Young Man: I need . . . a change.

Narrator: Look at him. His eyes flash between confusion, anger, lust, and terror. He’s feeling it all and it is all real. So real. Because that’s what it’s like. What it’s like to strip yourself to the core and rip the terror out of your soul and offer it up to the demon. And that’s why it’s so terrifying. Because it is so REAL. It’s him. He’s seeing himself for the first time. Look at him. Nothing on this earth is more beautiful.

Young Man: Right.

(Narrator mimes turning right.)

Narrator: I stop. We’re at the end of the road. A cul-de-sac at the end of the peninsula. The lights of Boston are burning bright across the bay.

Young Man: Do you think . . . do you find me . . . do you think I’m . . . would you. . . ?

Narrator: Yeah, buddy. You’re a hot fuck. You’re the kind of a man . . . a real stud . . . that any queer would drool over. You’re the real thing. Is that what you want me to say?

Young Man: If you saw me . . . walking down the street . . . if you talked to me. Would you think I was queer?

Narrator: I know what I’m supposed to say. I should scoff and look at him like his football couch in Junior High and say, “No way, man. You’re a guy . . . a regular guy . . . just like all the rest. You’re not a fag. Don’t worry about it.” You say that to trade and it puts them at ease. You see, if you don’t call them a fag, they’ll let you suck their dicks. If you work a little harder, they’ll suck you off. Rim them and if you’re lucky they’ll beg you to fuck the shit out of them. That’s how you play it. Those are the rules. So I turn to him and I say . . . Yeah. I’d know. In a second. You can’t fool me, buddy. You’re a fucking queer.

(Young Man’s face goes blank.)

Why did I do it? I want him to be different. I want him to know that those feelings . . . that what he is . . . what goes to the very core of his existence is undeniably real. I want him to look at that demon in the face.

Young Man: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Narrator: He gets out of the car.

(Young Man starts pacing furiously.)

Young Man: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Narrator: Come on. You can do it, buddy. Stare it back. It’s there. In your face. Go on. Take it. Take it. It’s who you are!

Young Man: Fuck! Fuck!!!!!

(Young Man charges “car.” Mimes opening driver side door. Punches Narrator in the face. Narrator stands. Grabs the front of Young Man’s jacket. Lifts him off ground. Pulls him close. Young Man struggles, but can not escape.)

Fucking faggot!

Narrator: Stupid little shit. Do the world a favor, buddy, and figure it out.

(Narrator pushes Young Man to the ground.)

He fell to the curb.

Young Man: Fuck.

(Young man sits on stage with head in hands. Narrator gets back in “car.”)

Narrator: I peeled out. I could see him in my rearview mirror. Sitting on the pavement. His head in his hands. The last thing I saw as I drove off. Into the night. Alone.

(Young man exits. Narrator stands from chair. Crosses to front of stage.)

A black eye greeted me in the bathroom mirror the next morning. The black eye that he gave me with that one, powerful punch to the face. A beautiful black eye. It’s been a week. Since that night. A week of driving through German Town in the wee hours of the night. Circling those roads we circled that night. Looking for him.

But he’s not there. I park the car. Where I last saw him. And I stare across the harbour at the glittering lights of Boston. And I wait. For him. For my beautiful bad boy with those beautiful blue bad-boy eyes.

Why?

Because a part of me thinks I was wrong. What I said to him . . . about doing the world a favor. A part of me doesn’t want him to figure it out. Not without me. I want to be there. Because the thrill doesn’t last long.

Because you become too familiar with that demon too quickly. And what was once vital and real . . . what once actually meant something . . . real contact. . . that terrifying act of surrendering to another man…. the joy to consume and be consumed by another human. It doesn’t last long. Then it’s over. And the only way you can get it back is the rare chance to feed off it from a young lost street punk afraid of his own shadow. Pathetic. Isn’t it?

He’s out there somewhere. I just don’t know where to find him. All I have left is a black eye. A bruise around my eye that he gave me. And soon that will fade too. Just disappear. And I’ll have nothing.

Again.

(Lights out. End of play.)

Jerome Betts – Pas de Calais: September 1964

Pas de Calais: September 1964
by Jerome Betts

The groundsheet covers clods, which give such pain
They have us taking, earlier than planned,
A short cut over recently ploughed land,
Its ridges sticky after hours of rain.
But fields transformed to clutching mud and froth
Are travel stories. We can ride away
Since dawn brings with it merely one more day,
No iron machine impaling us in wrath.

Two grizzled workers from the bus-stop queue
Try out again the phrases that were stamped
Across young minds when foreigners first camped.
Left! Right! Left! Right! Their memories run through
The sodden ranks as roofs of moss-pocked tiles
And peeling shutters ribbon past, a street
Which echoes to the boots on blistered feet
The old men resurrect along the miles.