by F M Land
“I figured you wouldn’t want to see me,” Terry added. “That I would make you feel worse.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “God, no! I totally forgot about it until just now. I didn’t know why I took those pills.”
Terry gazed at me, nodding. “That’s what Drew told me. I didn’t believe it, though.”
“It’s true, Ter! Honest!” I told him earnestly. “Look, we need to talk about this.”
“About what?”
“About what happens to me when you touch me. Jesus, Ter, it turns me on so much, to have you touch me. Sometimes I get so aroused that all I can think about is making you scream.”
Terry’s eyes focused softly on some object across the room. He had a strange contemplative look on his face. After a long moment, he turned back to look into my eyes. “Yeh.” That was all he said.
“‘Yeh’? What’s that supposed to mean, man? Jesus, I want to talk about this!” I sighed in frustration. “Look, a few years ago, I started putting space between us, remember?” I waited for Terry to nod. “Well, that’s why. Because when you are near me, I get all hot and bothered. It’s unreal, believe me!”
“Yeh.”
“Jesus Christ, Ter! So, like, what should we do about it?”
Terry slid off the bed and stood up. “Let’s start with my not being in bed with you.” He studied my face, hesitating as if he were trying to find the right words. “You know, Paul, anyone in the right situation can turn another person on. You know? You just need to learn to control it. You don’t start humping on someone just because they give you a hard-on, you know?”
I nodded. I felt close to tears and didn’t know why.
“But, look, if it’ll be easier on you, let’s cut out the physical stuff between us, huh? The hugs, the squeezes, the little kisses, huh? Would that be better?”
Confused, I shrugged. I loved Terry’s hugs, I wanted Terry’s arms around me. But – “Yes, I guess it would be better. But, hey, Ter?”
“Yes?”
Our eyes met.
“Can I have one last kiss and hug?”
By the time my parents and Drew arrived the next morning, I was nearly back to my usually lively self. Terry and I were engrossed in an issue of Guitar Player, discussing the newest Rickenbacker models. When Maman spread a lavish breakfast, take-out from the deli on Sixth Avenue, for me and Terry, I found I had an enormous appetite and ate nearly twice as much as Terry. In fact, I cleaned my plate and Terry’s, too. My parents were clearly pleased.
Later that day, Jeff showed up for a visit. I was shocked to see him. But, my surprise was nothing, compared to Jeff’s. Jeff’s eyes practically bugged out of his head, when he realized that he was in the company of famous musicians like Davy Koster and Drew Carelli. He nearly curtseyed when he was introduced to Drew. Then he met Maman.
“Justine Morgon?” he squeaked excitedly, most impressed to meet the sister of Blaise Morgon.
“Justine Koster,” Dad answered quickly.
“Justine,” Maman and Drew replied together. They grinned at each other, as if sharing a secret joke. Maman’s real name was Justine Morgon Fremont. She never took Dad’s name when she married him, a sore spot for Dad at times like this. Her mother was Isobel Morgon, and her father was RB Fremont. Maman was their love child. She spent most of her youth in France going by the name Justine Morgon, but she used the name Justine Fremont when she went to college in America. Her stage name was Justine.
“I hear from Paul and Terry that you’re quite a guitar player,” Drew remarked to Jeff, causing Jeff to blush deeply.
Jeff didn’t say “Wow!” but it was clear what he was thinking. He turned to me, his eyes bright with wonder. “Shit, man, you never let on who you were! You pretended that you were just some dude who played guitar.”
“That’s all I am,” I told him. “Hey, come here! I’m glad to see you!” I pulled Jeff into my arms and kissed him fully on the mouth, pleased to see my friend.
My parents started making noises about taking a walk. Drew and Terry agreed to go with them. The four adults moved to the door.
Dad paused, his hand on the doorknob. He conferred rapidly in French with Drew. I heard him say something like “the sun will do his complexion some good.” And then Dad turned to Jeff. “Son, when is your Christmas break?”
“Christmas?” Jeff frowned a bit. “You mean our semester break?”
“Yeh. When does it start?”
Jeff thought for a moment. “Middle of December, like December 19.”
“Well, we’ll be leaving this week for our house in France. Would you like to visit us there during your break? We’ll get tickets for you, if it’s okay with your mother.”
Looking from Dad to me, Jeff’s face showed his incredulous excitement. “Sure,” he said slowly.
“Paul gets bored when there is no one to play music with,” Dad told him. “Bring your guitar.”
“Sure!” Jeff repeated, this time with more certainty. He turned to look at me. “Thanks!”
But, I was gazing with gratitude at Terry. I knew that Terry was responsible for Jeff’s sudden appearance in my hospital room and for Dad’s invitation to Jeff.
Jeff actually spent two weeks with us in France that December. We played music for hours every day, never tiring of it. We made a half-hearted stab at sex, too. But neither of us was really into it. That was the way it was between us, I decided. We were great friends, but we weren’t good lovers. It was okay.
“You’re in love with Brian, aren’t you?” I asked Jeff one day.
Jeff nodded, smiling shyly.
“Does he know?”
Shrugging, Jeff replied, “I’ve told him, and he tells me that he loves me. But we don’t mean the same thing, you know?”
I nodded, sure that I understood totally.
“Are you in love with someone, Paul?”
Looking away from Jeff, I hesitated. Was I in love? I returned my gaze to Jeff’s face. “I don’t know,” I answered.
“Who? Tell me!” Jeff insisted.
“It’s no one.”
“You’re lying! I know you better than that, Paul!”
I could feel myself blushing. “No, there’s no one, only a crush.”
“A crush? On who?”
“Listen, it doesn’t matter,” I replied.
“Terry?” Jeff persisted.
“For God’s sake --”
Jeff laughed triumphantly. “It is Terry! I knew it! I can see it on your face when you look at him!”
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” I began to worry. Were my feelings really so obvious? I needed to protect Terry, not draw him into some scandal. But I trusted Jeff. I told Jeff so, and Jeff promised not to mention it to anyone, not even Brian.
“Besides, it’s not mutual,” I told him. “Terry doesn’t feel the same way.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Jeff advised.
Shortly after that conversation, Drew and Terry came down for the Christmas holiday. Terry joined Jeff and me down in the music studio in the basement. Jeff was surprised that Terry could play an electric guitar.
“Shit,” Terry told him, “most drummers I know can. I started out as a guitarist.” He stopped for a moment, laughed to himself, then continued. “Then I developed this passion for Drew Carelli, you know, before I ever left home and met Drew. I wanted to be Drew Carelli. So I switched to drums.”
A couple of days after Drew and Terry came to visit, Dizzy and my cousin Robbie arrived in Anjoie. Robbie, who was forever putting together a band in Los Angeles, was extremely impressed with Jeff’s guitar style. He spent a good deal of time in the basement with Terry, Jeff, and me. The four of us played some cool music together, even tried to compose a few pieces. A couple of times Dad, Maman, and Drew joined us, and then we really jammed.
Dizzy was not impressed, however. He looked Jeff over carefully at dinner one evening and remarked in French that Jeff seemed gay. I threw my fork at my brother, which prompted some harsh words from D
ad. In irritation, rubbing his shoulder where the fork had landed, Dizzy struck out at me. “You’re a fag, too, aren’t you?” he taunted in French, so Robbie and Jeff couldn’t understand him.
I blushed deeply and gazed across the table in embarrassment at Drew and Terry. Drew winked at me. “Homophobia begins at home,” he told me in French.
Maman spoke, her dark eyes sparking angrily. In French she said, “It’s better to examine your own heart first, Dizzy, before passing judgment on others.”
After that, Robbie stopped coming down into the basement to play music with us. But I liked it better with just Jeff and Terry and me. Robbie was not a lot of fun to jam with. He always made us play in the key he wanted. He just wasn’t very versatile. He always insisted on playing lead guitar and singing lead as well. He was a drag.
Alone with Terry and Jeff, I played with abandon. I had my own style to be sure. But, in a matter of minutes, I could work out the bass and guitar parts to any tune. Jeff and Terry, too, could play just about anything.
One afternoon, however, Terry was tired of playing the same old rock and roll standards. “Why don’t we work on some original stuff?” he asked me.
I screwed up my face, unsure of what Terry wanted to do.
“Like this.” Terry picked up my spiral notebook, the one I always carried, tucked in my hip pocket. It was the notebook in which I scribbled lyrics and different chord progressions that came to mind. At that moment, Terry was thumbing through it, pausing to examine this tune or that. “Let’s work on something in here.”
“Yeh, like that tune we worked on this summer, Paul,” Jeff chimed in. “What was it? ‘You, Me, Too’? It was cool.”
“Yeh,” I agreed. “Marsh and I worked on it in the studio. Marsh recorded it.”
Terry watched my face but didn’t say anything.
In fact, no one mentioned “You, Me, Too” again until that spring when we were all back in New York and “You, Me, Too” hit Number 1 on the Billboard singles chart. It was Marshall’s first big hit in several years. I was thrilled to see my name listed in the credits on the back of the record. I showed it to my parents, Terry, and Drew at the dinner table.
Terry wasn’t thrilled, however. With a hiss, he pointed to the copyright title for “You, Me, Too.” Marshall had given himself sole credit for writing my song.
“Jeff said that you wrote this song. Just how much of the song did you write?” Terry questioned me closely.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to answer in front of my parents and Drew.
“Are they your lyrics?” Terry asked, his eyes searching mine.
“Yes,” I replied in a small voice.
“And the music, did you compose it, or did Marshall?”
Hesitating, I refused to meet Terry’s eyes. Or Drew’s. Or my father’s. All three men were watching me intently.
Terry snatched up my notebook before I could stop him. He skimmed through it until he found the song. “Here it is! ‘You, Me, Too.’” Terry read the date aloud. “June 8, 1982. You wrote this before you ever met Marshall, Paulie.”
Dad rose to his feet suddenly and reached for the telephone. “This calls for a call to Matt,” he said gravely, referring to his attorney, Matt Goodwin.
I was totally humiliated. I was happy for Marshall. I was flattered that Marshall liked my song. I couldn’t believe that it was #1, but it was Marsh’s hit, not mine.
In the end Dad made sure that I got the credit I deserved. The new release of the record showed me as the composer and copyright holder. Dad got a big settlement from Marshall for me, as well. Not that I needed the money or anything like that. It was just the fucking principle, Dad maintained. Dad was pissed off that Marshall would try to take advantage of a talented 16-year-old boy.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, son,” Dad told me when the battle between Dad’s and Marshall’s attorneys was over. “Keep writing your songs in your notebook, here. Date them like I showed you, like a diary. It’s the best protection you’ll ever have. And don’t ever let anyone steal your music!”
Of course it made the press, all the uproar over Marshall stealing my tune. It didn’t help that the song was still #1 in the country. The Post was merciless in its insinuations. Even Rolling Stone had a short article on the legal battle between Davy Koster and Marshall LeBon. We had all wanted to avoid the media. But, someone had picked up on the record label change, and the story was out.
For me, the media coverage meant that I could no longer go to Ziggy’s. I was too embarrassed to face Marsh’s friends. Embarrassed that my father would make a big deal over a silly little matter like a copyright. Terry tried to encourage me to go to Ziggy’s, but I refused. Anyway, I was happy playing music with Jeff. Jeff and I rehearsed together at Jeff’s house nearly every day and, when we could, when Dizzy wasn’t around, at Dizzy’s.
My cousin, Robbie, was incredibly jealous that I had written a #1 song. At age 16, no less. He hinted to me that he suspected that the song was really Marshall’s, that Dad was wrong and that Marshall really composed the tune. I shrugged over Robbie’s sour grapes, feeling quite smug. Robbie had never written a hit song. Robbie’s music was just not very original. I felt sorry for Robbie.
But Robbie had some troubling advice for me. “Listen, Paulie, you don’t want to get a reputation for hanging out with fags and playing fag music.”
I stopped dead in my footsteps. “What do you mean?”
“It’ll ruin your career. No one will buy your music if they think you are a queer. The radios won’t even play it.”
“Sure they will, Robbie! If the music is good, people will buy it!”
Robbie frowned in disagreement. “You’re a fool if you believe that, Paulie. I mean, like those musicians at Ziggy’s. They will never make it. You have to stop playing music with fags!”
I felt like screaming, “But I am a fag, Robbie! What do you think of that?” But I didn’t say anything. I just looked at Robbie sadly and felt sorry for him. Robbie didn’t have a hit record, and I did.
.
My anger at Terry for flapping his mouth about “You, Me, Too” didn’t last long. Even before the settlement with Marshall was reached, Terry and I were making plans for a bicycle trip to Florida in early May. All winter in France and that spring in New York, the two of us made several all-day bike trips, 50 miles or more, each week in preparation for this long trek. We planned to take nearly a month biking to Daytona Beach. Then we intended to lie on the beach for a week before flying back to New York.
In a way, it was too good to believe, I decided. I was going to have Terry to myself for over a month. In high spirits, I worked out the itinerary with Terry. We made overnight reservations, where we could, at roadside motels along our route. After some discussion, we decided that we would share a room, rather than get two rooms. I felt weird about sleeping alone in a strange place. My parents liked that arrangement best, too. Drew just smoked a cigarette, one after the other, not speaking.
The day before we left, we spent the morning fine-tuning our bikes. I had a deep blue ten-speed, the best model that Toshiba made. Terry’s bike was a Trek, brown with black and yellow trim. It was a beaut, top of the line. We checked our brakes, tires, derailleurs, seats, spokes, handgrips, lights. We were ready to go.
Within a couple of days, I became accustomed to the heavy pack on my shoulders. I tried to pack light, two changes of clothes, light-weight running shoes, bathing suit, some cold weather gear, rain gear, spare inner tubes, and snack food. But, it still added up to a lot of stuff to lug around. My shoulders were sore as can be the first week.
We settled into an easy rhythm. Up by 7. On the road by 8. Riding for five or six hours. Unpacked by mid-afternoon. The rain slowed us some, but not much. The first few days we went to bed early, exhausted. Within a week, when we were more accustomed to the rigor of our journey, we were not so wasted at the end of the day and spent the evenings at the movies or hiking around whatever town we found ourselves in.
On Memorial Day, we reached Myrtle Beach. Our plan was to spend two days lying on the beach. We stayed at the Hilton, near the North Beach, a well-known gay hangout. I arose early to stake out a place on the beach for us. Terry preferred to sleep in. By the time Terry wandered down to the beach, I had struck up conversations with several couples scattered around my towel. We spent the evening dancing on the beach in the moonlight with dozens of men. It was a wonderful two days.
Our last night at Myrtle Beach, I stood naked before the full-length mirror in our room, admiring my tan. Never had I been so deeply tanned in my life. My skin was a deep brown, almost black on my shoulders and top of my arms. It was the kind of tan that caused others to remark, “Look how tan he is!”
Terry came out of the bathroom just then. “Looking good!” He whistled.
“Want some?” I asked him, spreading the cheeks of my ass as I offered it to Terry, half joking, half ball-ticklingly serious.
“Go to bed,” Terry told me sourly. “We’ll be back on the road tomorrow.” He jumped into his bed in his undershorts, the golden red hair on his body glistening in the light of the bed table lamp.
I watched him, musing ruefully about missed opportunities. “Wow! You look great!” I told Terry. “Not bad for a forty-year-old!”
“Shit!” Terry remarked. “Me, forty, can you dig that?” He was silent for a moment. “But you know what blows my mind more?”
“What?”
“Drew will be fifty this August, can you fucking believe it?”
End of conversation.
The next morning I was in no mood to ride. “Let’s spend one more day here, please?” I pleaded.
Terry smiled at me across the breakfast table. “We really don’t have a schedule, do we?” he asked. “Shit, if you want to stay, why don’t we stay?”
“Yes! Oh yes, Ter, yes! One more day!”
“Let’s see if we can keep our room, huh?”
So, we stayed an extra day, soaking up more sun, snickering at clever quips passed among the gorgeous, tanned men who surrounded our beach towels. One more day of sand and ocean and blue heavens. I watched Terry like a vulture soaring over a road kill. But, discreetly. Terry had this thing about being discreet, which I respected.
