The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  “To the moon, Alice,” he said and gave me a yank. I stood up.

  “And if he can’t take you there,” said one of the hangers-on, “he’s been known to make some guys howl at it, at least.”

  Donald shrugged and smiled. His patter was thrown off, but not his confidence. “So, how ‘bout it, Jerry? Are you loud in bed?”

  “Uh, not generally. Only when I’m having sex.”

  He put his head back and laughed.

  “Oh, shit!” It was Fats, the bartender. I looked at him and saw his easy manner disappear.

  And then the whole tone in the bar changed in a flash, and it was instant chaos. The house lights were on, objects were being thrown around, flashlights were being shined in people’s faces, and everywhere I looked, I saw policemen. They were yelling, pushing men into corners, demanding I.D.s. It took me a second to realize what was happening, and I had a moment of lightheadedness, like having a dream, but I was mostly awake.

  I stood there, and for some reason I chose to finish my drink. There was nowhere to go, and I decided to let them come to me.

  As I took my drink, I scanned the room. I was going to be arrested. Period. And I felt my heart speed up, but I resolved to remain calm on the outside. I was going to be arrested with dignity—if there was such a thing.

  I saw grown men crying. Wailing. Some were begging. And all of a sudden I felt very angry. This wasn’t right. I was witnessing an injustice. These were nice people in the bar. They weren’t bothering anybody. Maybe being a homosexual is a sickness, but these people were just minding their own business. As a matter of fact, they were going out of their way to stay out of other people’s lives. They were way out here by the river, away from town. Away from children. Why should they be harassed?

  I saw one officer walking right toward me from across the room. His head was lowered, and his hat was pulled down low, and he moved with a certain determination. I wondered if my relaxed attitude had made him especially mad, and I prepared myself to be manhandled. I even stood up straight. I remember being very conscious of that. And I decided right at that moment that I could laugh or cry. I decided to laugh. (I’m sure the alcohol helped but I know most of it was me). And I really did. In the midst of all this chaos—terror really—I laughed. If death is the worst thing that can happen, anything less is not so bad. Shitty, yes, but I would handle it.

  I felt my arm being squeezed. “Jerry, you gotta get out of here. Don’t you know what kind of place this is? It’s for fairies. Homos.”

  Barbara Penczecho

  Mom’s suspicious eyes got round as baseballs as she flung the door open, simultaneously crossing herself quickly in order to get her arms free in time to hug me with a force I did not know she had. No matter what was going to happen, this made the trip all worth it. We laughed and hugged for a while as she continuously thanked God.

  And then she gave me the sotto voce and let go. She reached back and pulled the door shut, leaving the two of us in the hallway. She looked over her shoulder and crossed her arms. The joy in her face was replaced by worry.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  She crossed herself again. She started to open her mouth but stopped when the door went flying open behind her, and I saw her shrink before my eyes.

  It was my father, of course. His eyes widened a little when he saw me. And he cleared his throat. He looked tired and a little weak but that did not stop him from barking.

  “Well? You coming in or not? In this house we do not do nothing halfway. If you are going to do something, do it!” he said. I knew by heart the next line that was coming. “If you are going to jump in a pool, you cannot leave your feet on the deck.”

  Then he turned around and walked back into the apartment. “In or out!” he shouted without looking at us. My mother and I followed him inside. Not too surprising, the place looked exactly like it did eight years ago, and more or less like it did when I was a little girl.

  We all sat down.

  “You look good, Pop.”

  “You do know I am checking out?”

  I told him I had heard, and I asked him what he had.

  “Cancer.”

  “I am so sorry, Pop. What kind?” I felt myself welling up. I was not prepared to see this man who was always so strong becoming a shell of his former self. Same face, same body, same person, only beginning to wither away. And I knew it would only get worse.

  “I do not know. One of those less famous organs. It does not matter. There is no cure either way. When your time is up, it is up.”

  “I’m sorry, Pop.”

  “Of course, you would have known about it sooner if you would come around more often,” he said.

  I shot him a look. What could I say to this ridiculous commentary? In any event, I was not here to argue, so I ignored it.

  “Let me fix you something to eat, Barbara. Look at you. You are skin and bones.”

  That was a laugh, and I had to smile. My father seemed a little agitated by mother’s comment.

  “Don’t they feed you out there in Los Angeles?” she added.

  “Who is they?” I chuckled. “You gotta feed yourself, Ma. And I am a long way from skinny.”

  Now my father looked agitated with me. “But yes, Ma. I would love something to eat. Thank you,” I said.

  I learned almost nothing during dinner except how much I missed my mother’s cooking. I think my folks were too scared to bring anything up for fear of what I might say. And I certainly was not going to paint fine details for them on subject matters that they did not want to hear about.

  One thing I did get a little information about was my brother, Tommy. I found out he worked alongside my father as an ironworker up on the skyscrapers before fighting over in Korea. He then continued to serve in the marines after the war and is currently stationed in North Carolina.

  I figured I would ask my mother later what type of cancer my father had and how much time he was given. I knew he would not even entertain the idea of chemotherapy. It was in God’s hands, and he would die the way he lived. This way of thinking was carved in granite. To push this would be hopeless and would mean further alienation.

  I told them about my job and my house in L.A., naturally leaving out the details. I told my father how much I would have loved to have shared the Dodgers’ championship season with him last year. This prompted him to point out that I should have visited or called at least.

  By the end of dinner, I was wondering if I should have come at all, which only served to make me feel guilty. We all turned in early, which was fine with me. The flight had wiped me out. I hugged and kissed my mother goodnight and gave my father a peck on the cheek. I almost lost my balance in the process because of his complete lack of cooperation.

  I waited until the two of them were done in the bathroom before I got ready. While I brushed my teeth, I remembered something my father had said to me when I was a little girl, maybe nine. He said, “Barbie, when you grow up, you can marry anyone you want as long as he is not a Protestant.” When I asked him if he meant it, he said, “Nah, I am just pulling your leg.” And then he paused a moment and said, “But seriously, do not marry a Protestant.”

  While I got ready in the bathroom, my mother had fixed the fold-out couch up nicely for me. It’s where I used to sleep as a kid with my brother, so I knew it would not be too comfortable. But it was familiar. It had that going for it.

  Despite the uncomfortable couch and all I had on my mind—my father, Dot, my mother, even being back in Brooklyn—I was able to fall asleep fast.

  But that did not last more than a few hours before being woken up. I heard noises, and they sounded like they were coming from the kitchen. I was still tired, but I wanted to see what was going on, so I tip-toed over to the kitchen and pushed the swinging door a little just so I could take a peek. It was my father, and from the looks of it, he was
making no effort to be quiet.

  Jerry Ripley

  I recognized him a just a split second before he had grabbed my arm. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take me off guard.

  Don’t you know what kind of place this is? It’s for fairies. Homos. The words hung in the air.

  “Well, I guess I’m in the right place then, Pop.” I looked him right in the face, something I hardly remember doing much of, even under far nicer circumstances.

  “What are you talking about?” Then he dropped his eyes and shook his head. He exhaled hard and half-whispered, “Shit.”

  I watched him squeeze his lips together. “I probably should crack your skull in right now.”

  “Well, if you think it will help, Pop.”

  He tilted his hat up and rubbed his forehead. I’d seen him do that a few hundred times playing chess and in many other situations. Still it’s strange knowing he’s doing it because of you. Your move, I thought.

  He grabbed me under the armpit. “I gotta get you out of here,” he said.

  I yanked my arm away from his.

  “Everything okay, Ripley? You need any help?” It was another police officer, about ten feet or so away. At first—I mean for just a moment—I thought he meant me. What a laugh that would have been.

  My father took a half-look over his shoulder. “I got it!”

  The other officer shrugged and headed toward some other man.

  My father grimaced and grabbed me again. He shoved me up against the bar and frisked me. Then he shoved me toward an opening in the counter. “Get behind the bar, Jerry, and wait. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

  “No, Pop. Forget it.”

  “Forget—what? I’m trying to help you.”

  “No. No. You treat me like all these other horrendous lawbreakers. It’s your job.”

  I’ll never forget my father’s face at that moment. It was a rainbow of emotions. Anger. Complete confusion. Mortification. Incredulity.

  I stood up as straight as I could and looked him right in the eye. I had to point my chin up to do it, but I did it. And I didn’t intend to look away. He stared right back. But he couldn’t keep it up.

  “Look around, Pop. Every one of these guys in here is just like me. They just don’t have a father with a badge.”

  “Look!” he shouted. Then he glanced around, realizing he had said it too loudly. So that was it.

  “Don’t worry, Pop, I won’t tell them we’re related. That would be terrible. That could ruin your life—get you ostracized. You could lose your friends, your job, your reputa—”

  “Hey, would you keep it down?” This time he was hissing instead of shouting. His teeth were clenched. “You’re my son. I’m trying to help you.”

  “Yes, but that’s not how you decide right and wrong, Pop. Goddamn it! You want to let me go because we’re related? Wrong answer. You should want to let me go because it’s the right thing to do. It’s the right thing to do to not ruin someone’s life who’s just minding his own goddamn business.”

  Again, his eyes broke contact with mine. He looked down.

  “Jesus. How’d you get so stubborn?”

  “Heredity, Pop.”

  He sighed and squeezed his eyelids together.

  “Everything alright, Ripley?” It was another officer.

  “Yeah, fine,” he answered, over his shoulder. His eyelids were still closed when he faced me again. He shook his head and led me toward the entrance of the bar.

  “Don’t worry, Pop, I won’t say anything about being your son.”

  He shot me a look. At first I thought he was going to shush me. But instead, he turned straight ahead, his hand gripped around my upper arm.

  He marched me into the foyer. I noticed the bell on the wall inside the cage where the stone-faced man had sat when I had first entered. The cage was now empty, and it occurred to me, just at that moment, that the police must have grabbed him before he’d had a chance to ring the warning bell.

  My father did his job and led me out to the waiting paddy wagon. He handed me off to another officer waiting by the truck who grabbed me by the back of the neck, gave me a shake, and shoved me inside, using a lot more force than necessary considering my calm demeanor. The jolt made me stumble, and I hit my shin against the hard metal step in the process.

  There was no doubt I was scared. My heart was beating hard. I felt like one giant pulse. I told myself it was excitement, not fear. I’m not sure if it worked, though. But no matter. It’s a lot easier to live if you’re not afraid to die, I decided. And at that moment, I really felt it. Do your worst, I thought.

  So, for the first time in my life, I spent the night in a jail cell. The mood was horribly grim. Some men cried all night. I saw one man so desperate to get out of the cell, he tried to push a guard out of the way but was beaten back with a nightstick until he winced in pain. Then he crawled into a corner and simply broke down. If he went on to kill himself, I would, sadly, not be the least surprised. It was pure misery. Life-altering misery.

  These men were on the verge of losing their jobs, their wives and kids. Their reputations would be ruined. No one would hire them. Or ever look at them again. Some would no doubt be beaten up. I’m sure some would have no choice but to move. And then good luck getting a job when your old employer is contacted.

  Do your worst, I had thought. Well, their worst could be pretty bad. If we were really unlucky, our names would be published in the newspapers under God knows what kind of headline. I guess I was fortunate that I lived fifteen hundred miles away. Most of these men would be destroyed.

  For the first time in my life, the subject of the homosexual and his place in society made me more outraged than scared. I didn’t sleep for hours. I asked myself questions and wrestled with the answers, like I was back in law school. I asked a guard for a pencil and some paper, and he obliged.

  These are the notes I jotted down:

  Is homosexuality a problem because it’s bad or because laws make it so difficult?

  Being homosexual is an individual struggle/challenge. It makes one different and the issue will undoubtedly be explored. And whether you decide that it is a sickness or not (and to what degree), this will be done on an individual basis and to a depth decided upon by each man. –or woman. But the government’s role—in this matter—this very private matter, should be non-existent—mind its own business

  Government role/ should focus on the economy (and protecting our rights) because it is the economy and protection of our rights that will ultimately determine the happiness of men and women.

  ?—There’s some truth to that, but doesn’t happiness depend on a lot of other things, too??

  Yes, but those other things are none of the government’s business. (i.e. those matters will be handled by individual people—or voluntary associations with like-minded people

  The government should ensure that people have the right to pursue happiness—BUT should not tell people what will make them happy—and especially should not enforce these notions of happiness by force

  The individual then decides what makes him happy. Take it from there-- All negative consequences or rewards are then borne by each individual. (as a result of his choices and/or lucky breaks/misfortunes)

  We were finally released the next morning, and the mood could not be more somber. Sitting in the jail cell, I was sure, was unfortunately going to be the best part of the arrest for most of the men. It was going to be much worse “out there.”

  As for me, in time, it became pretty clear that my homosexuality was not something that was going to result in an estrangement from my parents. It would not make us any closer either and was probably never going to be talked about again.

  As I made my way back to the folks’ house, I realized that I couldn’t wait to get out of Kansas. At the same time, I also realized that
Kansas was not the problem.

  I left Independence on the morning of the sixth day. My mother gave me a big hug and I hugged her back. I could feel her tenderness and warmth. I was sure my father had not told her of my arrest. And she was careful not to ask where I had been all night, knowing that wherever it was, she would rather not know.

  After hugging my mother, I turned toward my father who was sitting in his favorite chair reading the morning paper and smoking his pipe. “Bye, son.” He did not look at me. We shook hands and I turned to walk away.

  “Son.”

  “Yeah, Pop.” He had risen from his chair and was walking toward me.

  “Have a good flight.” His head was down and his face, from what I could see, looked pained. I saw a very slight shudder in his shoulders. I had never seen my father cry, not even when Robert had died. He glanced over at my mother who looked back at him.

  “Oh, oh, I better check on the oven,” she said. I don’t even think anything was cooking. She gave me one last kiss on the cheek and wished me a good flight. My father glared at her. He had always said she fussed over me too much. I was sure that now he would know that he had been right.

  “Well, don’t be a stranger. Your mother misses you, you know.” Then he put his arm up. I thought maybe he was going to hug me. But instead he ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “I love you, Pop.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, you better not miss your flight.”

  I realized it was the best he could do. And I loved him for it.

  I wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. And that no one could have beaten the homosexuality out of me. No one.

  As the cab sailed down good old South Walnut, two things went through my mind. Number one, all the houses around here look the same. And number two, it’s a lot easier to live if you’re not afraid to die.

  Barbara Penczecho

  “Pop?” I said, pushing the door all the way.

  “Oh, Barbara, what are you doing up?”

  “Well, someone was making a lot of noise.”

  “Probably the mice,” he said.