I play it in chords, major and minor.
What is it from? What is it from?
I call Connor and play it over the phone.
It’s kind of like that stupid cat food commercial, he says.
Oh.
B-Side Records is hiring.
My parents have a thing against my working during the school year.
Also, if you listen to my dad, Connor met Tony at his part-time job at Canal Street Jeans, ergo working downtown can make you gay.
Yeesh.
It’s too late anyhow. The next time I go back, the position has been filled.
Michael, stop it, Becky says for the third time. You’re drawing attention to yourself.
The theatergoers mill around on 44th outside the Little Theater, finishing cigarettes, unwrapping candy, sharing their thoughts on the show’s first act. We’re supposed to be trying to fit in, which I’m apparently failing at.
Story of my life.
I lean in close to her so no one will hear me. But what if we can’t find seats? I ask. What if the ushers realize we don’t have tickets and kick us out?
Becky shrugs. James says people second-act shows all the time. And it’s a Tuesday. The theater won’t be that full.
Yeah, but… I start, and Becky gives me a withering look. The whole idea of walking into a Broadway theater without a ticket, following the paying ticket-holders back from intermission, and grabbing an open seat, scares the heck out of me.
But James was sneaky and Xeroxed the first act of Torch Song Trilogy for us to read. We have to see the rest of the actual show if we want to know what happens next.
And I have to know what happens next.
I’ve never seen a play with a gay character, much less a funny one.
The lead character, Arnold, is a drag queen (which I’m not) and sexually experienced (which I’m not) and Jewish (which I’m not).
But when his mother admits that she would have aborted him had she known he’d turn out gay, I felt it as if I knew him.
After all, my father is no different.
I cancel my dinner with Connor and see the second two acts of the play again on Wednesday.
Where are you applying to college?
I haven’t really…
Where are you applying?
I mean, it’s only junior year…
You need to think of your future, Michael.
My future?
You don’t want to end up like your brother, right?
Oh. Yeah.
It’s pretty easy to tell we don’t have a dress code at school by looking at the Sex Pistol wannabes with their safety pins and leopard print and mile-high hair.
But still Andy stands out in his red Guardian Angel’s beret and T-shirt against the gray lockers and beige walls. Maybe it’s because I know him. Maybe it’s because he seems more on-edge since taking this gig. Maybe it’s because I’m worried Becky isn’t happy.
Or maybe I’m just listening to James too much. Hard to tell.
Patrol is going good, Andy tells me. And Dad is cool with it so long as I don’t work in the neighborhood. He says he doesn’t want me being targeted or anything. But I think he just doesn’t want me patrolling on his beat. But it’s not a problem. I’d rather deal with the tourists, anyhow. I mean, man, we gotta start taking some responsibility for keeping our city safe, right? Before it turns into a total shithole. Like, last night I saw this old woman mugged on a subway platform while the transit cop was asleep in the car on the train. I mean, that’s not right.
What did you do? I ask.
Andy readjusts his cap and says, Radar, that’s my patrol leader, he took a picture of the sleeping cop to mail to his sergeant.
No, I mean, what did you do about the woman?
Oh, we chased the guy down and held him till the other cops came. By the time we got back, the woman was gone.
May 1983
I head downtown, but on impulse, I get off the subway at Times Square.
There’s a buzz here. A dark and sexy underground buzz highlighted by the groups of sailors cruising in groups, dress whites shining against the grime of the X-rated movie houses and hot dog carts. Prostitutes, tourists, people strung out in doorways, business people hailing taxi cabs with their squealing brakes and cigarette roof ads, and plumbing smoke from the subways.
My mother hates it here. Thinks it’s dirty and crowded and loud.
And she’s right.
But somewhere in this crush, this hum, the music of this noisy, gritty, frenetic city, somewhere is a place where I belong.
I get back on the subway and head to the new almost block-long Tower Records. Lust after all the new releases waiting right inside the door. Wonder if CDs are really going to be a thing. Stare at the poster announcing that U2 is playing the Palladium on May 11. Wonder how I can get a ticket and what I can tell my parents that will get them to allow me to go to a show on a Wednesday night.
As I’m standing there, a guy in a T-shirt that says HONOR THE DEAD, SUPPORT THE LIVING pushes a flyer into my hands.
I take a ridiculously long time to read the sparse instructions that amount to: Come to the march and candlelight vigil on May 2 to demand more money for AIDS research.
It’s tomorrow, the guys says, Make sure you bring a candle.
Then I step back and look around.
Is he giving the flyers to every guy who walks by?
Does he know I’m gay?
Do I want him to?
I’m not even sure it matters. If I’m not sure my dad will let me go see U2 on a school night, he’s never going to let me go to an AIDS march, regardless of what night it’s held.
Besides, I don’t think I’m the demonstrating type. And no way would I go alone.
I walk away without going into the store. I feel too guilty and weirded out to go shopping.
In the end, James pulls some strings and gets me a ticket to see U2, and my father gives in when I tell him they’re a religious band.
Three thousand four hundred of my new best friends and I sweat in a converted movie theater on East 14th Street while Bono waves a white flag and sings his heart out, stopping only during “I Will Follow” when people in the front threaten to get crushed.
The Edge and Adam Clayton swap instruments, and I’m surprised to find myself crying as the whole place sings along to their closing hymn “40.”
Maybe what I told my father wasn’t far off from the truth, I just wish church made me feel this high, as if I were made of music and community and goodwill.
Aside from brief phone conversations, I barely connect with James.
I leave messages for him. Becky leaves messages. When he wakes up, we’re already in school. When we’re home, he’s already out at rehearsals.
He comes all the way uptown in the middle of the night to leave things taped to the outside of the metal mailboxes in our building’s lobby.
Books. Cassettes. Tiny origami shapes: dragons and roses and stars.
My father sneers at these gifts when I don’t get to them first.
My mother smiles sweetly as if they were meant for her.
Becky smirks at me and says, You don’t see him coming to Queens to leave me presents, do you?
Well, it is Queens, I joke. But really, I know James isn’t leaving me gifts as any sort of subtext. I’ve seen this before. He’s restless with a type of endless creativity that forces him to keep moving until he can sleep.
It’s this show, he says when I ask him. I might be in over my head this time.
You say that with every show, I remind him.
He brushes his hair out of his eyes, and I can see the results of his schedule. The dark circles under his light eyes, the chipped polish on his nails.
He says, This one is…never mind. I’m sure it
will all work out.
You need a break, I tell him. But I suspect he needs more than that.
You think?
Yeah. Come out with me.
I can’t just…
Yes, you can.
It’s Friday night and I’m trying to play, but the strings on my guitar slip away from my fingers as if they’re greased, and I have to admit to myself that I’m nervous. Not because James is coming with me to Echo. Not because I hope Gabriel is going to be there. Just something in that combination feels like acid in my stomach.
Maybe it’s that James can be so damned charming, and it’s probably only a matter of time before Gabriel gets sucked into his orbit.
Maybe it’s this feeling that there is so much Gabriel isn’t saying. So much more I want to know.
Maybe I’m fooling myself about Gabriel’s interest in me, and James will see right through it.
Maybe reality can never be as good as what’s in my head, anyhow.
I think of telling James my mom won’t let me go.
But then I picture Gabriel at the club, assuming that I’m pissed at him, damp bangs hanging seductively over his eyes, and Simon, a priest over at St. Bartholomew’s—only none of us are supposed to know it—coming over and using his magnetic church voice on him. I’m a good listener, Simon always says. But from what I’ve heard, listening isn’t the only thing he’s good at.
Gabriel is Simon’s type too, with his coal eyes and his easy smile and… I shake my head.
Let’s get going, I say to James. I don’t want to be late.
Danni waves as we walk in.
Brian pours me a Coke with extra ice.
James takes his place against the wall.
I wait.
The rituals of a night out.
Gabriel doesn’t lean in when he talks to James. He stands right behind me. Close enough that I can feel the heat off his skin.
We’re working up a show at The Space, James tells Gabriel in a way that makes it sound like the most boring thing in the world. It’s a performance art piece about the cost of silence.
I’ve heard this speech before. So while James talks about the impossibility of ever achieving perfect quiet, given the body’s tendency to beat and pump and gurgle, and the price of hiding yourself behind a public face and assuming your voice doesn’t matter, I take a small step to the left and watch.
Gabriel stands straight. Tall. He links his thumbs in his belt loops, angles his head, allows his eyes to stray to mine. Making sure I’m watching him, which, of course, I am.
James speaks so softly that Gabriel has to take a step closer to hear him. James is exhausted, so maybe that’s the cause of his quiet speech. It could be. But I don’t think it is. He’s too deliberate. Too aware. He leans an arm around my shoulder, trying to act casual, and pulls me close.
My arm moves around his back out of habit, and then I drop it when I see the questioning look in Gabriel’s eyes.
And James. Here’s the thing. When he looks at you, his attention can make the room a warmer place, but if he doesn’t like you or isn’t sure, those same eyes can make you turn away from their chill.
Gabriel is fighting it. Fighting him.
But I can’t.
I pull away and wander to the bar. Gabriel’s eyes heavy on my back.
Here, Brian places a Coke on the bar. Looks at me. Takes the glass back. Adds a shot of something. You look like you need it, he says.
By the time I’ve finished sucking the drink down, my knuckles are white on the side of the glass.
Angry. Why am I so angry?
I turn back to watch Gabriel smiling, uncertain. And James. There’s a standoff going on between them I’m not sure I understand.
I face the bar. Give me another, I say to Brian. He hesitates, but fills a glass and hands it to me.
This one goes down faster, and my head spins.
I glance back as Gabriel heads toward the bathroom. I head toward James.
That looked heated, I say.
James fiddles with a cigarette. Lights it. Blows out long and slow. Asks, Did it?
Eyebrow raised, he stares into the spinning lights. I recognize the pose. The posing. It’s what the others get. The ones who aren’t his friends.
I have to leave, he says in measured words. But you stay and have a good time.
Outside, my feet crunch broken bottles. Car horns wail. A cat in heat yowls. James’s heels clack in front of me like a metronome.
I catch up to him and grab his jacket. Spin him.
What the hell is going on? I ask.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. The mask drips off his face. His shoulders slump.
I’m sorry, he says. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Gabriel seems nice. You should be happy.
Some last bit of alcohol reaches my brain, and I have to lean against the wall. I struggle to wrestle James’s words into sense.
But? I ask.
James fumbles in his jacket for another cigarette. Puts it in his mouth without lighting it. Takes it out again. Nothing, he says. Really, Michael. I’m down, that’s all.
I see in his eyes how he’s on the edge of falling into the kind of funk that envelopes him like a shroud from time to time. And I watch his eyes dart from the wall to the street, to the rust-stained car with the NO RADIO, ALREADY STOLEN sign. Everywhere but at me.
He says, It isn’t you. I’m just…
He waves his hands. Lost, he says. I don’t know where I’m going.
The light on the corner changes to red. It reflects off James’s pouty lips and stupidly, I’m drawn in. Desperate and helpless, I do what I’ve never had the guts to do sober, I kiss him. Quick. One kiss to stop the hemorrhaging.
James freezes. Pales. Takes a step back.
Oh, shit, I say. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. The whiskey threatens to come out with my words.
No, Michael, he says, eyes still wide. You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with you. I just can’t…
His words trail off and we stand there, soundless for an unmeasurable amount of time.
I think of the boys. The girls. All the beautiful talented people who want to circle in his orbit. I know I’m no match for them.
That was stupid of me, I say, hoping the alcohol will numb the pain of his answer.
Oh, Michael, he says softly. I adore you, but…
His eyes are sad and the “but” hangs in the air. I prepare myself for the end of our friendship.
Sorry, I say, and turn to leave, Never mind.
Michael, James calls out, stopping me where I stand. You read that article. And Steven’s sick, and I just don’t. Anymore. I…can’t.
I turn back.
Tiny pieces of James’s life away from Becky and I jam into place.
You and Steven? I ask, my heart suddenly beating too hard. Holy shit, you aren’t…
James leans back against the side of a phone booth and tries to smile. That smile. Ironic. And now I can see that this smile is something he keeps in his pocket and pulls out for effect.
No, he says, grin fading. No, we’re not. We didn’t. But there was one night. A party. We were interrupted. The power went out, and Rob needed to get into my room to reset the breaker.
I’m sure there’s a metaphor somewhere in there, he says, offering me an attempt at a joke.
I exhale, relieved when I didn’t even know that I should have been worried. James is okay. Of course he is.
But before I can question him more, he says, I’m not as brave as you think. Not anymore, Michael. Not at all. To come so close…
And then he shakes his head and walks away.
Hungover.
My dad blares the Yankees, swearing when Winfield strikes out.
I roll over, but my stomach stays still. Start to sit up. L
ick my lips.
Remember my stupidity.
James’s response.
His secrets.
The shift of reality.
Leaving without going back to the club.
The taste of guilt on my lips.
I sit in bed, homework looming.
I should call James. I should call Connor. Maybe Becky can tell me what to do. How to feel.
Then my mother yells down the hall that James is here, and I’m sure he’s come to end our friendship. I have no idea what I was thinking when I kissed him. No idea what I’ve changed. If you move one grain of sand, then the world will never be the same.
Crap. That sounds like James.
But no. He comes into my room where he’s spent so much time, only now it feels awkward, both of us unsettled.
He tells me that after I left, he went back to the club. Back to talk to Gabriel. Apologized.
He hands me a folded slip of paper. Seven digits.
The holy grail of Gabriel’s pager number.
Call him, James says. He thinks he upset you.
The paper is hot in my hand. Of course Gabriel would give it to James. No one ever denies him anything.
I’m sorry, I say again.
I’m not sure what I feel worse about. My impulsive and ridiculous kiss? For not sensing that my best friend is going through stuff I know nothing about?
Or maybe for not even considering that something as ugly as this plague could ever touch James who is young and healthy and beautiful?
He shakes his head from side to side, and his bangs fall into his face. He pushes them back. It’s okay, he says, looking relieved to have shared some of his secrets. You had no way of knowing. I should have told you, but it isn’t something you can simply bring up in casual conversation.
And no one since Steven? I ask. What about all of those people onstage?
Not for real, no. Theater is different, he says. That isn’t me.
For the first time ever, I feel sorry for James.
Sorry that he’s turning his back on everything I want.
Sorry that he’s afraid.
Sorry that I don’t think I want to live my life in fear.
After James leaves, I call Gabriel and leave a message on his service, wondering why someone who has to work delivering balloons even has a service. Or a pager.
We Are Lost and Found Page 8
