A black Corvair swerves in, more Punks pile out. My tribe gathers.
“Faggot whores,” Jack whispers.
I feel myself swelling.
“Let’s get ’em.” Voices in the crowd. “Let’s kill the faggots.” “Tonight the faggots die.”
“Kill the faggots!” I say. It goes to a chant. The light’s red, we cross anyway. Our boots rock the street.
Kill the faggots.
My heart skips a beat; I open my eyes.
“So this guy,” Coco’s saying, his mouth full, “looks so much like my Uncle Jeffie I think my mom’s got to be in the backseat and—”
“Kill the faggots!”
We all freeze. Pac-Man beeps on his own. I drop my legs and stand to see Mohawks and leather jackets crossing the street, marching toward us. An army in silhouette, at least a hundred of them. My legs tremble. Laser beams shoot from their eyes, slice through night.
They scatter like cockroaches, scrambling in all directions. We spread out. I angle along the parking lot side. Jack goes around. The counter guy stares. I flip him off and yell, “YOU WANT SOME GOOD SHIT, ASSHOLE?” He drops his head, gets real busy.
I know I’m running but it’s taking forever. I can’t seem to reach the alley and when I do—the skinheads appear, their laser eyes trapping me. Everything blurs. I should have thought, I should have known, I should have been careful. God, are you there?
Kill the faggots!
We split up and close in, like a military tactic, shutting off all sides. Two faggots bolt; people chase them. The other two are trapped. One’s on the ground. I almost step on him. Another tries for the alley.
A hand whirls me around. Boots thud on flesh; I hear grunts in reply. Is that me? Coco yells, “Nazi assholes!” I try to yell too, but I get punched in my stomach and all my air disappears. I double over, can’t speak, can’t run. Is Jesus watching?
The first one fights like crazy. He calls us names, throws punches, lands a direct kick on Jack’s knee so hard it makes him stumble back. In that one second—the faggot’s up and running. Gone. I’ve never seen anything run that fast.
No faces. Only hands, pulling and shoving me; only feet, kicking so hard I drop to my knees, cradle my head in my arms. Is this it? Voices yelling “FAGGOT! FAGGOT!” Thuds, grunts, chains jangling as boots connect to my thigh, to my back, shoulder, legs, head, arms. “FAGGOT!!” A siren somewhere far. Coco, getting away. “FAGGOT!!!”
That chemical crap still floats in the back of my throat. My lips are dry, my head pounds from the fucking tear gas. I’m amped, like speeding on the freeway, zooming through those tunnels on the 110 where you curve around way too fast and the wall’s way too close and you don’t slow down.
These must be demons my mother’s sent to punish me. I taste blood inside my mouth, around my teeth. I pull my knees to my chest. I pee my pants. Why don’t the boots hurt? Am I dead?
Sirens closing in. This is taking too long. These Punks are too slow. I get into the circle to see the kid. The faggot. He’s curled up on his side, crying. “He’s not out yet?! SHIT. Can’t you fuckers handle this?”
I hear one voice above the others and something makes me raise my head. The biggest demon of all stands with his face in half shadow, laser eyes boring down. I can’t look away.
Fucking faggot looks dead at me. Reflex, habit—I don’t think, I just kick him, once, hard—right in the face. Be done with it. His head snaps back and forth, drops, lays against the street. Blood leaks and pools on the concrete. I remember the razor blade tucked into the toe of my boot.
Time stops, like it did in the hall inside the dance school, like it did in the moment of my mother’s face.
We stand at the edge of the light under that street lamp in the alley, and for a moment, nobody moves. I don’t even breathe. I hear my heart.
Stupid little shit.
See how you like living with perverts.
You got to stand up for yourself.
You’re not my brother anymore.
You can’t let the faggot whores take over.
No child of mine is a faggot.
You have to fight for what you believe.
God, his eyes are blue.
AFTER
The kid’s not moving.
Jack grabs my arm, pulls me away.
We run. Back across the street, jump in the cars.
People whoop and cheer.
Some girl keeps saying “Oh my god you guys are fucked—that’s so fucked, you guys, oh my god, oh my god—” on and on and ON until she’s making me sick and finally, somebody tells her to shut up and she shuts up. I don’t know how I get in the car, but I’m here, in the backseat, Rosie holding onto my arm. We race down Hollywood Boulevard and past the graveyard, the car bouncing hard. We take the on-ramp too fast and everybody slides into me. I don’t even care.
“You think he’s okay?” Rosie whispers. “That kid?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“You sure drop-kicked that faggot, Doug!” Jack says. He pounds on the steering wheel. “Whomp! Down! End of story! That faggot’s history. Out of here. Gone.”
Then it’s quiet. Not usual. We should be bragging, all of us. But nobody has anything to say. Tonight was different. Tonight we…
I take out my flask. It’s empty.
“Dougie, you think he’s dead?” Rosie whispers.
“Stop asking me stupid questions!” I hiss at her, then tap Jack’s shoulder. “Turn up the fucking music, would you?” He does, without protest, which is weird. What’s weirder is Rosie stops yapping. She slumps down in the seat and stares out the window.
My mom pops her face out of her room as I come in, then pulls back, like a turtle into its shell. The jet plane in my head pushes on my skull. I grab the Jack Daniels from the liquor cabinet and drink from the bottle, right there in the living room. Let her peek her head out now. The burn feels good; I drink again. I carry it up to my room. I strip off my shirt and sit on the bed to unlace my boots. Bending forward makes me dizzy and suddenly nauseous. I’ll undress in the morning. I drink more and then lay back.
Is he dead?
So what if he is. What am I supposed I do about it?
Nothing.
There’s nothing to do. I don’t know for sure. He could be fine. He could be getting his buddies together, coming after me. I can’t go back and look. Whatever happened, happened. It’s over. Done.
I throw up. It doesn’t help. I can’t stop seeing his stupid eyes.
Why did he have to look up at me?
Why did I kick him so hard?
What does it fucking matter anyway?
He shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
Light glows through haze.
I can’t feel my body or tell if my eyes are open.
Is it God? Am I dead?
Then I breathe and pain slices through my side like razors slashing, glass piercing, so huge I can only pant, try to suck in tiny bits of air through my nose. Am I stabbed? I lift my head to see but I can only open one eye; the world tilts and whirls and then—
Sun. My head throbbing. Pain with each breath. Still only one eye will open. I creep my arm up to touch my side—more pain, a ripple of nausea. My ribs must be broken. I try to lay still, but somehow do a check. I wiggle my toes, flex my feet, slowly draw up my right knee. I seem able to move my arm, but my leg feels like it might be broken too. Lumps are already rising.
A single crow caws from the power line overhead. A garbage can in the parking lot clangs shut. A guy whistles. Someone from Oki Dogs? I taste blood in my mouth, move my tongue over my teeth. None gone, but a tooth has punctured the inside of my lip. I hear people walk past me on the sidewalk. I can’t draw the breath to call out.
I remember boots and shouts.
Coco, running.
The skinheads. What if they come back?
I need to get up, I need to go. I count ONE, TWO, and on THREE, heave myself to sit. The crow cries out. No, i
t’s not the bird, it’s me. The top of a cop car cruises by. Doesn’t slow. It’s my left eye that won’t open. Tiny pebbles stick to the side of my face. I brush off the stones and bleed again.
He’s not out yet?
I hear that voice, see those blue eyes. He wanted me to be dead. They all did.
A chill goes up my spine.
I stand, slowly, using the concrete barrier to balance. I throw up, there’s blood mixed in. I’m dizzy, feel like I’m going faint, except I can’t.
So I don’t.
My right leg almost collapses when I step on it. I hop on the other leg and make it across to the wall, then have to wait. The edges of my vision close down, like a telescope. I limp over to Santa Monica Boulevard. I put my head down, wrap my arms around my sides, concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I have several blocks to go and each step makes me want to weep. People pass me. Their faces go blank, like I’m not here.
Maybe I’m not. Maybe it’s all a bad dream.
I see myself in a store window. Stop for a second to make sure that yes, I exist. I keep moving.
The attendant at the gas station glares as I pass his window. He comes out a few minutes later to check if I’ve gone; I hide behind a parked car. When someone who’s allowed to have the bathroom key comes out, I catch the door, go in, and lock it.
My forehead is split to the bone; dried blood glues my eye shut. I’m dizzy again. I put my hands on the sink, wait. It passes. I need stitches and antiseptic; I should go to the clinic or maybe the hospital. Who cares if they call the police? Nothing would be worse than this.
Except—
A memory surfaces, fully formed, in grand detail.
A memory I’d stopped, the very night it happened: my mother and me, in that room, the cop and therapist next door.
First I hear her words: “No child of mine is a faggot.”
But it’s not those words I forgot, or the slap that knocked me down. It was the second just before—the moment she disconnected. When the light changed in her eyes and she stopped being…what? My mom? When she became—
Just like the skinheads.
I feel a pain greater than my broken ribs and I know, if I die, it will be this that kills me. My heart is breaking. I know something I desperately need to forget. Whatever it costs, I can’t see those eyes again; I will not survive.
No clinic.
I can take care of myself. I wash the wound with the soap from the dispenser. At 7-Eleven, I get gauze, tape, and Neosporin. I pull the edges of skin together, make a bandage and tape it shut. I keep my head up as I limp back to the park. I challenge people’s eyes in that instant before they look away. If I see it coming, I can take care of myself. I notice signs for the first time: DON’T WALK. NO STOPPING. NO LOITERING. NO STANDING. FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY.NO BEAT-UP BOYS ALLOWED.
In my nook, I tear my bloody shirt into strips and wrap those around my rib cage, like I saw my dad do once when he took a header off his bike. It hurts too much not to cry. A woman walking a dog stops to stare. I wait. Will she help? Speak? Say, “Honey, are you okay?” No, she moves on. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be all right.
But, I will never, ever, see my mother again. I know this.
I know something else too—I’m here for a reason.
I must be, or I’d be dead.
The next day’s easier. My head pounds but I know the remedy for that. Both my parents are gone already, so the liquor’s all mine. I change my clothes, shower, eat a piece of toast, get a nice buzz going. I won’t go to school, just mellow out. Maybe later I’ll go check out Stacie. I heard Carlos left. I’m sure as hell done with Barbies.
I settle down on my parents’ bed and flip on the TV. Only once do I think of last night, and immediately see that faggot’s green eyes. He asked for it, sure as shit. My head starts to roar. I go get another drink, almost straight bourbon with a little splash of Coke. I guess I fall asleep because the next thing I know, my father’s there, poking at me.
“Get the hell off my bed,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I say, before I really even come to. I don’t mean to say it, but I’m not sorry; he woke me up. What does he expect?
“What did you say, you stupid shit?” comes out at the same time he grabs me and slings me off the bed. But I’m not my brother, and I’m sure as hell not small, and even though he manages to get me on the floor, it’s not but two seconds before I’m back up and in his face. I don’t care how bad my hip hurts, it’s nothing compared to what I look for and take, every single day. I don’t bother cussing him, I get down to business. I haul off and punch my father in the face. He slams up against the wall. I punch him again and hear something crack. Then Mom’s yelling, “Stop it, stop it, you’ll hurt him!” But this time she’s yelling at me, not at him. This time, it’s my boot in his ass instead of the other way around.
Coco comes to find me.
“Oh, honey,” he says, waking me, gently touching my face. “Oh, babe, I’m so sorry.” He’s crying. Timmy’s with him and a man I don’t know. They take me out of Plummer Park, over to a room where the man says we can stay, at least for a while.
I lay in the bed for three days. Coco brings me food. He rubs my feet. He gives me a sponge bath, at least as much as I can take. He doesn’t try to make me go to the hospital. He helps me change my bandage and clean out the wound. It doesn’t get infected. We watch the bruises turn black and green all down one side of my leg and body. Coco makes jokes about me turning Martian. He gets painkillers and Valium from one of his tricks.
I heal.
We move from the room and find a new place to stay, in a different park, someplace where we can meet up with each other every night. I love this boy. He’s my angel.
I wait as long as we can manage, then take my working clothes and hike down to a new gas station to clean up. Coco doesn’t try to talk me out of it. I change. I gel my hair, combing it over in a curl to one side to cover the Band-Aid. Tricks don’t like to know you can get hurt.
I get ready and check myself out. This bathroom has a real mirror. I look okay, except something’s different. I can’t put my finger on what it is. I check myself out on all sides, still can’t see it. But something’s changed.
“You look fine to me,” Coco says, giving me a kiss.
I don’t do so good at first. I’m too scared. I wave tricks off. I always need to make sure someone knows where I am. I hold on to the door handle the whole time.
“It’s okay, babe,” Coco says. “You don’t need to. We’re fine. Don’t worry.”
But we’re not, so little by little, I make myself work again. New areas. I won’t go near Oki Dogs. Seeing a Punk or a skinhead makes my whole body shake. My bruises fade and disappear. The scar on my head does not. I keep combing my hair in a little curl over the top of it.
The street’s changing. There’s a gay disease nobody can explain and lots of cocaine. People are meaner, paranoid about everything. I won’t ever do drugs when I’m working. I’m very careful. Even so, I get arrested a couple of times. I tell them I’m Paul, so I do a few days and don’t have to go to Juvie. Tricks never get busted, just the kids.
Coco finds a sugar daddy and moves to Long Beach. He invites me to come along, but it wouldn’t work. I start hanging out at clubs when I can; I look older now and it’s not hard to get in. I don’t tell anyone what I do. I flirt and glance up at guys from under my lashes.
Me and a bunch of working boys get an apartment east of Vine a few blocks off Hollywood Boulevard. I start meeting people in the clubs. I drink there, probably too much, but it’s fun. I get to make up stories and be whoever I feel like being. Sometimes I’m JJ, starving actor.
“Great bone structure,” says a handsome young guy at Akiko’s Lounge. “You could model, easy. If the acting thing doesn’t work out, you know?”
This makes me happy. At home, I stand looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, fixing my hair over my scar, checking out my bone structure. It is pretty go
od. I lower my head and peer up through my lashes, then freeze.
I see it, that change I noticed before. It’s my eyes. They’re as green as ever, but something’s gone. I turn one way, then the other, but I can’t make them beautiful. Not anymore.
* * *
Angels come in all forms, and this one is dark-haired with light hazel eyes. I meet him at Akiko’s and something clicks. Within the week, I move into his apartment. I’m seventeen. He’s twenty-six. I’m off the streets, the first time in four years. I keep expecting to wake up and have him put me out, but he doesn’t. Finally, I tell him the truth about myself. He says he already knows. He doesn’t care. He loves me. He makes me enroll in beauty school. I learn to color hair. I’m good at it.
His name is Curtis.
Curtis.
I like how it rolls off my tongue. I like him. A lot. Pretty soon, I think I love him. I get a job as a colorist—my first ever “real” job.
My first ever real family.
Life is good.
1989
NINE YEARS AFTER
“You see what I’m saying?”
The kid nods. He’s a scrawny boy, with eyes that dart about constantly, like he’s keeping a lookout for whatever might be coming to get him. Tattoos everywhere; the one that says MOM with the image of a gun worked in catches my eye. He’s always by himself. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Needy. Scared.
Freaks and Revelations Page 18
