I began to think of everything that happened to me as another communication from God. The hearts on the menu meant that He loved me. Trumpets sounded when angels had something to say. These signs made me smile and stop and rest, shaking my head with awe and gratitude. God really could do anything, the way I’d believed as a child.
Full of excitement, I sat down and thought about what to do next. What would be my first meal as a new man? What different choices would I make to show Him how I had changed? How could I express my thanks to the Lord through the things I did in the new life He had given me? It made me shake my head to think that I’d really met Jesus and had really been born again. I felt sure now that the Lord would change me into a normal person so I could go back to Annie and Cheryl. I didn’t think I would be away for too long; just long enough to get over my problem. It’s tough to go back and piece together my logic. My mind was jumbled; my body in shock.
The man in the jacket paid me no mind. He got up and turned on the television. The accident had already made the news. From the report, I found out that lots of people had been injured, but so far nobody had been killed, even in the big explosion that happened after everybody got out. Not even the engineers. That made it clear that the accident had served one purpose alone. It was a message for me.
The waitress had teased hair and penciled-in eyebrows. She came by with a plastic pitcher of ice water, shaking her head and clucking her teeth as she poured. She handed me a menu and a set of silverware wrapped in a napkin.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
I paused. “No.” I picked up the girl’s book, which I’d rested on the table beside the sugar dispenser, and hid it on the chair next to me.
Several other customers walked in at once. It seemed like they worked nearby and had all decided to come together. The waitress greeted them like she knew them, and forgot about sticking around to hear where I came from.
Like a shepherdess, the waitress kept an eye on her customers. My tumbler hadn’t even reached the halfway mark when she came up behind me and gave me a refill. Maybe she’ll ask about my past, I thought. Since I couldn’t tell anybody my background, I would have to make up a new one. Staring at the ice melting in my glass, I thought about what name to give myself and became lost in my thoughts, hoping and praying that Annie and the rest of my family wouldn’t take my disappearance too hard.
Suddenly the theme song of the news broadcast caught my attention. The first thing I noticed when I looked up was the handsome newscaster. The newscaster’s name—Robert August—appeared right below a square jaw, eyes as honest as Hank’s, and a short, smart haircut. I took August as my new first name. I had always liked names that were also months, and all the rest were girls’ names. Scanning the room for a last name, I flipped through Plays and Masques, but I didn’t understand too much behind all the flowery language. I considered calling myself Ben Jonson, but that was almost as boring as Gary Gray. I had always wanted a name with more zing, one that made people’s eyebrows go up when they heard it.
My eyes went back to the menu. I turned it over a bunch of times, searching its greasy front for a word that would make a good last name. By and by, it dawned on me that the name of the restaurant itself would make a pretty good last name if I made it sound not Spanish. It had very positive associations—of love, gifts, and chocolate candies. Yes, I would be August Valentine. I repeated it to myself softly, like I was introducing myself to a stranger. August Valentine. Pleased to meet you. It had an important ring to it, like maybe the name of some well-known company should come afterward. August Valentine, Merrill Lynch. August Valentine, Ibm. August Valentine, CBS news.
The waitress must have seen me lay my menu down to watch the news broadcast, because she swung over with her pen and pad ready. With a strange kind of pride, I ordered things Gary Gray didn’t like. August Valentine had the huevos rancheros with pickled jalapeños and spicy green sauce, rice and beans, and a coffee. When the waitress brought it, I reached for the sugar dispenser and held it above the cup. Then I changed my mind. Gary Gray had a sweet tooth. August Valentine didn’t. I put the dispenser down and pushed it far away on the table, next to the pink packets of sugar substitute.
August had a taste for salty, not sweet. He enjoyed bitter, weird flavors, like olives, dry white wine, and hot peppers. August Valentine’s flavors were grown-up—sophisticated tastes somebody like Mr. Price would admire.
The waitress loitered near my table, leaning her hand against the back of an empty booth, watching the television. She said more about the disaster and what a shame it was. I nodded, popping the last pepper into my mouth, then excused myself from the conversation to call a cab. With a friendly nod to the waitress, I paid my bill and waited outside.
“August Valentine,” I said, like I was answering an office phone. I looked up toward the evening sky. Suddenly the air tasted like fresh strawberries, and then it didn’t anymore. Right when all the streetlamps came on, a white cab pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of me. I planted myself in the back, away from the driver. He had dark skin and a full head of white hair like my father’s. Imagining how he would look in a cobalt blue suit like Daddy’s, I pressed myself into the backseat as hard as I could.
“Downtown Atlanta,” I told him. I had very little idea how far away that was. I had only a few hundred dollars on me. He raised an eyebrow and cranked the wheel toward the main road.
“My name’s Luther,” he said, turning to face the road. Like the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, whose headquarters are in Atlanta, I thought. Another sign from the Lord. The trip would be expensive, but I didn’t want to hitchhike or to try to figure out the public transportation system of a strange town at night. He told me a few more things about his personal life before he asked for my destination.
“The Radisson?” I didn’t know the name of anything else in downtown Atlanta.
Through the cab window, America went by. One of the things I’d learned while traveling so much for my job was that I was always at home in America. I liked having a base in Florida—Disney World was my capital city, not washington, D.C.—but seeing so many familiar stores in new places always put me at ease. I counted three Elco gas stations, a Hot Tomato restaurant, two branches of Harry Moses Fried Chicken, and a Crenson’s Homemade Ice Cream Bakery. My whole identity had changed, but not the outside world. I sank back into the seat, thinking my new name and pretending to read the Ben Jonson plays so that Luther wouldn’t ask more questions, but that didn’t work.
“So why do you need to take a cab from all the way out in Norcross to Atlanta?” he asked. “It’s kinda far, ain’t it?” His questions made me wonder if he suspected that I had walked away from the train derailment. Since when did a cab driver have the right to ask you a reason for taking the cab? I thought he should be happy he had such a big fare.
“My car broke down,” I said, trying to sound bored.
“Did you hear about the big train wreck?”
“No, I didn’t. What happened?”
We arrived in Atlanta. Many of the avenues had the name Peachtree, and they fell on top of each other like pickup sticks, so I could get lost easily. I never had any idea what direction we were facing, but being lost in a maze soothed me. I could hide here. We turned a corner and pulled into the Radisson’s driveway. I paid Luther thirty dollars and got out. Welcome to Atlanta, August Valentine, I thought.
Carefully, I walked into the lobby, a huge, open atrium with balconies full of hanging plants. A skylight glowed at the top, even though it was night. This was the hanging garden of Babylon, with only the faint light of the Lord to save the decadent city. Next to me a fountain burbled, and I threw in a penny. (Guess what I wished for!) I spent a few minutes in a dark corner of the lounge, making sure that Luther had really gone, and then I left the hotel, keeping my head down. I walked out and quickly got lost.
The downtown area hadn’t been revitalized yet, like it would be in the next few years.
Most storefronts were boarded up, and bright green puddles of antifreeze dotted the gutters, ugly and beautiful at the same time. Paper napkins from fast-food restaurants skidded down the streets, hurrying faster than the people on the sidewalk. A whole lot of vendors sat around in booths with plastic curtains, selling cheap watches, perfume, bootleg videotapes, and handbags with designer labels. Women bigger than Mama watched me from the MARTA buses. Their eyelids drooped and their straightened hair flew in all directions. Some of them wore bold floral dresses or African patterns, but they all looked overworked and unhappy.
After some wandering, I found myself in the Auburn neighborhood. This area contained many housing projects and soul-food restaurants. A huge deserted hotel called the Savoy set the tone for the place. Though its windows had been boarded up, you could tell it had once been glamorous. Auburn looked like a perfect place to start over.
With my choice of low-budget hotels, I settled on the Patriot Inn. The plastic banner across the window said $22.50 a night. A group of people stood out front, maybe waiting for somebody. The lobby was a tiny room with a fluorescent light and one ripped-up chair in it. A woman from outside walked in behind me and greeted me like she knew me, but she just wanted to sell me something. “You’re a prostitute, aren’t you?” I blurted out, thinking about my Dairy Queen date with Penny. She stopped in her tracks and said, “You want some kinda prize, Poindexter?” In the doorway, an older man argued with a muscular boy in ripped jeans who kept shouting, “I said fif-ty, not fif-teen!”
The woman at the front desk had on a nameplate that said MARILYN. Marilyn had something wrong with her face bones, and I noticed it with a little jump. I hoped she didn’t notice me noticing.
“Name?” she asked. I could tell from her scratchy voice that she smoked a lot.
“August Valentine,” I announced. I said it slowly, with a space in between, enjoying the sound of it. She wrote it down, and I leaned in to watch her write. Seeing my new name in writing gave it more of an official reality, so I puffed my chest up a little.
“Can I see some ID?”
“My wallet was stolen.”
Marilyn lowered her chin and gave me a sad, disbelieving glance. “Don’t you got nothing on you? What’s your social?”
“Uh, I never memorized it, ma’am.” That was true. “I used to have a card, but it—”
“—was in the wallet. Of course.” marilyn sighed long and loud, like my lack of ID was a personal problem for her, but also one she dealt with from other people every day. She squinted through the safety glass. “Aw, you don’t look like a troublemaker,” she groaned, a little dismissively.
“I’m not,” I told her in a cheerful tone, like I could prove I wasn’t a criminal just by acting happy. She pressed the dash key on the computer in the ID spaces. “I’m a really nice person.”
“How many nights?”
“Not sure.”
“All right, open ended. Just show me the ID when you get it replaced, okay, Sugar?” I nodded. Marilyn gave me room 206. A brown carpet stain peeked out from under the dresser, and a palmetto bug scampered down the bathtub drain when I turned on the light. I soaked my aching wrist in hot water in the sink for a while, then I went to the five-and-dime and bought a toothbrush, a map, an Ace bandage, a set of hair clippers, and a three-pack of drawers.
Once I’d settled in, I kneeled on the carpet by the bed and prayed. I thanked Christ for his mercy, for not ever deserting me, and I apologized for the many times I’d assumed God had condemned me or didn’t care. I shaved my head and mustache. I couldn’t help giggling in the bathroom mirror at how funny I looked without hair. After everything that day I felt tired, so I lay down on the bed and watched television. Soon I fell asleep.
I woke up a little later with an erection. The orange neon glow from outside lit up the wall in front of me. The TV was still on, an episode of an adventure show I had heard other kids talking about as a child but had never seen before. I watched for a while to change my state of mind, but the lead actor was too attractive, so I changed the station. But handsome men showed up on other channels, too.
As usual, being in a hotel room in a strange city and feeling the way I felt made me eager to seek out the company of men who shared my problem. But I started to worry. Jesus wanted me to purge my desires by getting them out of my system. He wanted to show me the evils of the gay lifestyle so I could go back to my family a changed man. The Ghost of Christmas Past had done something like that to Scrooge; I felt my time in Atlanta would have the same effect on me. Just to make sure, I prayed for guidance.
Jesus didn’t reappear, though, and no message came to me. Puzzled, I stood and watched the street scene through the window. Maybe something out there would give me a sign. I closed my eyes, put my palms together, and begged the Lord to show me what He meant for me to do.
I counted to ten and opened my eyes. Just then a bus pulled up to the stoplight downstairs. The whole side of the bus was covered in a colorful advertisement for a bank that wanted to lure new customers with its low fees. In red letters, the side of the bus said FREE CHECKING*. In smaller letters, much lower and to the left, it said, *FOR ONE YEAR. Next to the words, the image of a handsome businessman with the same beard and caring brown eyes as Jesus beamed out at me.
It was all right there. For the next year, I could purge the unwanted feelings for men from my system in a way that protected my family, because I would have a different name. Then could I see my way back to Christ, and I would be cured. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I had even heard of religious groups doing something exactly like that:Amish kids went into the outside world to experience a year of sin. Most of them went back with greater faith.
The room had become stuffy, so I opened the window. The bus pulled off and I breathed in exhaust. The heavy smell reminded me of my childhood home. Lots of people were walking around outside, talking loud in the warm evening. I could hear conversations happening right underneath my window. Everybody in town seemed happy to be alive in the outdoors that night. An electric sense of possibility rode through the streets on the breeze, so I shoved the hotel key into my pocket, closed the window, and went downstairs to join the excitement.
EIGHT
In the jumble of Atlanta’s streets, I turned every which way. I checked everywhere for signs of male hangouts, poking my head into alleys, parking garages, and twenty-four-hour copy centers. Don’t ask me why on that last one. Soon I became frustrated and fell back on an old trick. I followed random men, especially the ones traveling alone.
Just a few blocks from the Patriot Inn, one of the men I was trailing passed the neon sign for a dirty bookstore. He didn’t go in, but I stopped. I couldn’t walk into the place immediately, so I stood a few stores away, pondering my next move. Snaxpo had already started. Most other parts of town seemed full up with people carrying tote bags. Would I run into somebody from my past? I thought I should keep as low a profile as possible. Maybe leave town. But I only had a few hundred dollars from my wallet, and no income.
I crossed the street and loitered at the bus stop, pretending to wait for a bus. In a while one came, and stopped in front of me with a hiss. Nobody got off. It had stopped just to pick me up. The driver opened the door, and I waved him away with a sheepish grin. He gave me a suspicious look. The bus wobbled away.
Ashamed, I decided to go back to my room. But when I stepped into that small, glowing space, I found the Ben Jonson book on the dresser. Immediately I stuck the girl’s paperback under my arm and marched back out, like an invisible hand would lock me in forever if I stayed too long. I hurried back to the bookstore.
Standing across the street, I watched the signs in its windows. OrientalMale-Lesbian, they said. I had fully entered the world of perversions, but at least I didn’t have to worry that it would reflect badly on my family, Mr. Price, or Bradley Foods. I’d only spend a year in homosexuality anyway, until the Lord wiped away those feelings.
With the book ove
r my face, I stepped into the store, searching with the corner of my eye for the all-male pornography. As usual, I found it downstairs in a separate area. Near the cash register, I saw what I needed— a directory of gay businesses. On the cover, a white man was pulling himself out of a pool, his ropy arms and hairy chest all wet. He smiled at me, promising a new world of pleasure. The guide listed gay places all over the globe. Since I didn’t want to go up to the cashier, I flipped through the directory. On a tiny map of downtown Atlanta inside, I located the cross-streets for the Patriot Inn and memorized the address of the nearest gay bar, which turned out not to be so close.
After some cab trouble, I entered a nightclub called Nutz. It was in a warehouse-type district that seemed deserted, secret, and evil, like a place where demons came alive at night. Inside, violet lights turned everybody’s skin greenish and made the lint on my shirt glow. The walls twinkled, too, like a spaceship. As scared as I was, I might as well have been on Mars, and everybody in there an alien.
Concerned that I might run into somebody from the convention, or worse yet, from back home, I used my trusty book trick when I walked into Nutz. August Valentine, I knew, would have entered the bar showing his face. I tried to stop myself from slipping back into Gary Gray–dom, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. Near the edge of the dance floor, I found an area where a spotlight carved out some of the wall. Thinking like August, I planted myself in a spot where the light hit half my face. From time to time, I lifted up the lower end of the book and checked out the scene. I thought nobody would bother me. I reckoned I looked like a mysterious intellectual, reading.
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