The summer between, p.5
The Summer Between, page 5
Stomach grumbling, I ordered a large Coke and three slices of pizza from a perspiring counter girl. Her frizzy hair bounced like a cone of cotton candy. Catching my eye, she asked, “NYU?”
“September,” I replied. “Just scoping things out.”
“Gotcha. I’m Carla,” she sang.
“I’m Carla, make Ray’s your pizza par-la,” I improvised.
She laughed, revealing a wad of pink gum stuck to her upper braces. I plopped onto a wobbly wooden stool beside the bay window. Carla delivered a fan of paper plates one draped over the next, saying, “Italian, right? From Jersey? It’s the haircut.”
“Bingo. Thank you, Carla pizza par-la,” I said.
Showering each slice with red pepper flakes, I folded the crispiest piece first to drain its oil. Outside, two punks spiked the air with matching mohawks. A frumpier version of Woody Allen read a fully unfolded New York Times as he walked. A trio of matrons waddled by with grocery bags. Five greasy napkins later, I ripped a carbonated burp on my way to the exit.
“Classy, Jersey!” Carla yelled. “See ya ’round.”
Meandering along Greenwich Avenue, I scanned passing faces for some encouragement as I wandered onto Christopher—“the street crawling with queers,” as Maple Ridge neighbors described it. Raising my hand, I looked again at the word “courage” I had scrawled in black ballpoint below my knuckles.
The temporary tattoo egged me on.
Courage, I recited to my inner warrior. Energized, I fished out of my pocket a scrap of paper bearing the addresses of two watering holes. I’d found them in The Gay Man’s Guide to NYC.
Tucked within a ramshackle row of brownstones, illuminated behind a small square pane of glass was “Spurs n’ Saddles” in red neon. The pub looked dead as a doorknob. I cupped my hands around my eyes to look inside and saw nothing but black behind the dust-coated window. Deep breath. I cracked open the door and saw a long, dimly lit bar dotted with stools. Yeast seeping through a century of beer kegs pounded my nostrils like ammonia. It was a tavern no different from the one Pop-pop frequented in Maple most Fridays. Seeing the door open, a trio who looked straight out of the cantina scene in Star Wars broke their conversation and stared. They were two shirtless men wearing fringe vests, cowboy chaps, and what looked like vinyl policemen caps, beside a person in a billowy white frock, cat-eye glasses, and roller skates. I shut the door, pivoted quick as a squirrel, and ran. On a side street a full block south, I doubled over to catch my breath.
Fuck. Why was I so scared if I had already waltzed through the Village on previous weekends?
I thought of Ollie and his forceful orientation process. If he hadn’t been such an eager coach, my curiosity would have deferred until college. Instead of creeping around in the dark tonight, I’d be watching some action movie at the mall in Jersey. I was hellbent on bagging the entire experiment, but my fidgety, skanky Jersey Boy libido took over, convincing me to cancel a cowardly retreat back to Maple.
Not that I was in search of a sexual encounter with a stranger, the thought of which freaked me out. I preferred the torturous mix of utter horniness and undeniable fear. Courage, I told myself. No one knows who you are. To walk off the panic, I ambled down Christopher Street toward the Hudson River, only to stumble upon a coffee-colored sign dangling: “Tug’s.” Bar number two.
Patches of sweat patterned my shirt, one drop trickling down the center of my spine, stopping at my waistband. A welcome breeze caught a branch of leaves, and I enjoyed the chill that dried my sweat. From behind a tree, I spied a trio of ordinary-looking guys walking toward Tug’s. A scatter of men began to form along the sidewalk, dragging on cigarettes and shooting the bull. They were the sturdy sort straight out of the PGE locker room, salty with muscle.
Once the sun sank behind the Hudson, Christopher Street transformed into a block party. Bodies glided along the narrow sidewalk like night owls foraging for prey. I noticed the same people pass by on their third or fourth loop and knew I had to make a decisive move. Confusing courage with velocity, I sprinted like a cheetah into the pack crowding the doorway.
“What’s your problem?” one fellow snapped.
“Somebody is thirsty, and not for alcohol,” another snarked.
I pulled back, embarrassed. Once they herded the pack through the door, I entered slowly. Politely. Elbowing toward the bar, I slipped in between two indifferent strangers. The bartender, with a blanket of fuzzy grey peeking from his open shirt, called out, “How old are you, kid?”
“Eighteen. Last month,” I said, louder then intended and offered my driver’s license. Waving it off, he laughed. “Just kidding. This is New York—we don’t give a fuck. Whattaya having, kid?”
“A Bud, thanks.” As I chugged the can, my eyes fixed on the soundless Mets-Philly game on TV above the bar.
Courage.
Tracking sawdust under my boots, I slithered to the back wall, camouflaged against the dark paneling. I listened as Linda Ronstadt softened the edges of my anxiety with “Blue Bayou.”
Despite my deer-in-the-headlights glare, eyes began connecting with mine—only to dart away and then return seconds later. This ritual, I’d read, was known as “cruising.” I rotated my head to see my fellow drinkers mostly in fringed denim cut-offs, pastel tank tops, plaid shirts perfectly frayed, and tube socks stretched over work boots. Most in the boxy room were chatting, telling stories.
Around one a.m., desperation began seeping in. Men started leaving, making the room less packed. A ripped, Hispanic man in blue plaid flatly offered a bold, extended stare. In the seconds it took me the guts to return a smile, another guy sporting a mustache gripped my admirer’s forearm and whispered into his ear. Suddenly they marched toward the exit.
I needed lots more beer.
“I’ll take another Bud.”
I dodged and darted back to my spot to find it occupied by a streaked blond on rollerblades. Eager to reclaim my roost, I blocked his view. He huffed and wobbled across the room.
I was sucking the last drops of my fifth Budweiser when a remarkably short frat guy crowded me and released a string of garbled words. Before I could decode his message, he took off. En route to catch a piss, I saw the frat boy draping the jukebox. When I offered a smile, he turned his back.
Defiantly, I fixed my eyes on him like a hawk to a mouse. But he weaved toward me, shook his head, and bolted toward the exit. Abandoned, I raced toward the back of the bar to the john.
After emptying my bladder, I confronted the mirror at the sink.
I saw ugly.
My face looked nothing like the Tug’s crowd. There was no escaping my baby face bursting with freckles. The bushy stripe of brow above my eyes appeared grotesque, no substitute for a cool handlebar mustache or tightly cropped beard.
I suddenly recalled how Carla from the pizza par-la said she could tell I was from Jersey by my haircut.
Someone barked, “Hurry in there.”
I stuffed my Jersey talismans—a class ring and the gold neck chain Gram gave me on my seventeenth birthday—into the pocket of my jeans. Then I applied tap water to flatten my hair, unsnapped the third shirt button, and headed back to the war zone. I approached the older, whiskered bartender, now wearing a buckskin vest and black jeans, to place my order. He set up a Bud with a Red-Hot sidecar—on the house. As I guzzled the combo for courage, our grins caught.
When the burn faded, I felt good. Determined. But the crowd had thinned to a dozen. Two bald chaps smiled and beckoned. One handed me what looked like a bullet, gesturing to inhale. I hesitated, but they stared me down, so I lifted the bottle to my nostril to suck in its vapor. Instantly, antifreeze firebombed my trachea. My pulse rocketed. The room careened out of focus. As the honeyed waves of Styx’s “Come Sail Away” bounced off the tin ceiling, I felt a ridiculous grin hijack my face. I teetered on the edge of a barstool, shamelessly hammered.
Chapter 7
A garbage truck churned in the street below, rousing me. The only thing I knew was that I was face down and naked on a futon somewhere in Lower Manhattan. I felt an acidic gurgle in my stomach. A rub of my temples only worsened the pain. I felt the weight of a body next to mine—but whose?
I imagined Elena whispering in my ear, “Andy, get out.”
Opening my eyes was a struggle. Slivers of light through the plastic blinds told me it was morning. An electric fan gently rolled the thin sheet over me. I stretched to look at a plastic digital alarm clock: 7:05. The glass ashtray next to it overflowed with cigarette stubs. Next to that sat a yellowed half-doobie and two brown bottles of pills. A framed Bob Dylan poster with rings of hippie color swirling from his head hung on the wall.
June—it was June. Saturday. Progress.
I had to pee in the worst way. I sat upright and looked over at the lanky body under the sheet. A Jesus beard scraped the pillow, framed by long Jesus hair. He looked older than I expected, confirming I had been beyond wasted last night.
Careful not to make noise, I stood up and walked toward the hallway where a primitive wall-hanging nearly spooked the crap out of me. On top was a headdress composed of spiky reeds with a blast of colorfully dyed feathers at the center. A pair of curved white bones forming a circle dangled from the brow. Underneath was a spear, its point tipped with red paint.
I regained my footing and located his bathroom next to the tiny galley kitchen, feeling pebbles adhere to my feet with each step. The phone-booth-sized toilet was disturbingly tidy. Geometric wallpaper danced up the wall. With one sticky foot, I quietly pressed the door shut. A loud, gassy round of farts began, so I aimed a torrent of piss into the bowl water to muffle the sound. I exhaled, feeling relief. I lifted my head and spotted a bottle of Excedrin in a wicker basket. I dry-swallowed three aspirin and then checked the mirror. If I didn’t like myself last night in the bar, I hated myself now. Turning to leave, I jostled a plastic litter box, explaining the pebbles underfoot.
I returned to the bedroom and saw that the body under the sheet hadn’t budged. As I quietly untangled my socks, I spotted a tabby roosting on my jeans, its green cat eyes fixed on me. She appeared well cared for, fat, and groomed. The moment she scatted, I wobbled into a leg of my smoky jeans and hoisted the pants to my waist. As I did, a pain rippled from my butt down my leg. I squelched a yelp, afraid I would awaken my so-called host.
Hazy details flashed through my brain like images in a View-Master: rocker guy handing me a shot, his ear pierced with gold, telling me his name was—something. Genesis’s “Follow You Follow Me” was diddling in the background. Then blank, a gap. Lights on, last call. We scattered like cockroaches into the night. He and I sat on a smelly stoop and talked. Then I guess I was steered back to his place.
Rocker guy’s stringy hair brushed my lips. Stairs. Several flights of stairs. I drank something from a purple tin cup—the same sort Lia used for serving iced tea at family barbecues. He led me onto a too-low mattress. I hard-kissed his cigarette mouth. Hated it. The cheek of my face was scratched by the wiry fiber carpeting his chest. I recalled a burst of pain. It must have been my ass, pierced by his hard penis.
I shuddered at the flashback and felt my ass twinge again. Was I bleeding? I felt myself collapsing inside. But there was no time for that. I glared at rocker guy, disgusted by his angelic expression, his head resting calmly on the pillow—oblivious to my panic.
Fiddling with the snaps of my shirt, I tried to lean into the memory. Eighteen years old, my first gay bar. Is this what happens?
Elena’s voice returned: “Get out—now.”
Fearful he’d wake, I lifted my boots, and carried them to the door, watching the soles shed cat litter and barroom sawdust. Pulling them on, I noticed a pad and pencil.
I imagined the note I would write if I had bigger balls: Sorry I didn’t wait to say goodbye, dude. Thanks for letting me crash even though you fucked me while I was dead to the world. You suck.
On a ledge beside the desk were two tickets. I shoved them into my back pocket—payback for shredding my ass. Something needed to be taken from this fucking fucker. That was his name, I decided: Fucking-fuck.
I turned the deadbolt, careful not to let the door slam.
Slinking down the narrow stairwell, I shuffled out to the stoop, pausing as a sweeper glided down the street leaving a slippery trail. Oranges and piss. I was on Barrow Street, but I had no idea where I had parked the car. I anxiously zigzagged the maze of Village streets, finally tripping upon Christopher Street. Passing the blue façade of the police station, I turned at the corner where, like a behemoth rising from the mist, sat the Blue Whale. Climbing inside, I locked the door and sat, feeling my anus pulsate as rapidly as the bass in a Led Zeppelin song.
Minutes passed before I could find the strength to drive.
As the engine rattled, I skated my palm down the silky strands of the blue and gold graduation tassel dangling from the rearview mirror—a reminder of who I was. Reaching for the lemon-lime Gatorade, I again thought of Elena. It was only weeks ago, on the drive home after Jaws 2, when she spit a mouthful of Gatorade all over the closed window and herself, thinking the window was rolled down.
As I drove, I swore to myself that Elena would never know about this trouble I got myself into. No one would.
Wrapping my fingers over the steering wheel, I noticed smudges the color of charcoal peeking from under my sleeve, bruises soured to a mottled shade of red. It looked like the faint imprint of braided rope on my wrists. Confirmation that the Fucking-fuck had bound and restrained me before slipping it in.
Violated. I felt puke well up in my throat.
My body shook, releasing a spate of shivers and a torrent of tears. Snot clogged my nostrils. My body reminded me of what my brain refused to accept. Was going home with someone the universal approval for anything goes?
I had been raped. Men don’t get raped. Maybe in prison, but this was in a stranger’s bed. With that, I stopped at a street corner, flung the car door open and heaved a bucketload of vomit onto the asphalt.
I wiped my mouth with a Dairy Queen napkin from the glove compartment and resumed driving. I made my way along the West Side Highway toward the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. Staring blankly at its green ceramic walls, I felt the return of the gurgle in my stomach. Exiting the tunnel, I pictured being home in the comfort of my childhood bed, hearing the hum of lawnmowers crisscrossing neighbors’ lawns.
Luckily, it was a deserted Saturday morning, and the roads were kind. A right at the turnpike’s third stoplight led to the spacious freeway. The Maple Ridge exit soon gave way to the rolling, tree-lined streets, signaling I’d be home in minutes. We lived on the greener side of town, dotted with parks along the river. The white-shingled Cape Cod rested on a crest with thick shrubs on either side. The stairs to the second floor opened to a study with a wall of bookshelves. Between a matched set of aqua and orange director’s chairs stood my bedroom, equipped with an 8-track stereo, a television set within a mod cube resembling a marshmallow, and a Princess telephone mounted to the wall. The perks of being a fatherless child.
I stripped my clothes in the first-floor bathroom. In an act of contrition, I showered under an icy-cold stream of water for as long as I could bear. I was surprised that I didn’t see pools of blood cascading from my ravaged butt. Rather than wallow like a martyr, I cut the penalty short. Folded into the navy-blue terry cloth robe Aunt Louisa had given me for Christmas, I retreated to my room and turned the air conditioner on high, drowning the silence. Then, I remembered the pair of tickets I snagged from Fucking-fuck’s apartment. I sprang back downstairs and unraveled my jeans from the heap. Scrunched into the back pocket were the two tickets.
Rolling Stones. The Palladium, 126 East 14th Street. Box 2.
Monday, June 19, 1978. Special Access.
I decided that Elena, a Stones zealot, would benefit from my fuckup. I just had to make up a story of how I got them—and not by getting anally penetrated.
A feat as monumental as seeing the band perform live, with Elena in tow, would almost be payback for my loss. But then I realized: When that asshole discovered the tickets missing, he’d know who took them.
Tough shit. I didn’t leave a forwarding address. I was home free.
I crawled back into bed, grateful that my ass was not aching as much after the shower. Curling my body knees-up, I tucked a pillow into my fold, willing myself to sleep for the remainder of the day.
Chapter 8
The day after the assault was shit. My brain wouldn’t quit; sleep came by default. Could I get away with hiding my bruises, now purpler than they were earlier that morning? The answer seemed to be no.
In one night, I had changed forever: from naïve suburban Andy into a rapist’s plaything, which made me an embarrassing, colossal fuckup. Another handful of Excedrin and a swig of grape juice barely relieved my sick stomach, even though I knew my mind was making me feel rotten.
I dragged myself to the kitchen to toast an English muffin, hoping bland food would offset the nausea in my body. I kept it down. Good sign. Then I crawled back to bed.
No way that Elena would get the truth. She would be really, really pissed if she knew. After she’d overreact—first anger then pity—she’d find a way to tell me this never would have happened if I had stayed with her. She’d laugh about it, but I would know she meant what she said.
Who would hear my truth? Who could I confide in? With Ollie on another continent, there was no one to turn to without deploying a bomb. This is what Ollie meant by saying, “I don’t want you to have a bad first experience with a stranger.” But Ollie being my first didn’t prevent me from having a second bad experience. Fuck.
Run, Andy, run. Disappear.
It worked for my father when things got tough.
Empty my savings account of close to eight thousand dollars. Head to California, Canada, far. Running away seemed a better option than suicide.
