In the City of Shy Hunters (45 page)

Will?

Yeah, I said.

Like Antigone, Rose said, I too must follow my heart.

The way the candlelight hit Buddha, the Buddha was floating.

I'm going to nail these motherfuckers for giving me this disease, Rose said.

I pushed myself up, put my hands on Rose's face, on his ears, on his shaved head.

AIDS? I said.

The word that hurts.

HIV positive, Rose said.

My heart, the broken pieces scratching against my chest. I put my chest against Rose's chest.

You know who gave it to you? I said.

Yes, Rose said, I know.

Who? I said.

The horrific whisper: God, Rose said.

God? I said.

You've got to liberate yourself from your concept of God, Rose said.

Rose's face in his hands, the candlelight on Rose's shaved head.

The God who gave me this disease is the God of Taken as Given, Rose said: Ronald Reagan, and Nancy, Margaret Thatcher, George Bush, the Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI, Oliver North, Bernhard Goetz, Ed Koch, and Cardinal O'Henry, the whole fucking hierarchical gaggle of White Paranoid Patriarchs.

AIDS is the shadow of Christianity, Rose said.

He sat up. His right eye was almost closed, his left eye one hard ebony stone rolled smooth.

I am the hero, Rose said. And I am queer, and I am here to restore natural order. And believe me, Rose said, the jig is up. There is a new order and these honky white heterosexual motherfuckers are going to pay.

Antigone made of herself a sacrifice, Rose said. There must be a sacrifice, Rose said, To restore order.

In all the world, in Rose's apartment, just like that, out of the blue, the huge footfall of the monster, breaking glass, crushing buildings, darkening the sky.

Everywhere dogs barking, wolves.

JUST BEFORE WE
slept, my body spooned into Rose. I put my lips to Rose's ear. Rose, I said, Rose, you got to get rid of that gun.

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

A
fter work one night, when I grabbed the newel post of 205 East Fifth Street and swung myself up the stairs, there in one of the garbage cans were a couple of two-by-fours and a black plastic bag filled with plaster, and Fiona was banging away inside Stranded Beings Searching for God.

I put my face to the glass under the poster of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and put my hands around my eyes. Fiona was knee deep in rubble. Her bushel of black hair was tied under a red scarf and she was wearing cutoffs and a white T-shirt that were covered in the thin black dust that's everywhere in the city. She was trying to pull a big nail out of a two-by-four.

Fiona unlocked the door and I said something nice, like, Hi, Susan Strong, would you like a beer? or something really simple, and just like that Fiona's arms were around my neck and she was crying. Not just crying a little bit but an all-out wail.

All I could think about was how was I going to get my white shirt clean again, but there was no getting away from her. Plus, the last time anybody held on to me like that was Charlie 2Moons.

So I held Fiona.

After she settled down, I went upstairs and got two beers and brought them back down. I kicked the Sheetrock and plaster and crosshatch out of the way, and Fiona and I sat down. My black waiter pants were covered in white dust. I rolled a cigarette for Fiona, one for me.

When I asked, What's wrong? Fiona snuffed up and wiped snotty black off her nose with her arm.

Everything, Fiona said. Every fucking thing is fucking wrong. My father and my mother are giving me such shit about Stranded Beings Searching for God. Mom's trying to convince Dad not to give me anymore money. My mother is such a bitch! I can't find anybody to do the work, and all my clothes and my computer and everything I own is
covered in this fucking black dust. And how can you have a performance space if you don't have anybody to perform? I can't even pull this fucking nail out of this fucking board, let alone open a performance space!

And then, Fiona said, To top it all off?

Fiona's bottom lip started shaking and her whole face seemed to cave in to the scar under her nose. Fiona grabbed on to me again, her body against mine, the big sobs in her against me.

Fiona's body against mine was jerks back and forth, back and forth, waves of in and out. How much like cumming it was, Fiona crying like that.

My hand on Fiona's scarf on her head. I touched her shoulders, put both arms around her. She was so tiny.

You're going this way and then shit happens and then you're going that way.

My brothers, Fiona said, lips against my ear. My twin little brothers, Fiona said, The Hyannisport Homos, the YUFAs—both of them are in the hospital. Intestinal flu, Fiona said.

Both of them? I said.

They can't stop shitting, Fiona said.

After a couple more beers and more smokes, I got Fiona to come up and take a shower. We called out for Chinese. Fiona came out of the shower wrapped in my big white towel, rubbing her hair with my blue towel, her skin so white against the white towel. Fiona sat down on my futon, I lit a cigarette, put the cigarette in my green-dish ashtray, drank from her can of Budweiser. The Chinese came and I paid for it, and I got some dishes and paper towels and sat down next to Fiona. Fiona Garlic Chicken, me Szechuan Shrimp. Just my wagon-wheel lamp on, WBLS on my boom box, low jazz at the end of the dial, her white legs in the lamplight, the white towel wrapped around her, Fiona cross-legged sitting on the futon eating Chinese, talking talking.

You know, Fiona said, Sometimes I just go shit-spray thinking about it: Argwings Khodek, the essence of performance art, the master of complete presence, just up the stairs from me. If I could get him to perform at Stranded Beings Searching for God, it would be a big help.

I was ripping open the soy sauce with my teeth. Fiona laid down her fork and took a drag on the cigarette.

I've contacted Alien Comic, Fiona said, But he hasn't got back to me. Holly Hughes might be interested, but she's in Minneapolis. And Ethyl, Fiona said. Ethyl Eichelberger! And can you imagine getting John Kelly?

I need a microphone system, an amplifier, a curtain. Where the fuck do you buy a stage curtain, Pottery Barn? And chairs, Fiona said. And I've got to sell beer and something to eat. What do you serve at a performance space? Do you microwave corn dogs or make little sandwiches? I don't have time to make little fucking sandwiches. I hate little fucking sandwiches. Maybe soup?

How much do you think I should charge for a performance? Fiona said. Five dollars? Of course the performer will get a
huge
percentage of the till, but how much do you think? Sixty? Seventy-five?

Ruth Fuglistaller has a great act, Fiona said, This intemationale lounge act with the femme fatale Lana Lynx. Cool. Then there's Watchface. Maybe Ellie at Dixon Place would give me some suggestions.

The performers will have to dress in my bedroom, Fiona said, And there's just the one bathroom: for the performers, for the public, and for me. Harry said we should paint the walls black and make it a black box in here, but I want to keep it light. Creamy yellow or off-white, don't you think? What kind of chairs, Conran chairs, or should I go buy old chairs, all different kinds? I think a couch and a standing lamp, Fiona said. Give it a homey feeling. A throw rug and a coffee table.

Reno's good. George Osterman. KimX.

Fiona sighed a big sigh and stuck a forkful of Garlic Chicken in her mouth.

Then: Do you know what New York's true and hidden nature is? Fiona asked.

True and hidden? I said. No.

Charcoal, Fiona said.

Charcoal? I said.

Charcoal, Fiona said. Do you know how to make charcoal?

No, I said.

You take a live substance like a tree limb and burn it in a kiln from which air is excluded.

That's us, Fiona said. That's what's left of us.

We are so compressed here, so pressured, that carbon is all that's left of the human spirit. Charcoal is what's left that still burns after the fire has passed through. All the extra shit is gone. What's left is what burns.

New York is America's charcoal heart. New York burns out all the extra stuff in your life. You have to be able to state what you want and why you want it as precisely and concisely as possible. There's no time for anything else. Life is an art and art is a game, Fiona said. I see that you are playing at enjoying your Szechuan Chicken, Fiona said.

Shrimp, I said. Szechuan Shrimp.

Why do you think cocaine's so popular? Fiona said. Cocaine—charcoal—same shit, different names.

That Mrs. Lupino bitch is a fucking pain in the ass, Fiona said. Any little squeak I make she bangs on my ceiling. I'm going to have to cut her nipples off if she starts up during a performance. Do you think the curtain could be velvet? Like a dark green velvet? I wonder how much a velvet curtain would cost. My fucking dad said he won't give me another dime. 'Course that was with Mother standing right there. If I get him alone he'll be fine. Plus I still have my credit cards.

David Cale is funny, Deborah Hiett, Lisa Kron, Terry Dame, Eva Gasteazoro, Linda Mancini. But no stand-up, Fiona said. I don't do stand-up.

Then: It's performance
hearty
. Fiona said. She put her hands on her heart. And that's why I love Argwings Khodek so much.

He's a dervish, Fiona said. His art is a devotional exercise that he delivers with ecstatic abandonment. Argwings Khodek is a man dancing alone in a room, not a man dancing alone in a room in front of people watching, even though there are hundreds of people watching. Argwings Khodek is never
Look
,
this is me
dancing in a room. He is the wedding itself, Fiona said, not Tony and Tina's wedding. So given, Fiona said. So not-taken-as-given.

So un-Noam Chomsky, I said.

Argwings Khodek, Fiona said, Is so this-very-second.

The breakthrough to wordless knowledge, Fiona said, Really is the climax of our whole existence, don't you think? All being as one's own being.

Laying bare the human heart, I said. All of us all one thing.

I suppose I'll have to rent a Dumpster for all this construction garbage, Fiona said. I hope they take Visa. Do you know anybody who's a carpenter who's handy and needs a job?

I was rolling cigarettes, one for Fiona, one for me.

I can help you, I said. I'm pretty good with a hammer.

Will! Really? Fiona said. Cool! I'll pay you. How's six bucks an hour?

You don't have to pay me, I said.

No, Fiona said, I don't take charity. Let's make it seven.

OK, I said. Seven.

I lit Fiona's cigarette, lit mine. Fiona leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and then put her forehead on mine.

I'm Diogenes, Fiona said, And you're my honest man.

Fiona's hair smelled of my Herbal Essence shampoo. The towel had fallen down from her diamond nips. We finished the Chinese and I turned off the wagon-wheel light and Fiona and I lay on the futon and smoked in the dark. WBLS low jazz on the boom box, car alarms outside, ambulance sirens, fire sirens. The light from another incarnation on East Fifth Street through the window and onto the sheets, onto her body.

Fiona talking talking.

Spalding Gray and Wally Shawn are probably too big to hope for, Fiona said. I think I'll paint the floor in some wild-ass pattern. I'll have to buy curtains for the window and the door.

Finally, Fiona said, Our lives just come down to moments, don't they?

IN ALL THE
world, this distracted globe, my arms around Fiona, her hair in my face, in my mouth. Her smooth white back, holding Fiona like Bernadette would do, Fiona holding me.

The still point in the turning world.

Now here.

Fiona's lips at my ear: Harry looks awful, Fiona said. I can't get him to go to the hospital. It can't be AIDS, Fiona said. Harry's just like my brothers—so fussy. Harry and my brothers are so fussy. Everything clean clean. No mess. My God, you should see my brothers' house. Right out of
House Beautiful
. Museum-piece quality. When they get done shitting they fold the last piece of toilet paper over like in hotels.

It can't be AIDS, Fiona said. It just can't be. Not Harry. Not my little brothers.

Then the next moment, just like that, Fiona was sleeping. Deep long breaths of sleep in my ear, her belly up and down, up and down. I pulled my arm out from under her, bent over. I pushed my ear slow into her heart.

I rolled another cigarette. Got up, took a leak. Stood among my Art Family. They were covering their eyes, their mouths, their ears, covering their crotches and breasts.

Outside, the monster's footfall, shaking doors, rattling windows, big cracks in the brick walls.

Another New Yorker gone to hell.

In my forearms, up to my shoulders, down through my heart, splash down into stomach, cattle prod to cock.

Trouble.

None of us, not any one of us, no one knew how much trouble we were in.

JUNE
1986.
WHEN
I told Rose I'd never been to the Gay Pride march, Rose said, Well, put your tank top on, Mary, you're going this year.

That Gay Pride Saturday morning, though, I woke up with my mother's nerves.

In my forearms first, then up to my shoulders, then some hard thing in my chest that stayed and got bigger, the closer it got to noon.

Half a million homosexuals all together in the same place all at once on a hot day.

I knew Rose wasn't home. I dialed his number, left a message.

Sorry, Rose, I said, But I can't make it to Gay Pride today. I am going to Connecticut to visit an old friend.

On the R uptown, no Charlie 2Moons.

I got off at 57th and walked up to Central Park, Bethesda Fountain. Sat on the edge of the fountain, took my shoes and socks off, rolled my pants up, and stuck my feet in the water.

The day was clear and already hot. The sound of the falling water on my ears made me feel I wasn't alone. Wasn't long before I pulled my T-shirt up over my head. The sun spread his open palm across my back.