Turning Idolater (11 page)

Now dubbed the F-line, it wended its way
precariously toward Coney Island past many tumble down buildings
that, in their day, had bristled with better temperament. As the
tracks neared the expanse of a cemetery, a fitting companion for
this steel trap, the buildings were closer cropped to the
buttresses. Windows were caked with decades of grime that even this
day’s heavy downpour could not cleanse. The sky, guessed at because
it couldn’t be seen, rumbled with the storm, which at times
out-clattered the train. Lightning flashed on the tarnished rails
like intermittent strobes at the devil’s disco. The rain came in
torrents, filtered through the El’s scaffold, ricing the street
below and any small object that happened to be out in such
inclement weather. Philip was one such mouse caught in the deluge.
He sprang across the street to a tattered building, one that had
companioned the ancient El like an old beggar woman fussing about
her shopping cart.

Philip dodged into this building — Number 420 — into
the foyer. The drops danced about his bangs and eyelashes. He took
a breather here before charging up the two flights to the place
that he called home. He paused on the first landing. He was late
for supper and his father would have a fit, he supposed. Philip was
always late — part of his nature, he guessed, but he had found
dalliance with a new friend, who was teaching him some
extraordinary ways to relieve tension. Time escaped him. If he were
still in school, there would be no point to a wristwatch, but he
supposed he needed one, given his track record.

Philip whipped around the first landing — a slipway
more than a landing, and took the second flight at a double bound.
As he approached the apartment, he heard his father’s voice. It had
a gravelly sound, which gave Philip pause again. His father was
rarely in a good mood, and was frequently angry. The deeper the
voice, the deeper the anger. Philip also heard his mother. Her
voice sounded only one way — sweet, but diminished. With every bark
that his father now made, there was a mousy punctuation from his
mother. However, there was no help for it. Philip latched his hand
on the door, pushed, and then entered.

The apartment was small — just four rooms. Still,
between the thunder, the ricing rain and the train clatter, it
seemed smaller still. Philip always felt his father’s voice was
raspy because he needed to talk over the rattling windows from the
rambling train. This apartment had been passed down from his
grandfather, who lived his entire life here. When grandpa was
alive, the place was smaller still. Grandpa owned a small
luncheonette on Ocean Parkway, of which Gregor Flaxen was now the
proprietor — not a bad living, but one that didn’t raise him above
the El.

The door opened onto the kitchen. Philip saw his
mother and father sitting at the table. His mother was crying. His
father trembled, his fist clenched, his face red. He had a
whiskbroom mustache and a receding hairline that made him look like
Sam Breakstone, but a seriously pissed Sam Breakstone.

“Your mother was cleaning your room,” Gregor
stammered. “What do you think she found? She found these.”

His mother winced and burbled. His father pushed a
stack of magazines across the table.

“Shit,” Philip said.

His father stood. Philip knew the belt was coming
off. “These are filthy faggot books. Disgusting pictures of men
doing . . .”

Lydia Flaxen burst into tears.

“They’re not mine.”

“Bullshit.” Gregor slammed his fist on the table.
Lydia exploded with tears.

“Mom,” Philip pleaded. “Believe me. These books
belong to Stew.”

“Who’s Stew?” Gregor said, his eyes matching the
quake of the passing train.

“This guy I know from . . .”

“From no where. That’s where.” His father spread the
magazines. “If this Stew wouldn’t keep such filth in his own place,
why would he keep it here? You know what? These are yours, and I’m
not having any son of mine be a filthy, goddamn faggot.”

New gush from Lydia, who now collapsed over the
magazines, and then realizing that she had touched them again,
pushed them aside.

“Please, Mom. I’ll throw them away.”

“Better still,” Gregor said. “I’ll throw you
away.”

“No,” Lydia gasped.

“I’ll not have a Sodomite living under my roof. This
would have killed your grandpa. It’s going to kill your
mother.”

Philip rushed to his mother, who took him into her
arms. “I’m sorry Mom. I’m sorry. I’ll be good.”

Lydia hugged him, and then looked to Gregor, whose
ire ran even higher now.

“Out of here, you filthy faggot,” he roared.

“No,” Lydia cried.

“Give me another chance.”

“If you murdered the cat, I’d give you another
chance. But this.” He raged about the kitchen. Philip panicked. He
thought his father might dip into the knife drawer and settle the
issue. His mother tried to stop the man, but he shook her free.

“No,” she cried again and again and again.

Suddenly, Gregor ripped Lydia into his arms, holding
her hostage. “He’s dead to us.”

“No.”

Philip trembled. He scarcely noticed his own steady
stream of tears. All he wanted now was his mother, and Gregor held
her back, separating them like lovers caught in the act.

“I
can’t
go,” Philip cried.

“You have no choice,” his father screamed. “Fend for
yourself. You get nothing. You take nothing. Yes, here’s what you
can take, faggot. Take a good long, last look at your mother,
because you will never see her again. I forbid it.”

Lydia collapsed. Philip rushed his father, but the
knife drawer was open. The carving knife shone in the dim light.
Philip desisted.

“I
can’t
go.”

The knife pointed to the door. It shook so much that
Philip feared that the man might do his mother harm. Philip gasped
for air. The world was ending and he was helpless — eighteen and as
hapless as prey in talons. He turned, tripping over the threshold
and fled down the stairs. A shower of pornography followed him —
that and the sound of a slamming door.

Philip tumbled onto the street, slipping on the wet
pavement, his eyes streaked and his soul seared. He gasped for air
as the thunder rolled as loud as the train on the overhead El. He
paced in a circle searching the ground for purchase. A chill swept
through him, his jacket soaked through and affording no comfort.
Philip thrust his hands into his pockets and crouched in the indent
of the metal buttress nearest the doorway.

Terror raced through Philip’s heart.
Where would
he go? What would he do?
His jaw hung low catching the
torrents, his red eyes glancing up at the window. He could still
hear his father. It was a double dose, because his father’s words
raged in his temples —
Take a good long, last look at your
mother, because you will never see her again
. But he also heard
his father still screaming through the small apartment as if to
atone to God for having spawned such filth in the first place. His
mother’s weeping simmered beneath it like a lamentation. Philip
jumped up.

“Mom,” he cried. “What can I do? I can’t help it. I
can’t help it.” His lips quivered, filled with all types of flood.
His voice failed now. “I’m not like the rest of you,” he whimpered.
“Where can I go? What can I do?” He wiped his cheeks. “Mom,” he
shouted. “Mommy, don’t leave me here. It’s a bad place and I’m
afraid.” He slid down the buttress. “I’m afraid. Mommy, it’s
raining. Look at me. Please, look at me. My heart hurts so. It
hurts.”

The window slid open. Philip jumped to his feet.

“Mom.”

Lydia’s head popped out. She was the picture of
torment. Her hands shook, but they held something that Philip
couldn’t perceive in the storm. His mother turned, just in time to
avoid a clout from Gregor. She tossed the object, which plummeted
into a puddle. Philip hovered over it. A wallet. He scooped it up,
unfolding it. There had to be a few hundred dollars in it.

“That’s not yours,” his father screamed.

Philip didn’t wait for the man, who would be down in
the street, perhaps with the knife or a bat to assure that the
outcast had no quarter. Philip skidded over the curb and crossed
the street. The stairway marked
TO MANHATTAN
showed the way.
He had a sudden glimmer of where he could go. A soaked rat
deserting the sinking ship may have found convenient drift wood in
the wave to ride ashore, but Philip had only one way to go —
downtown; to a marginal acquaintance — a one time trick, who Philip
knew lived a short haul from Canal Street station. So with his ill
gotten wherewithal applied to a Metro Card and a slippery seat,
Philip Flaxen saw his home for the last time through a rain
streaked window on the rattling monster that had often shaken him
asleep with metallic lullabies.

“Jesus Marie,” said the voice inside the
apartment.

The hallway was dimly lit. Philip had been here once
before, but he hadn’t remembered it as well as he should have. He
certainly did not recall the pungent smell of cooking blended with
the piss in the stairwell. He also hadn’t recalled the strange
sense that he was being watched through the neighbor’s
peephole.

“Who’s there?” came a scratchy, almost feminine
voice. “Jesus Marie, this better be good.”

“Robert,” Philip gasped, positioning his face in the
peephole’s sightline. “It’s me. Philip. Philip Flaxen.”

“Who the fuck’s Philip Flaxen?” grumbled the voice,
then: “Oh, I remember. Oooh. Nice ass.” Philip heard the door
unlatch, all three locks. Suddenly, Robert Sprague, clad in a silk
Japanese kimono, his hair in a terry cloth turban, opened the
door.

“Come on in,” he said. “Jesus Marie, you’re all
wet.”

“You
do
remember me?” Philip asked.

“I remember your dick.” He closed the door, and then
examined the dripping wet sprite that he now sheltered. “What the
fuck’s the matter? You look like shit.”

“Robert . . .” The taps flowed again, Philip a
trembling mess.

“Call me Sprakie. I hate that other name.”

“Sprakie,” Philip garbled. “Sprakie, what am I going
to do? My father threw me out of the house and told me . . .”

“Out. You mean he didn’t know?” Philip shook his
head and shrugged, puzzled by such assumptions. “Parents always
know.” Sprakie unwrapped his turban, and then began to dry Philip’s
hair. “They’re usually in permanent denial, until they hear those
words.” He performed a small pirouette, and then sang: “I’m Gay”.
He dried Philip’s arms. “Did you fall in the river?”

“The weather . . .”

“Don’t mind me. Of course, you’ve been out roaming
the streets and that’s a horrible prospect. Parents can be so
cruel. Even the liberal ones are in shock when you come out to
them. Like they didn’t know. It’s always;
build the new highway
through someone else’s backyard, but not ours
.”

“They were violent. At least my Dad was. My mom . .
. she cried. My Dad called me . . .” Philip poured his head into
the terry cloth.

“Calm down,” Sprakie said. “He called you a faggot.
I’m sure you’ve been called that before. Sticks and stones. I know
it sounds awful when a parent says it, but remember . . . oh shit.
I’m on the clock.”

“On the clock?” Philip murmured.

“I have something baking in the next room.”

“Baking?”

“Baking. Panting. Sighing for my ass,” Sprakie said.
“A trick!”

“Oh, I’ll leave.”

“No, you sit here, dearie. I’ll get rid of
him
.”

Sprakie marched into the bedroom. His voice
trumpeted like an archangel.
Times up. You were very fine, as
usual. Leave the cash on the nightstand as you leave — but leave
you must.

There was some resistance, and then a shuffling
sound. Philip expected some shouting and thought to leave. He had
had enough shouting for the evening. However, the
trick
rushed past, semi-dressed and hopping mad, but Sprakie ushered him
through the door and applied the three locks — probably with good
reason. He turned to Philip.

“He’ll be all right. He’s repeat trade. If he wants
another ride down Mount Morgan, he’d best look to his manners.”

“You’re a . . . I mean . . .”

“A hustler. Not a prostitute. I don’t go out for
pizza. I have it delivered. Now, enough about me. I suppose you
have no cash or any way to make some. That’s the general rule when
you’re tossed out on your ass in the middle of a raging storm.”

Philip went into his pocket and presented the
wallet, but only a glimpse of the content before stowing it away.
“It’s not much,” he said. “My mom . . .”

“Oh, don’t start crying again. You can weep all you
want on your own time, but on mine, you must stiffen up and fly
right. Now, what can you do for a living?”

“I live at home,” Philip said.

“Not any more you don’t.” Sprakie approached this
youngster who sobbed on his couch. He stroked the soft cheek with
the back of his hand, and then smiled. “With that baby face and
body you certainly could get work. Dancing even.”

Philip swallowed hard. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the
game here.

“I don’t know whether I could just . . . do
anyone.”

“I think you could,” Sprakie said. “I don’t mean
everyone, but you have the freedom of choice when you hustle.”

“I don’t think that’s who I am.”

“Listen, lambikins, you may have been my customer,
but no matter how much you are, you can always be more.” He kissed
Philip’s forehead. “You’re so sweet. Where did I pick you up?”

“At
the Monster
,” Philip said.

“And we came here?” He hit his head with his palm.
“Duh. We must have. How else would you have known to come here? But
that’s a good question. Why
did
you come knocking at
my
door?”