“How about you?” I asked the cute projectionist. “Aren’t you straight?”
“No longer,” she replied plainly, and then added in a kind of disturbed and distant way, “I don’t involve myself with…anyone anymore.” Small wonder.
We went back downstairs to the office where we continued with the routines of the night, but periodically the issue reared its ugly head.
“Look,” Miguel said sanctimoniously, “it’s not that I’m anti-straight or anything. I really have no hang-ups there. But this is a gay porno theater, and a certain understanding is needed, an understanding that comes with being. And besides, if you were straight, working here might be…”
“Dangerous to my health?”
“Disorienting, that’s all.”
“You make homosexuality sound like leprosy.”
“It’s like trying to explain color to a blind man.”
“That’s no answer,” I replied and then declared falsely, “I’m gay, I should be able to understand your argument!”
“Because it’s a violation!” he insisted. “When I was in high school, I didn’t mind the kids who disliked me for being a faggot. But I hated the bastards who claimed to be friends. The ones who were interested in how it was done. Who looked at you like a lab rat they were studying. Condemning it on one hand and getting off on it with the other. It was pure deceit!”
“I’m not straight!” I insisted.
“I suppose not,” he finally concluded and added, “Tanya doesn’t deal with straight guys.”
Soon it was closing time, and quietly we did the nightly tabulations together. Miguel subtracted the amount of people that came during the night from the amount of people that came during the matinee, then he multiplied the sum by four. While in the midst of further calculations, I got up to take a piss. “I’ll pick up the money on the way back,” I offered.
“That’s all right,” he said, “I’m responsible for it.”
“It’s no problem.”
“No!” he was suddenly angry. “Only I’m allowed to deal with the money!”
Perhaps he was still angry over the night’s argument. I pissed quickly to the copulating moans in the abutting stall and wondered why Miguel was so touchy. Miguel returned to the office and put all the night’s money into the drop bag and locked it. After looking at the tally sheet, I was surprised to see that the theater had only earned four hundred bucks. That meant that only a hundred people had come—but the theater was full all night.
While locking up the place, Miguel said that he felt there was still a tension between us due to the discussion, so he invited me for a beer. Instead of going to a bar, though, we stopped in at the Korean deli on the corner and got a six pack. Miguel explained that three nearby theaters were showing midnight films. The Saint Mark’s was showing Blade Runner, the Eighth Street was showing Rumble Fish, and the Waverly was showing Stop Making Sense. Miguel knew Ian, the manager at the Eighth Street, so we could get in free. I didn’t want to deal with Pepe, so we swigged beers and walked to the theater.
While watching the film, I wasn’t sure if it was the beer or the picture but the image seemed liquidy and unsteady. Either I or the film was drunk. When it was over, we decided that we were both still thirsty.
After the beer, the walk, the joking, and then the film, I couldn’t have guessed that our earlier argument might’ve still been raging in Miguel’s mind. He led the way to a bar on Fourth Street called The Bar. Only when we entered did I realize that it was a gay bar. I don’t know how well I disguised my apprehension, but it was the very first time I was ever in a gay bar. I immediately sensed that Miguel still wasn’t convinced about my assumed sexuality.
After ordering beers, Miguel started with sidelong glances while assuming a well-trained unassuming posture. I kept my eyes on safe inanimate objects, the pool table, the wayward bottles, and so on. Finally I heard him utter, “What do you think of these two guys?”
“Real nice,” I replied with no idea of where he was looking.
“Okay,” he replied jokingly. “These two are ours.”
“What?” I winced in disbelief.
“They are ours,” he enunciated. I looked up and noticed his stare, deft and fixed like a matador’s sword preparing for the final kill. He knew I was full of bull. It was time to either awkwardly laugh and tell him the truth or bluff it right to the end.
Miguel’s upper lip was twisting and rolling now as if beset by Parkinson’s disease. Following his line of vision, I saw two guys who looked like they were the result of the crossbreeding of storm troopers and surfing bums. Was there any escape route? I considered the plausibility of announcing some dreaded venereal ailment. But then Miguel probably wouldn’t permit me to work. Slowly they stepped out from the screen of disbelief and started sauntering over.
“Hi,” Miguel said smilingly.
“Hi,” they said back. Everyone seemed familiar and, except for my sudden dumbfoundedness, the procedure seemed to be so gracefully lubricated that I wondered whether everyone already knew each other.
“Warm day, wasn’t it?”
“Precious for a February.”
“Spring’s just around the corner.”
“And summer’s just around spring’s corner.” They sounded like placidminded housewives leaning out on adjacent window sills.
“You should join us. We’re going back out to the Golden State tomorrow.”
“Gosh, I’m getting sweaty just thinking about it.”
I stared at the ground and listened to everyone contribute a line to this potpourri conversation. It was a three-way dialogue that amounted to nothing more than a show of good faith; all meant well and were sane and shared common wants. Now Miguel started walking over to the bar with one of them. The remaining one, the hulkier of the two, was left standing with me. I maintained an autistic fixation of the filthy tiled floor, but evidently he found even that cute because he just kept gazing at me.
“Hi,” he softly bellowed. I finally looked up. Tiny tributaries of sweat collected down the sharp part of his face, as if he had just arisen from a pool; apparently he had danced to an excess.
“What happened to your arm?” One couldn’t help but notice the missing sleeve and the bandage.
“An accident,” 1 quickly replied, hoping to avoid any sympathy that might turn into affection.
“Looks kinda cool.” He touched the surrounding area, tenderly nudging my arm under a soft drop light. Lowering his nose to the spot, he sniffed it: a dirty bandage with a dry line of blood crusted along the exterior.
“You can have it when I’m done,” I said, referring to the bandage. He accepted the offer and proposed buying drinks in return.
“I don’t drink.”
“How about a walk?”
If a walk meant what I suspected then I was a gimp. But all the while, I felt Miguel’s microscopic stare haunting me for results. If I could just walk with this guy until after the bar closes; he wouldn’t be able to return to make his report, then I could dump him. And since this guy was leaving tomorrow Miguel would never be able to confirm anything. He’d have to believe whatever I told him.
“Good idea, let’s walk.” He got his leather night jacket, and we both gave farewell nods to our companions and left. All were right, it was a beautiful night, but it felt more like autumn than spring. The glacier of winter’s cold was still ahead, not behind us. We walked without any destination, which was okay with me because to establish any destination in this vocabulary of clichés and euphemisms might sound like a commitment of some kind. For a New York night, the sky was clear. Aside from the many lighted skyscrapers, which were New York’s consolation for having no visible constellations, I could make out the star, the big one in the northern sky. We strayed westward. And since we were only on Second Avenue there was a lot of westerliness before us.