Read Online Like People in History by Felice Picano - Free Book Online
Authors: Felice Picano
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political minority after Stonewall."
Wally was bored by the conversation. He stood up and began distributing "Silence=Death" leaflets onto the restaurant tables.
"You joining us at Gracie Mansion, James?" I suddenly asked.
The caterpillar across his brow lifted up twice, registering surprise.
"You mean you're comin' too?"
"Think I'm too old?"
He shrugged.
"I was demonstrating before you were born," I said, regretting it the minute I said it. "I'm an old hand at this shit."
"Oh, yeah?" he asked.
"Chicago. '68. D.C. against the war in Vietnam in '64. On the SNCC busses down south a few years earlier." Even I was getting tired of hearing myself recall it, like some old anarchist giving a liturgy of the assassinations he'd flubbed, the riots he'd almost provoked.
"No wonder...," James said. Then he explained, "I could never figure out why a great-looking guy like Wally would get involved in a trans-gen thing."
Read trans-generational. Read I'm old enough to be his father but neither look it nor act like it. Read eternal Peter Pan. Read refusing to grow up and accept that life stinks and people are worthless. Read I'll be ninety and in a wheelchair and still picketing the White House. Read...
"You ready, Bluebeard?" Wally was at my shoulder, all his leaflets having been distributed.
"Aren't we waiting for Junior?"
Wally pointed. Junior was outside on the street already. With him were four other guys I recognized from the two chaotic Monday night sessions I'd attended at the group's new headquarters.
When we got out, Junior counted off bodies for taxis, Gracie Mansion being unattainable from here by public transport except with bus transfers and other old-lady stuff like that. Wally and I were left alone for a cab.
"You lose," I said, as he pushed me into the taxi.
Our cabby was a fat-faced, young but very nervous Indian Muslim, who seemed visibly relieved when Wally told him to head east toward Gracie Mansion instead of to a Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street or the abandoned wharves at Jersey City. Wally and I settled into the backseat and sat with our knees close together. I was looking out the window, trying not to think about Alistair staring at those Tuinals and stroking them like a lover's scrotum when we reached Central Park West and Wally tapped my knee.
"Look at him staring at us in the mirror every few seconds. Bet he's scared shitless to have two genuine perverts in the car."
Wally's love of provoking straights should by now be apparent.
"Let's get there without incident, okay?"
Wally's response was to put an arm around my shoulder and hug me. This didn't in the least bit reassure me that I could count on his good behavior. I could see the driver's large brown eyes widen in the rearview mirror.
"What cross street you taking?" Wally asked loudly.
"Excuse, please?" the driver asked.
"Because if you're thinking of taking Eighty-sixth Street, you're going to run into heavy traffic. I suggest Eighty-fourth or Eighty-eighth."
Wally was rewarded by the expected response: "I am driving this car."
"In fact," Wally said, not about to stop now that he'd begun, "I happen to know you're going to run into traffic by Second Avenue at the latest."
The large, unstable brown eyes shifted in and out of the rearview mirror. "You think I haven't driven to this place before?" he asked. "I know this place and on Tuesday night at ten-thirty P.M . is quite vacant."
"Tonight is not going to be vacant," Wally shouted. Then, to me, "Is it, Sugar?"
"Is always vacant on Tuesday night at ten-thirty P.M .," the cabby insisted.
We'd pulled out of the park and onto Eighty-sixth Street at Fifth. Traffic ahead looked sparse.
"You're seeing?" the driver asked.
Wally turned to me and began to nibble my ear. The large eyes in the rearview mirror looked away.
The cabby almost ran the light at Lex. Ahead, I could see traffic thickening on Eighty-sixth. Wally was now French-kissing me. The cabby couldn't stop looking at us in the
Wally was bored by the conversation. He stood up and began distributing "Silence=Death" leaflets onto the restaurant tables.
"You joining us at Gracie Mansion, James?" I suddenly asked.
The caterpillar across his brow lifted up twice, registering surprise.
"You mean you're comin' too?"
"Think I'm too old?"
He shrugged.
"I was demonstrating before you were born," I said, regretting it the minute I said it. "I'm an old hand at this shit."
"Oh, yeah?" he asked.
"Chicago. '68. D.C. against the war in Vietnam in '64. On the SNCC busses down south a few years earlier." Even I was getting tired of hearing myself recall it, like some old anarchist giving a liturgy of the assassinations he'd flubbed, the riots he'd almost provoked.
"No wonder...," James said. Then he explained, "I could never figure out why a great-looking guy like Wally would get involved in a trans-gen thing."
Read trans-generational. Read I'm old enough to be his father but neither look it nor act like it. Read eternal Peter Pan. Read refusing to grow up and accept that life stinks and people are worthless. Read I'll be ninety and in a wheelchair and still picketing the White House. Read...
"You ready, Bluebeard?" Wally was at my shoulder, all his leaflets having been distributed.
"Aren't we waiting for Junior?"
Wally pointed. Junior was outside on the street already. With him were four other guys I recognized from the two chaotic Monday night sessions I'd attended at the group's new headquarters.
When we got out, Junior counted off bodies for taxis, Gracie Mansion being unattainable from here by public transport except with bus transfers and other old-lady stuff like that. Wally and I were left alone for a cab.
"You lose," I said, as he pushed me into the taxi.
Our cabby was a fat-faced, young but very nervous Indian Muslim, who seemed visibly relieved when Wally told him to head east toward Gracie Mansion instead of to a Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street or the abandoned wharves at Jersey City. Wally and I settled into the backseat and sat with our knees close together. I was looking out the window, trying not to think about Alistair staring at those Tuinals and stroking them like a lover's scrotum when we reached Central Park West and Wally tapped my knee.
"Look at him staring at us in the mirror every few seconds. Bet he's scared shitless to have two genuine perverts in the car."
Wally's love of provoking straights should by now be apparent.
"Let's get there without incident, okay?"
Wally's response was to put an arm around my shoulder and hug me. This didn't in the least bit reassure me that I could count on his good behavior. I could see the driver's large brown eyes widen in the rearview mirror.
"What cross street you taking?" Wally asked loudly.
"Excuse, please?" the driver asked.
"Because if you're thinking of taking Eighty-sixth Street, you're going to run into heavy traffic. I suggest Eighty-fourth or Eighty-eighth."
Wally was rewarded by the expected response: "I am driving this car."
"In fact," Wally said, not about to stop now that he'd begun, "I happen to know you're going to run into traffic by Second Avenue at the latest."
The large, unstable brown eyes shifted in and out of the rearview mirror. "You think I haven't driven to this place before?" he asked. "I know this place and on Tuesday night at ten-thirty P.M . is quite vacant."
"Tonight is not going to be vacant," Wally shouted. Then, to me, "Is it, Sugar?"
"Is always vacant on Tuesday night at ten-thirty P.M .," the cabby insisted.
We'd pulled out of the park and onto Eighty-sixth Street at Fifth. Traffic ahead looked sparse.
"You're seeing?" the driver asked.
Wally turned to me and began to nibble my ear. The large eyes in the rearview mirror looked away.
The cabby almost ran the light at Lex. Ahead, I could see traffic thickening on Eighty-sixth. Wally was now French-kissing me. The cabby couldn't stop looking at us in the
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