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Authors: Felice Picano
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White Woman on the other side, pounding, pounding and shouting Alistair's name, and behind the door, Alistair on the floor, his head on the floorboards haloed by a score of Tuinals.
I knew it wouldn't happen precisely that way. And I knew there was nothing I could do now—could I tell him not to take the pills I myself had given? But the awful vision on top of the annoyance of Wally pulling exactly what I had feared he would try to pull with this cabby was too much for me.
I extricated myself from under Wally's body and began to open the door on the other side of the taxi.
"Where are you going?" Wally almost shouted.
"Got to find a phone," I said.
"Rog!" He grabbed me by the collar of my Sauvage leather jacket, sounding betrayed. "This is important!"
"You've been provoking him since we got into the cab."
"But..." Wally's eyes opened huge whenever he had something crucial to say, as though Nature, realizing what it had produced in Wally, further aided him in a fix by increasing the hypnotic qualities of those orbs. "...He's discriminating against us."
I awkwardly half stood, half rested one bent knee upon the seat.
How could I make him see reason? "We're two blocks from a massive demonstration. Can't you wait to be political until we get there?"
"Rog, we've got to take a stand whenever and wherever we are," he insisted. To me, this was the instant-gratification argument, and what we had was the gay generation gap in a nutshell.
"Fine." I opened the taxi door, interrupting what I suspected was going to be a well-rehearsed speech. "You take this stand. I'm going to the demonstration and take that one."
Wally had released his grip on my jacket. He now grabbed my knee. "Wait!"
I could see the cabby three-quarters of the way down the block, trying to shake coins back from a public telephone that had no function except to gobble money. One could hardly expect his mood to show much improvement when he did return.
Abruptly Wally said, "Why is it suddenly that I don't know for certain what's right!"
I was astonished by this cry of anguish torn from his otherwise Apollonian chilled soul.
"I know I'm right about this," he went on. "And yet I want like crazy to get out of here and already be at Gracie Mansion!"
I could see the cabby kicking the telephone: a substantial athletic feat given his weight and rotundity.
"Ro-ger! Help me!"
"How can I help you, Wals? I'm part of your problem!"
As Wally couldn't help me about Alistair's probable suicide either, being he opposed it so totally.
"And this poor schmuck of a cabby," I went on, beginning to see it all link up, "he's probably convinced that he's taking a stand, because you and I are some kind of crypto-racists, discriminating against him because his skin is brown."
Wally's mouth dropped open.
"As those cooks in the Hunan Hell before probably thought we were discriminating against them or at least offending them by kissing in public."
I could see that Wally saw it all come together. But I could also see the cabby, in a complete state of fuming ire after his run-in with NYNEX-on-a-stick, was now trudging back toward the taxi.
"But, Rog...," Wally asked, "if that's all true, then... where does it... stop?"
What was I supposed to say? What the humanists for centuries have said? That only brotherhood stops it? Love? He'd laugh me around the corner if I even hinted at it.
I began to say "I don't know, Wals," then changed it to "It stops with you and me. In bed together."
This was something Wally not only understood but wouldn't mock. At least I hoped for the sake of us he wouldn't.
He looked unpersuaded, so I got out of the taxi. The cabby was approaching fast; his hatred seemed to have intensified on his scowling face. He'd grasped his metal change maker through its back handle in one fat hand and now held it out as though it were brass knuckles. He trudged toward me like doom.
This was it. He'd slug me. Wally would slug him. We'd never get to the demonstration,
I knew it wouldn't happen precisely that way. And I knew there was nothing I could do now—could I tell him not to take the pills I myself had given? But the awful vision on top of the annoyance of Wally pulling exactly what I had feared he would try to pull with this cabby was too much for me.
I extricated myself from under Wally's body and began to open the door on the other side of the taxi.
"Where are you going?" Wally almost shouted.
"Got to find a phone," I said.
"Rog!" He grabbed me by the collar of my Sauvage leather jacket, sounding betrayed. "This is important!"
"You've been provoking him since we got into the cab."
"But..." Wally's eyes opened huge whenever he had something crucial to say, as though Nature, realizing what it had produced in Wally, further aided him in a fix by increasing the hypnotic qualities of those orbs. "...He's discriminating against us."
I awkwardly half stood, half rested one bent knee upon the seat.
How could I make him see reason? "We're two blocks from a massive demonstration. Can't you wait to be political until we get there?"
"Rog, we've got to take a stand whenever and wherever we are," he insisted. To me, this was the instant-gratification argument, and what we had was the gay generation gap in a nutshell.
"Fine." I opened the taxi door, interrupting what I suspected was going to be a well-rehearsed speech. "You take this stand. I'm going to the demonstration and take that one."
Wally had released his grip on my jacket. He now grabbed my knee. "Wait!"
I could see the cabby three-quarters of the way down the block, trying to shake coins back from a public telephone that had no function except to gobble money. One could hardly expect his mood to show much improvement when he did return.
Abruptly Wally said, "Why is it suddenly that I don't know for certain what's right!"
I was astonished by this cry of anguish torn from his otherwise Apollonian chilled soul.
"I know I'm right about this," he went on. "And yet I want like crazy to get out of here and already be at Gracie Mansion!"
I could see the cabby kicking the telephone: a substantial athletic feat given his weight and rotundity.
"Ro-ger! Help me!"
"How can I help you, Wals? I'm part of your problem!"
As Wally couldn't help me about Alistair's probable suicide either, being he opposed it so totally.
"And this poor schmuck of a cabby," I went on, beginning to see it all link up, "he's probably convinced that he's taking a stand, because you and I are some kind of crypto-racists, discriminating against him because his skin is brown."
Wally's mouth dropped open.
"As those cooks in the Hunan Hell before probably thought we were discriminating against them or at least offending them by kissing in public."
I could see that Wally saw it all come together. But I could also see the cabby, in a complete state of fuming ire after his run-in with NYNEX-on-a-stick, was now trudging back toward the taxi.
"But, Rog...," Wally asked, "if that's all true, then... where does it... stop?"
What was I supposed to say? What the humanists for centuries have said? That only brotherhood stops it? Love? He'd laugh me around the corner if I even hinted at it.
I began to say "I don't know, Wals," then changed it to "It stops with you and me. In bed together."
This was something Wally not only understood but wouldn't mock. At least I hoped for the sake of us he wouldn't.
He looked unpersuaded, so I got out of the taxi. The cabby was approaching fast; his hatred seemed to have intensified on his scowling face. He'd grasped his metal change maker through its back handle in one fat hand and now held it out as though it were brass knuckles. He trudged toward me like doom.
This was it. He'd slug me. Wally would slug him. We'd never get to the demonstration,
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