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Authors: Joe Pernice
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gay—youhad, on one hand, the faculty toeing the company line. They preached from rote about the perils due you for committing such immoral, unnatural and—in some states—illegal acts. And then, just for a bit of comic relief, you had squads of neckless fun-lovers who basically wanted to kill you.
I don’t know what it’s like today. I imagine, or at least hope, that high schools are marginally less hostile towards homosexuals, suspected or otherwise. But back then? Not so good. There were some real birds of prey in my school (and did I mention that there was only one black person at St. Longinus, and he left after two years).
Charles was spared because he held (and broke a couple times in ’84–’85) the Catholic Conference record for some indoor race. I don’t know, I think it was the ten trillion meter dash. Big deal. He was from Southie, and growing up would have had plenty of incentive to run like a crazy fucker. He had himself a pair of million dollar stilts and was going to Boston University, full boat. The faculty basked in the notoriety he brought to Saint Longinus High School. After he broke the record the second or third time, all three local TV stations did features on him. The school administrators were licking their chops thinking about the influx of new applicants to Saint Longinus High … and the cash. Charles was something of a made man.
I had spent my entire school career in the Catholic school farm system and posted good numbers before getting the call up to the big leagues: Saint Longinus High. Right up until I was accpeted, I had no clue who Saint Longinus was. In a nutshell, he was the Roman soldier who finished Jesus off with his sword while the latter faded on the cross. The former went on to appreciate the shortcomings of his action and decided to live the rest of his life in the “spirit” of the latter. Everyone knows what the latter did: He inspired, among other things, excellence in athletics. The mascot at Saint Longinus High School was a sword. An inanimate object. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.
There was an English teacher named Sister Patricia Ralph. She was known as Ye Olde Salt. Her face resembled that of the actor M. Emmett Walsh, but with a few rogue whiskers jumping ship from her dermis. She used to like to say, “The sword of Saint Longinus
is
alive.” Anyway, we were called the Saint Longinus Swords. Behind his back, Charles was The Blade.
I really could not have cared less about the indoor track records Charles held. And the fact that he was gay (among other more colorful and creative self-descriptions, “as queer as a three-pound note” would become an old standby of his) made me a little uncomfortable at first. How could I not be uncomfortable? I had been on the receiving end of a decade’s worth ofnegative, faith-based bullshit. I had never knowingly known anyone who was gay. And AIDS had already been firmly rooted in the consciousness of America as “the gay disease.” Homosexuality was getting some especially bad press then. Come to think of it, if you weren’t as straight and white as Loni Anderson’s chicklets, you had your work cut out for you.
What did interest me about Charles was an ancillary talent of his, one that didn’t do much to counter his flamboyant image: Charles played piano like a virtuoso in all of the school musicals, and could kick the living shit out of a showtune. It’s cliché, but it’s true. Showtunes weren’t exactly my bag, but his talent was formidable and undeniable.
Hello, Dolly, Guys and Dolls, South Pacific, Grease,
no problem. He owned those scores, not only figuratively, but literally. During the rumble scene in
West Side Story,
when the score called for the players in the orchestra pit to go completely apeshit, I could have sworn he tipped his hat to ‘Bodies’ by The Sex Pistols. That May, I walked away from our first conversation convinced that he had.
“You’re the kid starting the band, right?
I don’t know what it’s like today. I imagine, or at least hope, that high schools are marginally less hostile towards homosexuals, suspected or otherwise. But back then? Not so good. There were some real birds of prey in my school (and did I mention that there was only one black person at St. Longinus, and he left after two years).
Charles was spared because he held (and broke a couple times in ’84–’85) the Catholic Conference record for some indoor race. I don’t know, I think it was the ten trillion meter dash. Big deal. He was from Southie, and growing up would have had plenty of incentive to run like a crazy fucker. He had himself a pair of million dollar stilts and was going to Boston University, full boat. The faculty basked in the notoriety he brought to Saint Longinus High School. After he broke the record the second or third time, all three local TV stations did features on him. The school administrators were licking their chops thinking about the influx of new applicants to Saint Longinus High … and the cash. Charles was something of a made man.
I had spent my entire school career in the Catholic school farm system and posted good numbers before getting the call up to the big leagues: Saint Longinus High. Right up until I was accpeted, I had no clue who Saint Longinus was. In a nutshell, he was the Roman soldier who finished Jesus off with his sword while the latter faded on the cross. The former went on to appreciate the shortcomings of his action and decided to live the rest of his life in the “spirit” of the latter. Everyone knows what the latter did: He inspired, among other things, excellence in athletics. The mascot at Saint Longinus High School was a sword. An inanimate object. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.
There was an English teacher named Sister Patricia Ralph. She was known as Ye Olde Salt. Her face resembled that of the actor M. Emmett Walsh, but with a few rogue whiskers jumping ship from her dermis. She used to like to say, “The sword of Saint Longinus
is
alive.” Anyway, we were called the Saint Longinus Swords. Behind his back, Charles was The Blade.
I really could not have cared less about the indoor track records Charles held. And the fact that he was gay (among other more colorful and creative self-descriptions, “as queer as a three-pound note” would become an old standby of his) made me a little uncomfortable at first. How could I not be uncomfortable? I had been on the receiving end of a decade’s worth ofnegative, faith-based bullshit. I had never knowingly known anyone who was gay. And AIDS had already been firmly rooted in the consciousness of America as “the gay disease.” Homosexuality was getting some especially bad press then. Come to think of it, if you weren’t as straight and white as Loni Anderson’s chicklets, you had your work cut out for you.
What did interest me about Charles was an ancillary talent of his, one that didn’t do much to counter his flamboyant image: Charles played piano like a virtuoso in all of the school musicals, and could kick the living shit out of a showtune. It’s cliché, but it’s true. Showtunes weren’t exactly my bag, but his talent was formidable and undeniable.
Hello, Dolly, Guys and Dolls, South Pacific, Grease,
no problem. He owned those scores, not only figuratively, but literally. During the rumble scene in
West Side Story,
when the score called for the players in the orchestra pit to go completely apeshit, I could have sworn he tipped his hat to ‘Bodies’ by The Sex Pistols. That May, I walked away from our first conversation convinced that he had.
“You’re the kid starting the band, right?
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