Jail, Seduction, Sexual Abuse
David and the Lion’s Den, chapter 11
Reviews of Martin’s debut focus uniformly on a work not seen in more than 20 years, a portrait of an elderly woman that de la Fréta claimed acted as a lynch pin, conceptualizing Martin’s vision of AIDS as politics. Copies of de la Fréta’s Fall 1989 catalogue were pulled by curators in response to unspecified “legal issues.”
“Legal issues,” my ass. I told that curator if he posted blowups of that catalog on the walls, I’d sue his ass and never loan him another piece of my artwork again. He blustered until I had an expensive lawyer deliver the message in language he could appreciate. Then he caved.
That’s what I should have done to Renaud back in 89, but I didn’t know what he was up to. Besides, I was busy sitting in a jail cell.
Scandal.
Ha. That’s one world for it. I can think of others. Libel, slander, laziness, incompetence.
I can think of others, but I try not to be bitter. If not for the scandal, I’m pretty sure no over-educated hack would be calling my work “transformative.” God, how do they come up with that dreck? It’s such … well, never mind. If they weren’t still writing about my painting, I doubt anyone would be buying the collage and sculpture I produce now.
A boy’s gotta eat.
I’d like to say that first night at the precinct house was the worst of my life, that I trembled with fear and shook with despair, that I emerged as from a lava bath, tempered and hardened. But, no. I was just really pissed off and super hungover.
I had no idea how fucked I was.
The coke had worn off, and a searing scotch hangover was ripping my head to shreds. My mouth was so dry it hurt.
Remember Barney Miller? Late 70s sitcom set in a New York precinct house? As a kid, I loved all the cheesy, wisecracking, colorful personalities. You just knew they were all decent, warm hearted people, even the cops who acted all tough.
Yeah, well, this was nothing like that — at all.
Howie and I rode frozen and speechless in the back of the squad car. Howie didn’t start out speechless, of course. He started to talk, started in with some of his patent babble. Something like, “Murder? Mary Louise, you cannot be serious! Listen, honey, you detectives are probably supposed to be over on EAST 23rd Street. Y’all got the address just the weensiest bit conf …”
The cop on the passenger side mashed his face up against the mesh and scowled. “You open that fat, fairy-ass mouth one more time in my car, bitch, we’ll pull into an alley. You won’t have a tooth left in that faggot head by the time I’m done playin’.”
They jerked us out of the car at the station, hustled us into a side entrance, stuck their guns into this bank teller thing, then shoved us into a concrete room. Tiny, maybe 6x9 with a drain in the floor and a plate glass window taking up most of the interior wall.
The cop behind the glass sounded bored. “Strip, hurry up.” His voice was tinny through a circular grate. “Down to your skivvies. Belts, wallets, everything in your pockets through that slot. Move.”
I guess Howie just couldn’t help himself. “Not without dinner and a movie, honey!”
“Very funny.” The cop sounded even more bored. “You tryin’ to tell me you need some help in there?”
“Why, Miss Thang,” Howie teased, “I declare that sounded like a pass.”
The cop stared for a second. Sighed. “If the detectives have to go in there to assist you, sir, you’re gonna wish you cooperated.”
“Knock it off!” I hissed.
Even with Howie finally behaving, it all took a while. Cop had to fill out a ream of paperwork. We stuffed all our property through the little slot, and then one at a time we dropped our boxers, ass up toward the glass, spread our cheeks with both hands, and coughed.
I’m not even going to tell you what Howie said about that.
That was the last time I saw him for a very long time. The cop popped the inner door and led me down a long corridor past a bank of vending machines. All I could think about was lemon-lime soda. You’d think I would have had other things on my mind, but I was in serious pain — sick-to-my-stomach, cotton-mouth, head-searing agony.
Walking past those soda machines was torture.
It wasn’t until he shoved me into this ultra crowded, reeking holding-cell full of drunks and junkies that my mind started to spin away on me. A metal toilet took up one corner, steel benches lined each wall, and a writhing carpet of people covered every inch of floor space.
Labor Day weekend had jammed a space designed for 20 to at least three times that. Body odor was the least of it. Imagine the stench rising up off sick drunks and junkies shaking and puking from withdrawal.
I threaded my way over to the toilet/sink, desperate for water, only to barely manage to fight off a jet of vomit. I’d have had to have been on the point of death to drink that.
Holding my hand over my mouth just in case, I squeezed into a spot on the floor. It wasn’t like the movies. No big, bad, drooling rapist tried to prey on the little white boy. Nobody stole my shoes.
Some guy moved over a tiny bit, and I wedged myself in, head on my knees, arms circling my legs — my mind free to dart in a million directions.
Murder? What was wrong with these stupid cops? My misery fueled burning anger. I was supposed to be revelling in the greatest weekend of my life. I was supposed to be passed out in bed, resting up so I could pick up my parents the next day at LaGuardia — so they could attend the opening.
Fuck me!
The boy sank into the finely woven cushions of the sofa, gripped his throbbing forehead in his left hand, and worked hard not to vomit. Carl would be furious if he damaged any precious antiques. The wave of nausea passed after a moment and he stood up, padding his way over to the richly polished liquor cabinet under the stairs.
Walnut panels glowed faintly red under the coats of wax he buffed out carefully twice a week. The ivory handles were slick under his fingers as he opened the panel doors, a citrusy tang tickling his nose. What was the word Carl used for the fragrant wood that lined the inside?
The boy couldn’t remember at first, but as he popped a cork and let expensive cognac sting its way down to his stomach, the word “cedar” popped into his head.
He looked around the salon, surveying the damage done by the previous night’s party, and wondered what the word for “cedar” might be in his own language. His stomach started to settle, so he took another quick swig. Now maybe he’d be able to keep some aspirin down.
Cinching his white terry robe closed, he made his way through an industrial-sized kitchen, down a long hall, and then into his private bathroom. Opening the “vanity” and grabbing a bottle, he realized he didn’t have words in Spanish for many of the luxuries of his new life.
If his grandmother was still alive, what would he write to her? What words would he use for “Park Avenue duplex,” for “doorman building,” or for Carl’s occupation of “museum curator?”
He popped the bottle’s top, threw three white pills in his mouth, and swallowed them with water directly from the gold tap. He examined his face critically in the vanity’s harshly lit mirror. He’d have to shave after his shower. Carl insisted that he always be carefully groomed. A few bristly whiskers poking out of his chin were as much a violation of household standards as dusty furniture or less-than-spotless floors.
The boy knew all about those standards, because maintaining them was his job. He spent the better part of his days vacuuming, scrubbing, dusting, and polishing.
He slid open a heavy glass door, hung his robe on a hook, and fiddled with the tap controls until the water was as hot as he could stand. He hadn’t had a cold shower since he’d left Roberto’s crew up in Queens.
He let the powerful stream sluice over his head as wished with all his heart that he was back in that squalid little apartment. He wished he’d listened to Roberto, taken his veiled warnings more seriously. His stomach kicked up again, doubling him over in a dizzying set of dry heaves. Not quite dry — he spotted the aspirin swirling around the drain.
He didn’t know the Spanish for “houseboy” either. That was his job, if you could call it job when you didn’t get paid. His duties involved quite a lot more than just cleaning.
“Houseboy” was one of the first English words Carl taught him. How long ago now? He was almost 18, so he’d been here almost two years, long enough to become nearly fluent in his new language.
He hadn’t understood Carl’s friends when they came to a party and his
patrón had introduced him as the new houseboy. Their comments flew over his head. He’d read their envious expressions perfectly clearly, though. Carl looked like a man showing off a prized hunting dog.
The boy turned off the shower and decided to be angry with Roberto. Toweling off, he shook his head and blamed himself for his own stupidity.
Thirty minutes later he sat in the kitchen sipping brandy-laced coffee and nibbling buttered toast, the hangover finally under control. He was relieved. Carl liked it when he drank with him and his friends in the evening, but he had no patience for illness. The boy lifted his shirt to examine a scar where a belt buckle had once torn in under a rib.
He heard floorboards creaking over his head, so he stood up. If he remembered correctly, he needed coffee for two.
He glided silently up the stairs carrying a silver tray laid with two delicate china cups, a matching sugar bowl, cream pitcher, and carafe.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said quietly as he rapped on the ornate oaken door. “Would you like your coffee now?” Hearing a grunt, he opened the door and slipped in, heartbeat elevated. Carl was unpredictable after a night of drinking.
He heard the man’s rough morning voice from the from the adjoined bathroom. “Leave it on the sideboard.”
Setting the tray down, he glanced at the bed to find a pair of green eyes surveying him sleepily. He’d been right. Carl had invited that one to spend the night.
Carl’s voice shouted a gurgled command from behind the bathroom door. “Don’t go anywhere just yet!”
The boy heard a thumping noise and glanced down to see the man in bed patting the mattress. “Come — sit down for a minute. Have some coffee with us?”
The boy hesitated. He knew he wasn’t strictly expected to obey Carl’s guests, but his patrón could be very touchy. Better to be safe. He stepped over to the side to the side of the huge bed opposite the man, smoothed out crumpled sheets, and sat carefully. Sex and stale body odor drifted up and almost set off a gag reflex. He smiled blankly.
“No coffee for you?” the man asked, sleep gravelling his voice.
“I brought only two cups, señor.” They liked it when he called them señor.
“That’s right. You didn’t know I was here, did you? Don’t let me put you out. Use my cup. I’ll be all right until we go downstairs.”
The boy opened his mouth then closed it without speaking. He didn’t dare pour coffee for himself without Carl’s permission.
“Well, aren’t you the shy one, then?” The man scootched across the mattress — an undulating bundle under the gold and maroon duvet — to pat the boy’s arm. “Don’t you remember me from last summer on Fire Island?”
The boy kept his smile nailed in place. Actually, he’d wondered about the man last night. He looked vaguely familiar. About 30 years old, sandy hair, medium build. Not as grey and paunchy as most of Carl’s friends.
Now he remembered.
Snatches of a wild party at Carl’s summer house in the Pines flashed into his head, detail wavering behind an alcoholic fog. He pictured the vast living room stripped of furniture under its vaulted ceiling, windows throbbing along to subwoofers blasting Donna Summers, shirtless men packed in together, swaying to the music.
He remembered pushing through the crowd, balancing a tray he kept loaded with ice-cold shots of vodka and flutes of champagne. If he drank enough vodka, he could put up with the inevitable groping. He could even pretend he was something other than what he was. A lot of the younger guys at the party weren’t so much older than he was. They were there because they wanted to be.
At some point in the evening, Carl found him and ordered him to put the tray down. “I’m paying the damn caterers a fortune. Let them do the work,” his patrón shouted over the music. “Dance! Have a good time.”
The boy eyed his boss suspiciously — even drunk he knew better than to take the man’s motives at face value. Then Carl pushed him into the arms of a stranger, raised one eyebrow, and vanished into the crowd.
Oh.
So, he danced.
And that’s why he remembered the face of the man lying next to him in Carl’s bed. He couldn’t remember everything about that night, but certain sensations came rushing back.
He saw the man’s face blinking on and off, purple in flashing strobes.
He felt his nostrils raw and fiery from lines of coke they sucked up in the bathroom.
He heard the crashing of waves as they staggered along the moonlit beach.
Sand ground into his back and chest as they tumbled down a tall dune.
His cheeks burned from the rasp of the the man’s sharp stubble.
Hot tears pooled under his eyes as he lay on his stomach, grunting and rocking with pain, not nearly numb enough from the the alcohol, the coke, the poppers.
And now, lying in Carl’s bed, the man smiled up at him gently. “You do remember.”
The boy smelled rancid hangover breath — the same sour milk stench that filled his nostrils that night as the man’s weight pinned him into the sand.
“You’re sweet, you know that?” the man whispered as he ran a finger up and down the boy’s forearm. “The prettiest boy at Carl’s party too. He’s lucky he found you.”
The boy tried has hard as he could, but his smile must have flickered.
“Hey. Are you OK? What’s wrong?” The man’s finger traced a path up the boy’s forearm, then flitted to his face to sketch gentle circles around one cheek.
Carl’s voice boomed from the bathroom. “He’s fine! Aren’t you, boy?”
Then Carl left the room, and the boy drank the coffee after all, handling the fragile china with care, noting the expensive aroma of the finest Colombian blend, not daring to rest his cup on the saucer lest the man realize how hard his hand was shaking.
“So, how did you and Carl meet? Dish the dirt, girl. How romantic was it?”
“My uncle introduced us, señor. My uncle Esteban.”
“Please call me Jackson. All my friends do. I hope we’re friends.”
“Si, señor.”
“So, you like working for Carl?” asked Jackson, a finger floating up to caress his cheek again. “It must be very exciting for you.”
“Yes, I, uh …” the boy stammered, fighting an urge to recoil.
“He’s so glamorous, Carl, isn’t he? All that old money. Society parties. You’re very lucky.”
The boy swallowed hard. Lucky to be sold to the richest bidder?
“Finished your coffee, have you?” Jackson asked him, flinging the covers off. “Here, let me help you.” The man swung his naked legs over the side of the bed, grabbed the boy’s empty cup, and jumped up. “More? Pour you another?”
“Good,” he replied to the boy’s silent headshake, setting both cups on the sideboard. “Me neither.” He walked around the bed and sat beside the boy, pressing up against him, winking. “I like to have my hands free.”
The boy felt his gorge rising as Jackson patted his thigh through his robe. The man was dressed only in a pair of white jockeys, waistband obscured by a small fat roll matted with wiry hair.
“It’s OK,” Jackson breathed into his ear. “I know Carl won’t mind. He told me he’s not possessive.”
The boy froze and started to make his mind a blank, like always. He knew what came next. All he had to do was push down the revulsion for a few minutes. It never took long.
“Do you ever think about that night on the beach. God, you were so fucking hot.”
“I … no … I mean …” He hated it when they wanted him to talk.
“Shhh.” The man laid a finger on the boy’s lips and ran a hand under the white robe, circling with his fingertips.
The boy clamped down with his mind, willing down the nausea those fingers were pulling out from clammy skin.
“You know what turned me on the most, though?”
The boy shook his head.
“How much you were digging it. I mean, I was thinking to myself, ‘You’re so hot you should be on a magazine cover.’ And I couldn’t believe how lucky I was that you were into me. And then that connection between us. It was cosmic. Wild, man.”
The boy’s revulsion started to turn. The man’s inane chatter and his obnoxious odor were sending his disgust over the edge, changing it into something he didn’t recognize. A shudder ran up and down his body.
Jackson must have noticed, because he gripped the boys thigh hard. “Yeah, baby. I want you too. So bad.” His finger roamed higher, circling, searching.
The boy’s heart sped suddenly. Heat burned his ears. He heard a drum pounding. The shudder that had coursed through his body exploded into a million fiery splinters.
Jackson moaned, leaned into him, and sucked the boy’s lips into his own as his roaming fingers found their target, squeezing once softly, then harder. He mumbled a perplexed complaint. “What’s wrong? You’re not …”
The boy exploded before the sentence ended, years of anger and grief pouring out of his body. Jackson fell back, flailing his arms as he crashed into Carl’s satin sheets. The boy heard screaming, noticed red dots staining the hairy belly to trail up the man’s chest and into a bloody pool in the middle of his face. He realized that he’d punched the man hard — in the nose from the looks of it.
He gazed at his still-clenched fist, looked down at Jackson’s splotchy, blubbering face, and lost control. By the time Carl arrived and threw the boy against a wall, Jackson was bleeding from many more places than just his nose.
You just read chapter 11 of a character-driven mystery set in Greenwich Village during the worst of the HIV Plague Years. David, Jill, Hilda, Richard, and Howie — and Raphael — are walking a path that leads to intense friendship and love, to the creation of gorgeous but wrenching art, and to the unraveling of a series of horrific events that nobody sees, not even as they happen.Because sometimes what you’re looking at isn’t what you see.
