#HomoAmerican #MirrorsPast - NYC - 1975

I stayed in bed most of the day and didn’t get up until it was time to go towork. I found enough money for a quick bite; I dressed in my usher’s black and whites
and strolled down Broadway.

I found a place at the counter at Chock-Full O’Nuts, kept one eye on the clock and the other on the early arrivals across the street at the hall. I was halfway
through my burger when something caught my eye.

A woman was peering through the glass frantically searching the counter for something or someone. Our eyes locked at the same moment; it was Beth, but before I could give a smile or wave, she stormed toward the door and burst into the room. She was ash white and the veins stood out in her neck as she strode across the room toward me.

“Are you Gay!” she demanded.

The question had a particular bad taste as she spat it out; even for 57th Street, this was head turning stuff. I put aside my hamburger and gave her my attention.
“What?” I asked incredulously, “Of course …you know that!” What new twist on an old road are we taking now?

“You can’t be,” she exclaimed, “I couldn’t be close to you if you were!”

She started rambling; something about insincerity and being hurt before. It was like being dropped into the middle of a melodrama and I didn’t know my lines.

She rummaged in her purse for something, stumbling over her words in anger and then, in a grand gesture, she pulled out the play, the one that we bought
together. She brandished it high in the air, like a bible in the hands of an itinerate preacher.

“This… this piece of filth you made me read…” she faltered as the words caught in her throat, “it tries to make homosexuals out to be normal!”

No one at the counter took a bite. She had all of our attention. It never occurred to me that she didn’t consider me normal.

I put a tip on the counter and started outside, but she caught hold of me just outside the door. The stricken room of diners watched, through the plate glass
window, as she grabbed at my arm and I pulled away.
“That’s not what I mean. It’s like you’ve dropped a wedge between us,” she stammered.

She grabbed at me again. I pulled free again, but only took a few steps before she shouted with rage, “This affair we’re having doesn’t mean anything to you
at all, does it?” That was enough to stop me in my tracks.

With my tight black pants, white shirt and mass of dark wavy hair tumbling around my shoulders, I must have looked like some mad gypsy waiter, a cruel
gigolo, tearing the heart from this matron twice my age; undoing her on the spot by some secret discovery; perhaps a lusty encounter with her husband or son.

Yes, there would be many theories, that evening, amongst those who were privy to our little passion play, but no one, I fear, would ever guess the truth; that I, the reluctant virgin, dressed for the cover
of a cheap paperback novel, was simply defending my theoretical right to exist.

“What are you talking about?” I began, turning on her.
“What affair?” I demanded, in all honesty, “I never, at any time, led you to believe that I was anything but gay and this guilt thing with your husband is ridiculous.”

She recoiled a bit, “I just wish you had a girlfriend. It makes me feel sick inside. You have these unquestioned assumptions about your life and don’t let anyone inside.”

I looked her over carefully. She was trembling and near tears. Where there had once been a friend, anger had transformed her face into something hidden and yet, it was something that I’d seen before, in glimpses; a poisonous look in her eyes that had
always recoiled and concealed itself before… before I could be sure.

After all we’ve been to each other; it trickles down to this. We’ve crossed swords so often about this sexuality issue and it never seems to be resolved.
My “unquestioned assumptions,” what an odd turn of phrase, how self- centered and diabolical it sounds. I stopped myself, for a moment, to think about it; it’s
true, I never question my values and don’t expect anyone else to question them; because they are my character, they’re me.

I could feel anger and hurt welling up in me, “Look,” I said as plainly as I could, “I’m not having an affair with anyone. I wish I were. I’m certainly not having one with you.”

She stared at me without saying a word and tried to conceal the fire in her eyes. Pedestrians cut a wide circle around us and tried not to pay attention. Finally, she mumbled something about taking time to think about it, but threw the play at my feet,
before she walked away. I guess she didn’t like it.
I was stunned, riveted to the spot, in spite of myself.

“What are my unquestioned assumptions?” A silent voice demanded. Then another whispered quietly in
my mind. “They’re a lot more fragile than anyone might imagine. They are simple beliefs, threads that hold my life together. They‘re the good parts of my past, they are my best intentions; a tenuous combination that make up my individuality. They’ve been fought for and tested and stripped away and will change every day, but they keep the ground from shaking under my feet and provide a narrow path from one day to the next.”

I picked up the crumpled play and headed for the hall and as I waited for the light to change on Seventh Avenue, a group of young boys surrounded me.

“What are we gonna do about all these faggots?” One young teenager said in a strong loud voice to his high school buddies.