Cockeyed, стр. 5
I asked, “You were arrested at a protest, Hunny?”
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“Yes, on June twenty-eighth, 1969.” He smiled at me and batted his eyelashes and flapped his wrist once.
“Stonewall? You were there?” I had goose bumps.
“Both of us were,” Art said. “Hunny and I met when they shoved us both in the same paddy wagon.”
“Wow.”
“Some of us in the Van Horn family,” Nelson said, “are actually quite proud of Art and Uncle Hunny. Lawn and I are both grateful for the social revolution that made it possible for us to live as comfortably and openly as we do as gay men. But that was then and this is now, and throwing beer bottles at the police is no longer either appropriate or necessary. And there certainly is no need anymore for gay men to go around shrieking defiantly and sexualizing every utterance and affecting the personalities of ten-year-old girls. Art and Hunny and the other people at Stonewall that night could afford to act like that because they had nothing to lose. But now, thanks to the post-Stonewall social gains, we all have plenty to lose. And lose things we most certainly will if our most prominent role models go on TV and start rolling their eyes and waving their arms around and shrieking about Matt Lauer’s
‘nice basket.’”
As Nelson gave his speech, Hunny made a show of looking bored, and then he picked up the lists of blackmailers and extortionists that he had placed on my desk earlier.
Paying no attention to anything Nelson had said, Hunny looked up at me with a queasy expression. “You know, Don,” he said, “there are a couple of these humpy numbers that we might have to end up paying something to. Annoying as that would be.”
“Why is that?” I said.
“Because two or three of them I think would have to be considered maybe kind of…dangerous?”
Art leaned over and peered at the list and nodded, and Nelson slid even farther down in his chair.
ChAPteR thRee
“I think I should get half,” Stu Hood said. “It’s only fair.
Hunny told me lots of times he was gonna ditch Art and marry me. Just ‘cause Hunny never got around to doing what he promised is no reason for me to suffer. Anyway, I was underage when Hunny popped my cherry. That’s against the law, and I was an impressionable youth.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“When Hunny introduced me to the homosexual lifestyle, I was eighteen or nineteen years of age, I forget which. I was only a child.”
“But the age of consent in New York is seventeen, Stu. Dewy-browed stripling that you might have considered yourself to be, in the eyes of the law you were a consenting adult.”
“No shit. I thought you had to be twenty-one.”
“To drink, yes. But not for sex. Voting is eighteen and alcohol consumption twenty-one, but seventeen is the age of consent for sex in New York.”
“Well, he served me alcohol.”
“Uh huh.”
“He told me it was happy hour on Moth Street.”
“This was in Hunny’s house?”
“Yeah, Art wasn’t home and Hunny was sneaking a quickie, apparently.”
We were seated at a table near the dimly lit rear of the Watering Hole, a gay bar of robust semi-down-at-the-heels antiquity down the street from my office on Central Avenue. Hunny had told me an hour earlier that Hood was likely to be hanging out there on a Saturday, and Hunny had been right. The bartender had pointed Hood out, a hatchet-faced, late twenty-something, stringily muscular man in cargo pants and a tank top, with afternoon beer 18 Richard Stevenson
on his breath.
I asked, “Had you been acquainted with Hunny previous to your accompanying him to his house?”
“Yeah, I’d talked to him a few times in the park. But only talk.
I was cherry.”
“Washington Park?”
“Sure.”
“Are you a naturalist, or did you hang out in the park trying to get picked up?”
“I was bi-curious, yeah. But I never did much of anything with guys till Hunny lured me into his car and took me over to his place and committed a lewd act. So, Hunny owes me. Hunny owes me big.”
“You said, Stu, that you believe Hunny should give you half of his lottery winnings. Do you honestly believe Hunny owes you half a billion dollars for a blow job? That sounds steep to me. These days I’m guessing you only get twenty or thirty bucks.”
“Sometimes fifty,” Hood said. “Anyways, with Hunny I just did it for the beer. He was nice to me, and I was nice to him back.”
“So you and Hunny had a continuing relationship after your initial visit?”
“Yeah, I’d ride my bike over there, and sometimes Art would show up and get a little, too. I’m not saying they weren’t nice to me. All I’m saying at this point in time is that Hunny did turn me into a homosexual, and then he did make certain promises. Like maybe I could move in sometime and be part of their alternative family. That would have suited me fine.”
The bar was surprisingly busy for a summer afternoon. The air-conditioning probably served as an attraction, and in any case the two dozen or so patrons did not look like either beachgoers or men who might otherwise have been off on Adirondack birding expeditions. Some of the men in the bar glanced our way from time to time, maybe wondering who Hood’s new friend was.
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I said, “Stu, you’re a cyclist. How come?”
I knew what was coming. “I lost my driver’s license. Too many DUIs. It sucks, but I’m sort of used to it. It’s rough in the winter, though. People give me rides.”
“Have you had any other legal troubles?”
“A few.”
“Hunny says you like to set fires.”
Hood looked down at his draught beer. Almost inaudibly, he said, “I guess so.”
“He said you had an arson conviction as a juvenile.”
“Yes, I did. But I’ve been to counseling.”
“You left a message on Hunny’s voicemail threatening to burn his house down if he didn’t split his lottery winnings with you.”
He shrugged. “That was bullshit. I was drunk up to my eyeballs when I said that. Shit, Hunny should know.”
“I’m here to tell you, Stu, that if Hunny and Art’s house goes up in flames, you will be arrested in a short time. And if you set the fire, you will be convicted and you will go to prison for a very long time. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Hood mulled this over and had some more beer. “I guess Hunny must be pissed at me.”
“He is concerned about you. Hunny likes you, and he doesn’t want to see you locked up in Dannemora for twenty years. He said to tell you also that he would be willing to help you out financially, some small amount to tide you over. But half a billion is out.”
“Hunny is so cheap. How much did he say?”
“He said he heard you had been laid off at Target, and he said he would be happy to spring for a thousand to help you along until you located another job.”
“Hmm. Check or cash?”
“Whichever you would prefer.”
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“Cash money, please.”
“But no more threats, okay?”
“Well, shit, it’s more than I got out of the Catholic Church.”
“You sued the church?”
“I wrote a letter to the pope. He never answered it. A priest at Sacred Heart fucked me seven times when I was eleven.”
“But there were lawsuits over sexual abuse by priests, and victims were compensated. This was several years ago.”
“I heard about that later.”
The music playing now was Donna Summer’s “On the Radio.”
It occurred to me that the first time I had heard this song could well have been in this very bar some decades earlier, perhaps on the same night I met Timothy Callahan under a bush over in Washington Park, and we had been together pretty much ever since. I raised my bottle of Saratoga Water with a chunk of lime jammed down into it. To Donna Summer.