Waiting for It (Part II)

At sixteen, after he and his first boyfriend talked it over, he had come out to, in this order: his sister, his openly gay art teacher and then, his parents. His father did not want to know anything about what his son was doing, thinking or wanted to do. He wanted it done with, now. His father’s first way of getting rid of the glitch was to remove all of the surrounding software around his son. Within days of his coming out, the art teacher was asked to leave the school. Through school rumor mill and his own common sense, he pieced together how his father had accused the art teacher of doing this to his son.

With the art teacher gone, there were no role models to look up to. Elliott had remembered hearing about the openness of the Village. So he rode the Metro-North into Grand Central one Saturday morning and walked around looking for adult stores, planning what to say if someone asked for his ID. Maybe he would look at the racks of gay magazine’s and a beautiful boy would walk next to him and ask him if he’d like to share a milkshake or something. So Elliott found a gay adult shop, walked in without a second look from the shopkeep and found his way to the rack. Almost at once, a convergence of swarmy characters that he felt were out of a Capote story, came upon him. A balding, married businessman stroked Elliott’s back and asked him, "How much, cutie?"

Elliott, not knowing what he really meant, looked at the magazine he had in hands and read off of the lower right corner, "Seventy-five cents."

"Well, in that case," the man said in raised, playful tone and taking a five-dollar bill from his pocket. "I’ll take four blowjobs."

Elliott was disgusted and looked around, waiting for a prince to knock the man down and take him away. But the others just watched, waiting their turn with the new, fresh young boy. The shopkeep looked back to the rack and said, in a threatening way, "Hey kid. You got ID showing me you’re eighteen."

Elliott ran out of the store and down the next two blocks. He hated that he had to come down to lower Manhattan just to feel unashamed of who he was. And now he was. He walked around the Village that day, feeling so sorry for himself and not knowing anyone passing by. He found his way up to Washing ton Square Park and sat and watched. People were sitting in messy circles, hearing poems or people with guitars sing songs. Elliott looked all around. There were two men juggling on unicycles. Two other men were speed-drawing a woman’s portrait with a crowd swelling around their show. And the musicians. They were the heartbeat of the park. Whenever one left, another jumped in, seeming to take over the spirit of the just retired one. Elliott sat there for an hour, just smiling and engulfing the beauty. He now knew why his art teacher told him that the Village is open and gay. He meant both words in both ways.

A young man came over to Elliott. He wore a burgundy sweater that just about fell off his left shoulder, tan corduroys that ran into decaying once deep brown moccasins. His hair was long like a woman, his skin on face so white and soft looking it looked to be made of snow.

"Hi."

"Hi," Elliott said, his shyness floating to face. He wanted to look away but was afraid the boy might go away if he did.

"I’m Glenn, but everyone around here calls me Doc Orleans." Doc put his hand out.

"Okay ... so what should I call you?" Elliott stood up so he was standing in front of this beautiful boy. He had piercing light eyes and soft hands. Elliott would not let go first.

"It doesn’t matter. What about you?" Doc smiled so sweetly, Elliott would have followed him anywhere.

"I’m Elliott."

"Are you a poet, painter or musician?"

Elliott thought for a minute and bit his left inner cheek. "I’m none of the above."

"Well, that’s too bad Ell." Nobody had ever called him that, and he loved the way Doc spoke it. "I’m going to have to escort you out. You see, only artists are allowed in here."

Elliott, who grew up in a home without the faintest sound of sarcasm and lived in a town where it was not practiced, did not know the wink and smile Doc was giving him.

"I don’t really have to leave, do I?" He must have given a look that made Doc want to protect him from all of the bad in the world. Doc rubbed Ell’s right arm and chuckled.

"No, you don’t have to leave." Doc looked into Ell’s face. "What’s a matter, man. You have a tough day?"

"Well, you might not believe this but I’m not from around here."

"You don’t say," Doc said with the smile and wink. Ell was starting to understand it now.

"Shut up," he said with his own smile. "This is my first time in the Village, and I was walking around and this horrible looking guy comes up and says, ‘So how much?’ And I think he’s talking about the magazine I’m looking at, so I say, ‘Um, seventy-five cents.’ And he takes out a five and goes, ‘In that case, I’ll take four blowjobs.’"

"How ungroovy!" Doc looked horrified and entertained at the same time.

"I know, and the worst part is, he didn’t even know how to add. He could have gotten five blowjobs for that price."

Doc laughed heartily and his hair fell in his face. He whipped it back and Ell’s legs went weak. Watching him laugh like this, Ell finally knew freedom. He knew the power of the Village now.

He stretched his arms and symbolically, through fingers, unfurled the wings that were bunched under skin and hometown for so long.

"So you’re a comedian. For that, we’ll keep you around." Doc reached down and took Ell’s hand. "Well, you’re safe now. You know why?"

Ell wanted to say, ‘because you’re holding my hand.’ Instead, he asked, "Why?"

Doc, with sincere certainty, looked at the Washington Square Park scenes and players and said, loudly, "You’re home, Ell!"

They walked hand in hand to one of the circles listening to the folk singers. Everyone smiled, nodded, shook his hand, hugged him and most said, "Welcome." And with each embrace or kind look or word, Ell fought back the tears that were in his throat and eyes and lipped back, "Thank you so much."

So it became his weekend thing. Saturday morning, he caught the early train down to Grand Central and depending on the weather, would either walk or take the subway down to the Village. He liked to walk and feel the heartbeat of the Park pulsing harder with each step closer. He liked when the looks changed from Midtown scoff to Lower Side smiles. He wouldn’t be back in Ardsley until Sunday evening. His parents did not want to know where he was all weekend, just that he was home for Sunday dinner with grandparents. He had, by now, learned that being openly gay meant being open season for all of the troglodyte hunters that shot down all individualism in ritzy Westchester County. It was only in the Village that he felt alive, able to walk around in his own strut, find his own beat. He felt more at home on Christopher Street or in the Park than he did in his family living room in Ardsley. There, in school halls or in town shops, he was leered at and nodded towards. He was angrily shouted at by teenage boys in cars passing and avoided by all of his ‘in-school’ girlfriends outside of school grounds. The only person that walked by his side, that stared down the leers and jeers, held his hand and walked through the angry crowds, was his sister. But Louise went away to the University of Chicago.

She did go to the Village once with her brother, and after spending the afternoon in the Park, then at the Gaslight and finishing the day at Renee’s Café, she turned to her brother, held his hand and said, "You belong here, Ell."