“It’s not a disease,” I said weakly.

“Don’t be afraid,” said a small woman with dark eyes. She took my hand and pulled it to her breast. “We just want to help you.”

I shook her hands away. What, was this supposed to turn me on? Spark my interest in chicks with a messiah complex? It didn’t work. I brought them coffee and stayed away from their table until they finally departed. They left tracts on the table. I threw them away.

How many times did I have someone read that nasty little verse from Leviticus to me, the one passage in the entire Bible that arguably, subject to differing interpretations, may come down on gays? I’d point out that it was right next to the verse that says children who are disrespectful to their parents should be executed. For that matter, Leviticus prescribes the death penalty for house burglary and adultery. How many of us would still be around if we started enforcing these laws? I’d ask. But I never got anywhere with them. Leviticus also dictates that a mother must make a burnt offering after bearing a child, that a father must prove his daughter’s virginity by displaying a bloody sheet in the town square, that you can’t sow your field with two kinds of seed or put on a garment made of two kinds of material. Who would suggest that these passages should be taken seriously in this day and age?

The antigay passage rubs shoulders with passages condemning masturbation, or sex during menstruation. For the ancient Jews, reproduction was survival, so any form of sexual activity that didn’t produce offspring was met with disapproval. How long are we going to let ourselves be ruled by four-thousand-year-old laws concocted by primitive Jewish tribes running around in the desert? I’d ask. But they didn’t listen to anything I said, and even if they did, they wouldn’t admit it when they were hanging around with their holier-than-thou friends. Truth was, as I soon realized, that passage in Leviticus was just a smokescreen-a convenient excuse to justify their own prejudice which had its basis in fear and xenophobia, not the Bible.

“Sodomy is still a crime in some states,” one young tough told me. He was clenching his fists, looking as if he’d enforce the law himself. “God doesn’t like it when you pervert the natural order.”

Then why the hell did he make me this way? I wanted to scream. It’s not as if I chose to be gay. But you can’t explain that to these people. You can’t explain what’s it’s like, being constantly judged. Having people suggest that there’s something wrong with you because you’re not just like them. Feeling as if you’re on the outside looking in, when all you really want in the world is to belong. To feel part of the gang. Not to be alone.

21

Mike was so unaccustomed to letting someone else drive that he didn’t know what to do. He fidgeted with the lighter, played with the electric windows, and scanned the radio dial-Chicago had a lot of stations. He found a Billy Joel song he remembered from college, smart and oh-so-catchy. Now he’d probably have the tune running through his head for days.

“You know, Swift,” Mike said, “I’m starting to get excited.”

“Want me to hose you down?”

“That won’t be necessary, thanks.” Mike gazed at the towering buildings on either side of them, the throngs of people crowding the sidewalks, the hustle and bustle of famed Michigan Avenue. “This is my first time in Chicago and I’m pretty pumped.”

“I’m excited about the drag racing. Who’da thought? It’s like something out of Grease.”

Mike watched as Swift steered her car down the busy street. Letting someone else drive went totally against the grain, but it was her car and her city, so he was just going to have to bear it. “Are you the good girl, or the naughty girl? Olivia Newton-John or Stockard Channing?”

“Who do you want me to be, big boy?”

Mike smiled. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“All the innuendo. I know you don’t mean it.”

“Don’t be so sure, slick. I think you’re a darn fine specimen, as men go. And I figure in a job like this, a girl’s got to take her pleasure where she can find it.”

“Uh-huh.” Mike watched as the skyscrapers whizzed by his window. “You’re aware that you’re driving Baxter crazy, right?”

“Because we left her at headquarters to do the grunt work?”

“Because she thinks you’re coming on to me. Constantly.”

A sheepish grin crossed the agent’s face. “You got a problem with that?”

“I’m just saying.”

“That woman’s got more repressed desire than I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but toy with her. It’s my nature.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d lay off her a little.”

“What’s it to you?”

“It isn’t helping the investigation.”

“Don’t give me that BS. Do you have feelings for her?”

Mike bit his lip. He had made Baxter a promise. “She’s my partner.”

“Don’t hide from the question. Answer it.”

“I just don’t think you need to be needling her all the time.”

“Look, Mister Tall, Dark, and Dense, if you and Baxter are romantically involved, or want to be, you should get a new partner.”

“That isn’t-”

“And if you aren’t, sugah,” she continued, “I’m available. And my apartment is only a few blocks away.”

About an hour later, Mike stood at the edge of a drag strip in the middle of an open field pondering the nature of the enduring relationship between a boy and his wheels. Small wonder guys love cars, he mused, as he watched two of them tear off into the distance. It’s all there. Sleek polished hoods, rubber tread, big noisy engines. The thrill of adventure, the hint of danger, the strong scent of sex. Nothing sexier than chrome.

“Amazing how the automobile has changed human society,” Mike commented.

“More amazing how the automobile has changed human courtship,” Swift replied. “Did you lose yours in the backseat, too?”

“I’m afraid that information is classified.”

“Whatever. Have I mentioned yet that I find this all kind of a turn-on?”

“Probably. But not to these children, I hope.”

As Mike gazed around him, he felt as if he were swimming in a sea of teenagers-or people who wanted to pretend they were. Who else would come to the Windy City Sizzlin’ Speedway, which was basically a long paved strip out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by undeveloped brush and red clay. According to some of the boys in Swift’s office, a local farmer had gotten the inspiration to pave a strip across some uncultivated land. It was a huge success. Drag racing in the city streets sharply dropped overnight-and thanks to the small entrance fee, the farmer made a tidy profit.

“How many kids have you talked to so far?” Mike asked.

“I dunno. Seems like a million or so.”

“And you showed them the picture?”

“Right. If dear departed Manny had friends, I haven’t stumbled across any of them.”

Mike nodded. “Keep at it.” He plowed into a nearby group of young people. He made no attempt to be subtle; he knew they could make him a mile away, so why pretend to be anyone other than who he was? Besides, some of these kids had seriously cool cars.

“So you come here often?” Mike asked a sweet young thing named Tanya. He guessed her to be about sixteen, with hair that looked like a kindergarten finger-painting project.

“Almost every day when school’s out.” Talk about enthusiasm. She almost bounced when she spoke. “It’s so bad. Totally phat.”

“I notice you’re one of the few females on the premises.”

“I don’t know why that is. I live for it. It’s like, you know, like, duuuuude.” She laughed.

“Yeah, but… why?”

“Hey, you gotta do something, right? What else is there? This beats going to the mall. Or drinking or doing drugs.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“My car is great-I got a 350 V-8, Tranny, slick as ice, and enough r.p.m. to handle the Indy 500. Where else am I going to get the chance to challenge every would-be macho stud in the city-and win?”