9

We all went to court. My lawyer had long hair. Bobby said he was a fag. Everybody said they were there, at the Pier, but they didn't do anything. Except Bobby. He said he bashed the queers himself. Both of them. He told the judge, they didn't belong in his neighborhood…they made him sick.

We all got Probation, except Bobby. They sent him away, upstate. I took a bus up to see him once. He was happy to see me, but he said not to come again.

"It don't look good, Jason," he said. "Having a man visit you, you understands'

I didn't understand, but I told him I'd do what he wanted.

10

It was almost two years before he came back. He was the same, I guess, but quieter.

Bobby never came back to school. I finished up, finally. Mom wanted me to go to college, so I enrolled at City. But I never liked it much.

Bobby went to prison for stabbing a man. The next week, I came out. I told Mom first. She was like I knew she would be. She gave me a kiss. My lover was outside, waiting downstairs. He said he wanted to go with me. In case Mom didn't take it like I meant it. But Mom said to bring him up. We all talked together.

11

I kind of staggered through college, passing my courses, but none of the things my friends wanted to do were for me. I could tell that things just didn't feel right.

I was walking up Christopher Street with Dave when I saw Bobby the next time. He was bigger, huge in his upper body, wearing a red T-shirt. He had tattoos all over his arms. Bobby walked right up to us, taking away all the air like he always did. He looked ready to spring.

"I'll see you later," I told Dave, so he'd leave us alone. Dave's small, kind of delicate-built, but he's got a heart like a pit bull. He looked Bobby right in the eye. "Maybe I'd better stay," he said.

"It's okay," I told him.

Finally, he turned and walked away. He looked mad. I couldn't tell at who.

"This is you now?" Bobby asked, reaching one hand out to touch the earring in my right ear.

"Yes."

"Why, Jason?"

"It's in the genes, Bobby. It's how I was born."

"Bullshit! I seen guys come in the joint straight, and come out faggots. They can turn you into a woman in there real quick."

"It's not the same."

"Sure. I never figured you for this, Jason. We came up together."

"I'm the same man, Bobby."

"You ain't a man at all, punk. Better check your equipment again."

I tried to explain it to him, but Bobby wasn't listening. Finally, he put a hand on my chest, pushing me back a little bit.

"You remember the time we had the fights' he asked.

"Yes."

"Still think you could come out even?"

"No, but…"

"But what, pussy?"

"But I'd still try."

He made a move with his lips like a kiss but the sound was a snarl. Then he was gone.

12

Dave was at the cafe, waiting.

"Well, what did Mr. Macho wants'

"An old friend…"

"And now he's a hustler, I see."

"He's not a hustler, Dave."

"What then?"

I didn't know.

13

It was Dave who convinced me to join the police force. I didn't believe there were any gay cops in the city until he introduced me to one at a party. The man was out, too. Right in the open. "They'll test you," he said. "And some are stone freaks. Fag bashers themselves off-duty. But you'll have brothers inside, I promise."

The written test was easy. The physical stuff wasn't much either. And there wasn't that much trouble on the job. Two fights, one pretty serious…but I always try and I never quit. Once they saw that, it was all right.

14

One night in Brooklyn, I was working a radio car with a big fat Irishman named Peters. Everybody called him Sarge. He'd been on the job since forever–he was too much a brawler and not enough of an ass-kisser to get out of uniform and into plain-clothes–that was my ambition, but I didn't discuss it with anyone. We went up four flights of stairs to answer a Domestic Dispute call–the worst kind, Peters said.

He was right. The woman was beaten half to death, but she wouldn't make a complaint. There wasn't anything we could do.

"Reminds me of home," Peters said on the way down the stairs. "Your people ever brawl like that?"

"My dad was killed in the war," I told him.

"There's some who'd count you lucky," he said, lighting one of his stubby cigars.

I only got three blocks before he told me to pull over to the curb. There was an after-hours joint on the corner.

"I need a drink," he said.

"Maybe we should wait till we're out of this neighborhood…?"

"Ah, don't be such a fucking sissy–the monkeys make any noise, I'll throw them a banana."

"Sarge, you know what the Watch Command said about staying out of the clubs. Come on, we'll…"

"Keep the motor running, sonny," he said and stepped out the door.

I sat there waiting. I smoked a cigarette almost to the end when I heard the shot. I hit the front door. Sarge was on the ground, facedown, blood all over the back of his uniform. I went right over his body into three of them. One had a machete–I shot him in the chest. Something ripped at my left arm. They kept coming. I backed up until I was right against Sarge's body, firing at the far wall where they hid behind tables. Somebody shot back. I ran out of bullets. I was pulling my nightstick when I felt Sarge moving next to me. He forced himself onto his elbows, tugged his pistol free. I snatched it from him, kept blasting away while Sarge barked 10-13's into his walkie-talkie.

By the time the precinct cops came charging in the door, I had one bullet left in Sarge's pistol.

15

I woke up in the hospital, a red haze all around me. After a while, it faded to pink, and I could see the tubes running into me. I knew I would live.

Sarge was sitting there, next to the bed, white bandages wrapped all around his head. He had a "little fracture" of the skull, he told me, and he needed some stitches across his chest. He held up two lumps of metal.

"They took these out, my boy. Out of you. One from the arm, one from the thigh. You wasn't wearing your vest like a good little soldier, you'd be in the meat locker right this very minute."

I didn't say anything–there was a plastic thing in my mouth.

16

Other cops came in. Some people sent flowers. The mayor came by long enough to get his picture taken.

They moved me to a big, private room with a window and I got better. One day, Dave came in. The room was full of people. He leaned over the bed and kissed me on the mouth. One of the cops made a snickering nose. Dave turned red.

"You got something to say, you better say it outside. Say it to me, you think you're tough enough."

It was Sarge, shoving his fat finger in the chest of the cop who had made the noise. I didn't even know he was there.