“ ⦠call it graffiti if you want to. That's okay.” Puffed up by applause and laughter, Randy was booming out like Jesse Jackson or somebody.
“But graffiti can also be art, and art can be vandalized, as this university has vandalized one of the great calligraphic achievements in its historyâ”
Adam didn't know Randy had it in him. But it didn't really help that when he wanted to emphasize a point, he would throw up his hands ⦠with his elbows pressed against his rib cage. Not that there was anything wrong with making effeminate gesturesâgestures and walks and body language generally shouldn't be categorized that wayâbut Randy
made effeminate gestures
, when you got right down to it, and none of the hundreds who had gathered here in the Great Yard could miss it. And nobody watching those videotapes they were makingâwhich would be shown where?âto how many thousands?âmillions?âon network television?âbut they couldn't broadcast references to fellatio and cunnilingus on TV, could they? Much less Camille's placardâshe was in this same lineup of spear
carriers, down at the other end, with a placard aloft reading, FUCK A DUCK! FUCK A CUCUMBER! FUCK ANYTHING! FUCK ALL! The same sign company had produced all the placards, including hers, but she had no doubt composed this piece of polymorphous perversity herself. But those millions or however many would pick up on Randy's effeminacy immediatelyâ
âand what else would they pick up? Adam Gellin as one of the Gay and Lesbian Fist's loyal fellatiotic troopers, FREE SPEECH IS QUEER, TOO!âin short, Adam Gellin, gayâin plain, noneuphemistic English: Adam Gellin, queer, lover of anal sex and Eskimo pies. He hated himself for even thinking such a thought, having any such faintness of heart. He could tell Edgar felt exactly the same way. Edgar was at one end of this lineup of spear carriersâor placard carriersâat the foot of the podium and the feet of Randy Grossman. Edgar's placard read SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGEâNOW! From the moment he picked it up and shouldered it, he looked ashen. The two of them had the same problem, and he bet Edgar, like him, was ashamed to talk about it. Edgar, like him, had no obvious sexual involvement with women. He had often wondered if Edgar was gay, and Edgar had probably wondered the same thing about him. Maybe Edgar was gay. How was anyone to know? Why was everybody so obsessed with the labels? What was wrong with the neutral term “bachelor”? Why had he given in and allowed Randy to shame him into comingâso the entire campus could conclude he ⦠was homosexual? Not that he hadn't done exactly the right thing, what so many others who gave lip service to gay rights wouldn't have dared doâand his thoughts began to race around in a circle again.
“âbeloved âtruth,' as they probably think it is,” the amplified leader of the people was saying, “they don't even know
their
truth! Made to order
by
themâ
for
them! What kind of âtruth' is that?âthe ultimate delusion! The self-scam! The
self
-scam! The so-called âtrustees'âthe
ring
that controls Dupontâthey're so retro, they won't stop at conning you and me, they'reâ”
Adam couldn't believe it. Randy was getting louder and more shrill. Now he thought he was an orator. He was turning rhetorical â¦
figurae repetitio, figurae sententiae
⦠Namby Pamby Randy Grossman, leader of the peopleâ
“
Boooo ⦠Boooo â¦
” A chorus of
boos
was rising from somewhere in the rear ranks of the crowd. Adam, standing at ground level, couldn't see.
But Randy, up on the dais, could. He started screaming. “Yo! You! Yeah, you! You repressed queens in the back thereâ”
“
Boooo! ⦠. . . Boooo! â¦
” The chorus was mounting in volume.
“âyou in the short pants! That's cute! It's so butch! The Eskimo pie got you all turned on, didn't it? You can't wait to get back to the
frat
house and try it, can you!”
The blue jeaners in front loved that. They cut loose with the sort of cries and yodels of adrenaline-pumped people bloody ecstatic over grievous wounds inflicted upon the enemy.
But the
boos
of the agitators rose to the level of a roar, then broke into a chant. Adam couldn't hear what they were saying at first, but then he got it.
“COCK-SUCKERS! COCKâSUCKERS! COCK-SUCKERS!”
It was so blatantly bigoted, he couldn't believe it. Students had been expelled or suspended for an entire year for less, especially when it was antigay.
Then he could see them. Some were bulling their way through the blue jeaners as if they were about to storm the dais and seize the microphone. Others had come around the flanks of the crowd. Now he could understand Randy's reference to “You in the short pants.” To a man, they wore shorts, mostly khaki shorts, the kind commonly worn with flip-flops in the spring and early fall, except that they were wearing construction bootsâand it was freezing out here. At first Adam didn't get it, the short pants, but in the next moment he did. “You want everybody to wear jeans to show support for gay rights? We'll show you somethingâutter mockeryâeven if it means freezing our asses off!” There must have been dozens of them, and as they came to the fore, their chant overwhelmed the attempts of the crowd, taken by surprise, to shout them down.
“COCKâSUCKERS!” they chanted. “COCKâSUCKERS!”
But wait a minuteânow that they were close, Adam realized it wasn't COCKâSUCKERS at all. “GOD'S YUCCAS! GOD'S YUCCAS! GOD'S YUCCAS!”
Randy was shouting into the microphone: “Stuck on sucking cocks! You're stuck on sucking cocks! You're queerer than we are!” he boomed out over the Great Yard. “Admit itâ”
“GOD'S YUCCAS! GOD'S YUCCAS! GOD'S YUCCAS!”
“âyou wanna suck eachâ” Randy broke off his analysis in midsentence. All at once he realized they were shouting “GOD'S YUCCAS!”
Some of them were no more than fifteen feet awayâand big. What did they intend to do?âAdam leaned forward and looked this way and that at his fellow placard holders. He didn't want to be the first to break ranksânor did he intend to be the last.
He glanced up. Randy was no longer at the podium. The little shit must
have bolted, fled. Adam brought his placardâFREE SPEECH IS QUEER, TOO! in front of his face. But what good would that do? None. So he peeked around the placard ⦠In the immediate foregroundâHoyt Thorpe! He was the one leading the chant!
“GOD'S YUCCAS! GOD'S YUCCAS!”
Fear and hatred descended upon Adam's amygdala with equal force. Tormentor of the woman he loved!âphysical threat to his very hide in the here and now! He worked it out by concluding that if he now confronted the bastard physically, it would play right into the counterdemonstrators' handsâand besides, Thorpe would recognize himâand the Night of the Skull Fuck story would be compromised, andâ
What?
A woman's voice raged over the Great Yard: “FUCK YOU IN THE ASS, YOU CLOSET QUEENS! YOU FUCKING HIV VAMPS! WHAT'S THIS SHORT PANTS SHIT? YOU HOPE SOME CHILD MOLESTER WILL STICK A WEENIE UP YOUR HERSHEY HIGHWAY?”
Camille. Could only be. Adam didn't even have to look up to be absolutely sure. But he did anyway. Her face was as contorted as he had ever seen it.
“WANT IT THAT BAD? WHYN'T YOU PULL YOUR LITTLE PANTIES DOWN AND LEAN OVER AND TAKE IT LIKE A MAN! YOU FUCKING SHIT-FACED MAGGOT MOTHERFUCKERS!”
Camille's raw-throated rant breathed life into the blue jeaners. They broke into a roar of their own. Thorpe and the other frat boysâthere was Vance Phipps, too!âtheir lips were still moving in the chant
:::::GOD'S YUCCAS:::::GOD'S YUCCAS:::::but they could no longer be heard. Hoyt Thorpe held up his hand, as if to restrain his boys and avoid a pitched battle, then slowly led them away and back toward the other end of the Great Yard. Nobody could hear them, but they kept chanting
:::::GOD'S YUCCAS:::::GOD'S YUCCAS::::: Hoyt Thorpe looked over his shoulder, smirking coolly at Camille as he retreated.
Others in the lineup of placard bearers were turning this way and that, talking to each other excitedly and casting glances in the direction of the departed frat boys. Adam took advantage of the moment to slip away. He strolled nonchalantly toward the library, letting the shaft of the placard lean against his shoulder at the angle of a rifle ⦠looked about ⦠laid the placard facedown on the plaza ⦠and walked as casually as he could into the library,
through the front entrance. Just what to do next ⦠he had no idea. Stop standing out on the Great Yard holding a sign above his head saying QUEER, that was the main thing.
He stood in the lobby, just stood there, looking up at the ceiling and taking in its wonders one by one, as if he had never laid eyes on them before, the vaulted ceiling, all the ribs, the covert way spotlights, floodlights, and wall washers had been added ⦠It was so calming ⦠but why? ⦠He thought of every possible reason except for the real one, which was that the existence of conspicuous consumption one has rightful access toâas a student had rightful access to the fabulous Dupont Memorial Libraryâcreates a sense of well-being. But as one fear subsided, that gave another fear room to rise. Adam's deep worry rushed to his forebrain. The plagiarism case. It wouldn't disappear. He didn't want to see Jojo again, and he dreaded seeing Buster Roth again. Getting out from under the corrupting pressure of “the program” had proved to be an enormous relief ⦠except that he really wasn't out from under it yet ⦠Jojo and “his” paper on the psychology of George III ⦠Just how did they think someone like Jojo was
ever
going to write a paper on the psychology of
anything â¦
unless somebody wrote it for him? A wave of paranoia ⦠he was following a strategy laid out for him by Buster Roth. He could
see
Roth right now, as if he were right in front of him. What did Roth care about the fate of Jojo Johanssen's ex-tutor?
Nothing.
Roth would impale Adam Gellin's carcass on a spit if he thought it would benefit “the program” ⦠He began to drive himself crazy ⦠trying to imagine how Buster Roth could use his statement ⦠that he hadn't helped Jojo on the paper in any way ⦠to improve Jojo's chances in this case. He closed his eyes. So there he was, standing in the lobby with his eyes closed, torturing himself with his thoughts, listening to a thousand footsteps echoing off the stonework of the grand spaceâ
“Adam, what are you doing? Why aren't you out there?”
It was Randy Grossman. He had a frantic, accusing look on his face. Adam knew the more pertinent question was why wasn't Randy out there, why he had disappearedâbut Adam was too overwhelmed by guilt to even mount the argument. The truth was, he
did
want to get away from the demonstration. Randy and the Gay and Lesbian Fist were 100 percent right in their cause. Gays and lesbians deserved not merely to have equal rights, they deserved also to be welcomed,
embraced, hugged to the bosom,
as sisters and brothers, the moral and social equalsâin many cases, the moral superiorsâof straight people. Absolutely no question about it! But to be
labeled
as
one of them? Yuchhhh. The thought made his flesh crawl. He couldn't imagine anything more ruinous or disgusting. That made him feel even guiltier as he stood here in the soaring sanctum of the Dupont Memorial Library looking at Randy's appalled expression. Randy had done a brave and noble thing. He had come out. He had put his reputation on the line. He had overcome many fears and limitations and girded his loins ⦠even unto the task of ascending to a podium in the Great Yard to lead the people on Stand Up Straight for Gay Day. And he made Adam's flesh crawl, which made Adam feel guiltier.
He began sputtering and making imaginary snowballs and trying to explain to his moral superior, Randy, that he wasn't
leavingâ
by no means!âit was just that he ⦠uh ⦠he'd had a â¦
muscle spasm
, yeah, a muscle spasm, from holding the placard in place for so long, and he'd had to put it down for a moment and he was heading right back into the fray and so forth and so on.
Thus morally cowedâby Randy Grossman!âhe sheepishly left the library and picked up the placardâRandy Grossman, his superior here at the Masada of our times, watched him suspiciously every step of the wayâand headed back to the ruckus, the rhetorical mayhem of the sound system, which made twerps think they were leaders of the people, to the battlegroundâfor that was what it might become! Suppose Hoyt Thorpe had retreated merely to regroup andâattack!â
assault!
He could see the cool smirk on his face! Yet shame proved to be more powerful than fear. Adam found himself back in the line of Praetorian guards in front of the dais, with a big sign over his head saying QUEER.
“ânot even by pushing the envelope of their at once bulked-up and refined hypocrisy can they find a basis in case law or morality or simple human decency for their opposition to same-sex marriage. Not only thatâ”
This time it was the voice of a man, not a student, thundering out of the speakers and the Great Yard and echoing off the stone façades of Dupont's most venerable buildings. Adam put the placard over his face so he could look back up over his shoulder at the podium and see who it was. It was a fat man in his fifties, probably, wearing a V-necked gray sweater that was too tight and brought out many unfortunate folds in his flesh. Adam didn't recognize him, but considering his elocution, it was a good bet that he was on the faculty.