As he walked dreamily away from the bar sipping the bittersweet mix of whiskey and ginger ale, Liam again felt Zane's insistent tug. This time Zane demanded to hear the details of what happened with Didier immediately. Liam dreaded that now there had been too much lead-up to the story. And he still felt that things were too new and too uncertain with Didier to have recent events served up as club gossip.
Liam flashed back to that first night in the cab and the sensation of Didier's tongue coming impossibly close while never touching the nape of Liam's neck. Liam had initially decided not to have sex with Didier when he felt the cold tremble of Didier in his arms, near tears saying that he could never tell his wife about their encounter on the evening of the fund-raiser. On that night, Didier had shown himself to have boyfriend potential, waiting like a saint for Liam during his work snafu.
Since then they had several real dates. This afternoon they had strolled through the West Village and were lingering by a construction site on Jane Street when Liam reached over and ran his hands through Didier's thick black curls. After kissing on the sidewalk for a minute, Liam led Didier around the edge of the foundation of a new apartment building and settled in behind some rafters. Liam dropped to his knees and unbuckled Didier's thick cowboy-style belt and unbuttoned the fly on his indigo blue jeans. Didier mumbled some words of protest as his cock stiffened inside Liam's mouth. Almost instantly, Didier pressed past his fears and dug into Liam's body desperately, and Liam could not stop. He loved sex too much. It sounded strange to say, he knew, being that everyone enjoyed having sex, but Liam had a wide-eyed wonder about how someone new might feel, sound, and look, where their hairlines were, how their hands might grope and grasp and grab.
“So start at the beginning and talk fast, already.” Zane had walked Liam into Ferdinand's bedroom and plunked himself down on the king-sized mattress when all of a sudden a shriek rose from inside the closet.
“Someone call an ambulance!” screamed Ferdinand as he pulled Riser through the closet door. Ferdinand leaned over Riser's limp, alabaster body and stuck a small mirror under his chin. A look of relief registered on Ferdinand's panicked face as fog spread across the bottom of the glass.
“One glass of Chardonnay would throw this 110-pound kid into a coma, Ferd. What were you thinking? ... Now, Riser will be just fine, but we need to be smart about dealing with him from here on out,” Zane said. “He is on a diet of no carbs, no meat, no dairy, no eggs. You can't go from snacking on raw okra to knocking back alcohol.”
“I know, I know, I know. Shit! He could die, Zane. He could die in my apartment. That would be awful and messy and really, really bad karma!”
“I think we need to move for just one second away from what this is doing to your fine leopard skin rugs or porcelain toilet bowls,” Zane continued. “Our response right now will define us as his friends ... As a club ... Mark my words.”
Liam decided that Zane had been able to focus on what was important when the chips were downâdespite any leftover irritation he had over not hearing the whole story about the hookup with Didier.
Matthew flew into the bedroom with a cold cloth in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.
“This always works,” he said. “The cold rouses him enough to open his mouth and take a nice drag. The nicotine handles the rest.”
Sure enough, within sixty seconds Riser was sitting on the mattress rubbing his hollow raccoon eyes with his long, bony fingers. As he sucked on the cigarette, Riser's cheeks looked as though they might be swallowed into his frail body.
“You need help,” Ferdinand said, flatly. “You scared the life out of me. You can drain every drop of vitality from yourself, but you sure as hell ain't taking me with you.”
Matthew wrapped his arm around Riser's shoulder and mouthed the words “shut up” to Ferdinand.
“Alcohol on an empty stomach ... I should know better by now,” Riser said, in the crackle of someone eking words through a breathing tube.
“We should all know better,” said Zane, mirroring Matthew by placing his arm around Liam. “But we don't. But we will always, always, always have one another.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Zane!” Riser said with a smile. “I think you have gone and turned into Gary!”
MILE 18
“L
iam! Oh thank God you got here early. I swear, you are a godsend. I'm going berserk. Come help me hang the club's banner.”
“Sure thing, G-Lo. Where would you like it to go?”
Gary answered the question by dashing off in the direction of the finish line and gunning through the litany of tasks he needed to accomplish in the hour and a half before the start of the race. The medic had to be briefed on the details of the course, the announcers needed to be informed of the sponsors of the event, and the club's volunteers needed to line up to marshal all the runners as they arrived. Liam may have missed an item or two in Gary's breathless rundown.
Within the next half hour the East Side Drive and the meadow flanking the 102nd Street transverse were transformed. A group of Fast Tracker men in sequin gowns and stilettos offered people the goody bags for the race behind large tables arched by rainbows of balloons. A squadron of muscle-bound cheerleaders pranced across the start line in a flurry of kicks and jazz hands, shouting: “We are proud of you! Yes, we are proud of you!”
The morning unfolded as though scripted for a race. The sun hid behind a fringe of clouds keeping the intensity of the late June day at bay, and a light breeze sifted through the park. Groups of runners warmed up along the dirt trails that twisted around the reservoir. Erasure pleaded for a little respect from the stadium speakers as Gary buzzed around from person to person, making sure that the final touches for the Pride Run were going off without a hitch.
At 8:30
A.M.
, Cosimo Villanueva, an injured runner who had become the de facto club photographer in the last month, corralled the team under a canopy of trees. Almost everyone Liam had met during the past eight months was thereâall the avid racers, the men of the infamous “judging circle,” and several groups of women who had been attending more and more events of lateâand many whom he had never before seen. Cosimo clicked away capturing image upon image as he directed the runners in a series of ridiculous poses and faux-candid groupings.
“Gary! Where is that Gary Loblonicki?” A short man with a face runneled by age or disease raced all around the hilltop looking for Gary. “We've got business to settle, Gary. Rick cued me into the mockery you've made of this event.”
From the innermost nucleus of the photograph-readied herd, Gary emerged in a fluster. His hands offered the conciliatory gestures of one who has just learned unfortunate news for which there was no recourse. The raisin-faced man pushed away Gary's attempt at an embrace and shouted loudly enough for pedestrians as far away as Fifth Avenue to hear: “That quilt tells our story. You want everyone to forget our fucking story! Well, we can't let people forget ... We can't.”
As the old man trailed off into tears, Gary pulled him in close for a generous bear hug. The man allowed himself the offer of comfort, but roused again after a few seconds to shove Gary into the assembled crowd. Zane materialized from out of nowhere and stood beside Gary in a show of solidarity; Mitch and Ben followed in quick succession. The soldiers were lining up to protect their leader. By the time that Liam pressed his hand firmly against Gary's shoulder in support, Gary had moved off by himself so that he could explain to those gathered what had sparked this conflagration.
The teeny man with the deep wrinkles had founded the Pride Run with Richard Pollack decades ago, and he came back every year to present the AIDS quilt to the runners at the end of the race. In 1984, a coterie of about a dozen runners had found themselves on the losing end of the fight against full-blown AIDS infections. It was long before the days of quick cocktail fixes and protease inhibitors, and many people were just learning that their sexual liberation would levy a heavy price tag. To celebrate their club experiences and friendships, these Fast Trackers knitted little squares that depicted their plight. One Midwesterner who had never seen the beach before traveling to New York City for fashion school made a large square of a white wave against a blue background. An older man who fancied himself a theater aficionadoâa lover of Tony-award winning performances as well as the back-row pleasures of Times Square theaters of the pastâwove the fragments of old ticket stubs and playbills into a beautiful gray mosaic. Throughout the eighties, those who succumbed to the virus added their stories to the growing quilt. Henry Duvall, who stood now before Gary with the tired agitation known only by those who have fought long for lost causes, had watched his lover die of AIDS and vowed to make the quilt an integral part of this annual event.
Many in the group of gay men and women clustered around Gary listened intently, hanging on each detail of the story. A few of the older members had begun to weep. Someone interrupted to ask if he could see the quilt.
“Some other time. Anyone who hasn't seen the quilt before can view it on some other occasion.” Gary spoke with compassion but also with a quickness that would not allow for challenge. “This day is a celebration. I want us to look to the future and not get bogged down in the past. Now we all have a race to run. The gun is going off at nine whether we like it or not so trot-trot, people! Trot-trot!”
As Liam did his final sprint stride-outs toward the starting line of the race, he bumped into Monroe stretching on the side of the course. An immediate look of relief beamed from Monroe. Despite the fact that Monroe had vowed to come out and run, Liam doubted his friend's ability to get up and out of the house before 9
A.M.
on a Saturday. With surprising lightness, Monroe sprang up from his calf stretches and bounded over to Liam.
“Sweetie, I have been wilting here, worried that I would not recognize a soul,” he said.
“Oh, please stop the drama queen routine. If you don't see people you know today, then you're standing around with your head up your ass. I'm not indulging the woe-is-me Monroe this morning.”
“It's gay pride weekend, Liam. Show a little loveâwith a capital
L!
I have a fun suggestion ... Let's you and me run this thing together. We never get to run together.”
The vagaries of Monroe's ironic humor made it impossible to tell whether he was kidding or speaking in earnest. Liam knew the consequence of not taking his friend seriously; he also knew that his competitive nature and the contest with the Bobcats mandated that he race his heart out today. But the idea of just jogging easily and enjoying the scenery with his best friend enticed Liam. He could never admit to any of his Fast Tracker teammates the dread he had each and every race day, the unalloyed fear that overcame him as he waited for the gun to go off, the sense that he would disappoint everyoneâespecially himselfâwith every performance. What would it be like to slip off the radar, to put the loyalties of his friendship with Monroe above the endless demands that Fast Trackers put on him? Liam knew the pointlessness of pretending he had any choice in the matter.
“Don't worry, sexy,” Monroe spoke as if in answer to Liam's interior monologue. “I won't put you on the spot. I know you're in a pickle ... what with your club reputation as the hot, fast young thing.”
“I have to get to the start. Check the histrionics, Miss Marilyn. We'll brunch after ... Promise!”
“You and meâor âthe club'?”
“I'll meet you at baggage check after the race. Good luck.” Why did there always need to be so much ado over racing? The essence of running could not be more pure or simple. That's what Liam loved about the sport. When removed from ego dramas and pettiness, running was one person testing the limits of his body in concert with his fellow competitors. Everything else fell away. But lately so much other nonsense had been getting in the way.
Runners had already jammed the starting corral by the time Liam arrived. Zane waved to Liam, urging him with frantic hand motions to move up toward the lead pack. Hip-high metal gates blocked Liam from the corral with the local elite runners. The officials refused to let Liam hop over the barrier and instead directed him to the back of the long line of competitors now assembled. Liam scanned the first few rows of runners to see what the Bobcat presence looked like. The day belonged to Fast Trackers, and it was all blue and orange pageantry. The team was well represented at the front of the race, even if Liam had been relegated to the back of the pack. Pace signs from five-minute down to eleven-minute miles instructed runners as to where they should line up, but casual racers blatantly disregarded them. Liam snuck into the pack by the eight-minute pace marker and began to wiggle his way through the forest of men and women stretching and doing their last-minute race preparations. As the national anthem began, a surly man about sixty-five years of age scowled at Liam and told him to show a little respect for the country and for his fellow runners and stand still. Liam's blood boiled as he focused on weaving through the next cluster of runners; he was still about fifty rows back from the lead pack.
As he feverishly maneuvered through a trio of women wearing headphones, Liam heard the gun sound and he assumed running motion. His knee immediately collided into the back of the short middle-aged woman in front of him. He moved toward the extreme right to pass people along the edge, but the barricades made movement nearly impossible. Everyone inched along. It was like a monstrous traffic jam, and there were no openings in the hordes of people. Liam felt trapped and claustrophobic. After about thirty seconds, enough people had begun jogging that Liam could begin to speed through the masses to reach those who were actually running his pace. He wondered how the back of the pack runners dealt with this chaos each week. Why wake up at 7
A.M.
on a weekend to be stuck in a dense, hot mass of people?
Liam crested Harlem Hill, where the first mile marker was, in 6 minutes 50 seconds. The bad start had added about a minute to his paceâthat might as well have been an hour in a five-mile race. And he expended more energy than usual in the frustrating fits and starts of skirting around people. There was no way that he could now make up fifteen seconds in
each
of the four miles that remained.
Letting the pull of gravity speed him down the sharp decline of Harlem Hill, Liam thought about all the people in the club who had told him that running changed their lives. Feeling his feet propelling into short bursts of flight, Liam knew what they meant. For almost all of our waking lives, we sit or stand or move in cautious observance, afraid to disturb the balance. But flying down this hill, Liam had the sense of himself as a dangerous vector. He was accelerating to the point where he might lose control. Run off path. Collide. Intersect. It was exhilarating. As he reached level ground, Liam straightened his back and tightened his abdominal muscles to motor through the straight-aways and mild uphills of the west side. He concentrated on the beauty of the fields and on the foliage along the interior of the park instead of on where he might be amid the competitive herd.
Liam felt at one with the momentâsingular and strong. This very sensation had hooked him on running. It all came down to these times, all too evanescent and ephemeral, when nothing else existed or mattered in the world but the air on his skin and the endorphins pumping through his veins. All care and worry and fear over job satisfaction and social status and money and the enormity of an unknown future evaporated into the sensation of adrenaline and sweat. This was competing. Not with another person but with himself, allowing the sport to erase all memory of disappointment and heartache. Liam had always wondered why some people were weighted down by the burden of heavy thoughtfulness and self-analysis, plagued with pity and doubt. An Art History teacher at Amherst had told him, somewhat capriciously over coffee one day after class, that he had the fragile soul of a poet. Liam knew she had meant it as a compliment, given that this professor was, herself, married to a published and highly regarded poet, and still he wished he had the easier lot of those without any rearview mirrors in lifeâthose complacent souls who could forge ahead happily and with total confidence. At least there was running. The sport simply allowed him to quell his inner demons, to move beyond himself, to transcend. Even if only for a short while.
After rounding the southern end of the five-mile loop and heading up the east side drive toward the finish line, Liam finally began to see some of the Fast Trackers who had gotten off to better starts. In the last mile of the race, Liam passed Riser, who appeared sleek and aerodynamic but looked as though he may have continued to lose more weight over the past month. Liam knew he had done all that he could to help Riser. And perhaps everything really would be fine. After all, the excessive gauntness did not seem to impair Riser's athleticism; Riser raced with an intensity and fierceness that Liam had not seen in him before. Next, Liam caught up with Ben, who ran very smoothly and seemed to be having the race of his life. Liam knew his time would be disappointing but relished the easy feeling he had now gliding past other racers. Knowing he could now catch more of the people who were still ahead, Liam ratcheted up his speed. With less than 800 meters to go, he noticed Gene racing toward the finish and directed all his focus, every drop of energy in his now-depleted body, into turning his feet over faster and faster. As soon as his toes hit the ground, he thrust his legs forward. He worked his arms faster and faster as a side stitch throbbed along his rib cage. Liam ran side by side with Gene as they approached the finish lineâtoo close together to declare either the victor. Liam barreled over the timing mats and smacked right into one of the race officials.