Taking Charge

“Why were you home so late last night?”

Last night.

When he said those words, I pictured it.

We kept the light on.

I fell asleep in his arms.

When I awoke, the light was still on, it was night still.

I slid out from his hearth-like embrace and carefully picked up each article of clothing strewn about the room.

Once I’d buttoned up my coat, I went over to him, pulled the covers over him, whispered I love you, and shut off the lamp.

It was only after I’d locked the door that I’d realized I’d left my hat and gloves inside.

“Shit,” I mumbled, fog rising out of my hands.

The mid-December cold was far from the worst weather that New York had to offer, but the icy windy was sharp and cutting.

“I heard you come in late. What were you up to last night?”

There was no accusation, no surprise, barely a rise in intonation.

He hadn’t even looked up from his paper.

When the topography of such questions is so flat, you don’t know what to expect: perhaps nothing is out of the ordinary; or perhaps, with no natural obstacles, he could see everything clearly.

“I was at Steve’s.”

Steve.

Short, dark curls.

Strong arms, thick chest.

“So late?”

“Uh… we were watching TV and I accidentally fell asleep.”

He looked up.

Though the lenses of his glasses reflected the headlines, behind his grey eyes I saw that conspicuous word: homosexual.

Could he know?

When people hear the word homosexual, they picture lesions, perverts, freaks.

AIDS.

Was that what he saw when he looked at me?

His gaze lowered, he flipped the page, “Alphabet City’s pretty far. D’you find a cab home okay?”

“Sure.”

“Good, good. Not a great neighborhood to be walking around in late at night. You be careful.”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

We silently sipped our coffee.

After a while, he made a small grunt, a signal of sorts.

“SoHo Gift to Wall Street,” he started to read. “A three-and-a-half-ton Bronze Bull. Can you believe it? Some guy dumped a giant statue of a bull in front of the New York Stock Exchange.”

The New York Stock Exchange.

“Why?”

He scanned the article, “Something to do with when the stock market crashed a couple years back. He says it symbolizes the strength and power of the American people.”

Strength and power.

Afraid the images would spill out of me, I got up and cleared the table.

“I’m going to be late for class.”

Instead, I took the bus South.

I wanted to see it.

Strength and power.

Just three months before, I had seen it, but only from a distance.

Steve and I had fought about it.

Or, he fought.

“Please. You have to come.”

Steve had been attending ACT-UP meetings for a while now, and the brightness of his passion was a terrifying spectacle, like a house fire.

“If not for the movement, then for me.”

“But, news cameras, journalists, photographers…”

“You’ll be lost in a sea of people. No one will find out you were there.”

“But what if they do?”

“Wear a hat and sunglasses if you’re so afraid.”

“No… If I’m too afraid to show my face, I shouldn’t even be there.”

“You belong there. Only we can fight for us – no one else will do it for us. Please. Come. Fight for us. Fight for me.”

When he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me I felt like I could do anything.

Like I could be anything.

He made me feel impossible.

But on the day of the protest, I couldn’t see him.

I’d made it as far as the corner of Broadway and Wall Street.

Hundreds of people filled up the street, congesting in front of Federal Hall.

Their placards read, “SILENCE = DEATH”, “AIDS: IT’S BIG BUSINESS” and “BOYCOTT BURROUGHS WELCOME: AIDS PROFITEER”.

The boldness of their words and actions matched my fear.

I saw police.

I saw cameras.

I saw reporters.

Suddenly, a siren began wailing urgently, and a beacon began flashing red in my chest.

Everyone stopped – the police, the media, the protesters – they turned and stared straight at me.

I put my hands over the red light, but the sound persisted.

They all began to walk towards me – pointing, jeering.

Coward!

Pervert!

Coward!

Pervert!

I felt a hand grab my shoulder.

I swung around, “Steve?”

His arm was thin, and his shirt sunk into too deep clavicles.

His face, gaunt, came close to mine, “What are you doing here?”

I turned back in the direction I’d come from, and everyone resumed their business.

I just kept walking, not looking up until I’d reached Prince Street Station.

The beacon had stopped flashing.

I figured I should go to Tompkins Square Park then walk over to Steve’s place later on.

I sat on a bench and watched people pass by.

No one noticed me.

What are you doing here?

At some point I looked up.

Orange light filled the gaps between dark, grey clouds.

I had so merged with the bench that when I stood, I startled the dozen or so pigeons around me.

I went to Steve’s place, the red brick blazed in the setting sun.

He buzzed me up and was waiting for me at the door.

“Hey! I didn’t see you at the rally, where were you?”

“I... Um, well...”

“You didn’t show,” his disappointment buckled my knees.

“No! I- I came. But...”

“You didn’t stick around?” I shook my head. “Why, what happened?”

“It’s nothing. I-”

“It’s not nothing. C’mon, tell me what happened.”

“Well, it’s... I don’t know. I felt like everyone was looking at me. Like I was attracting attention to myself. And when I saw them looking at me, it was like I didn’t belong. That they wanted me out.”

“Who? The ACT-UP people?”

“Everyone. Like they were disgusted by me.”

“Why would anyone be disgusted by you?”

Fear.

He looked down, “Look, I’m sure nobody was really paying any attention. And even if they did,” he stepped toward me, “So what? It’s not so bad.”

“All my life I’ve been hiding!” Steve startled back, “I can’t-… I’m not… used to being seen.”

He reached for my hands and I pulled away, but he reached out again and grabbed them tight, bringing me close.

I had my chin down against my chest, squeezing my eyes shut.

I didn’t want to see his face.

I couldn’t handle seeing his disappointment.

He ducked a little and put his face below mine, “Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me.”

I squeezed my eyes tighter and tears formed in the corners.

“Please,” he said more softly. “Love. Look at me.”

When I opened my eyes my vision was blurry, and as my nose started running I started gasping.

“I see you.”

He lifted our hands up, not letting go, and wiped my eyes with the back of his hands.

“I see you. I love you. Okay? You believe me, right?”

I slowed down my breaths and nodded.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pressured you to go.”

I looked into his watery, bloodshot eyes and saw the word: failure.

I failed him.

“I’m not brave like you. I can’t… If he finds out… If Dad discovers what I am-”

“Who,” he cut in. “Who you are.”

He let go of my hands and wrapped me in his strong arms.

I buried my face into his neck and wept as he kissed my shoulder.

Now, I was back on Broadway and Wall Street.

It was after rush hour, light traffic.

People rushed by at their usual leisurely urgent pace.

I stopped in front of Federal Hall and remembered what Steve told me about that day.

He said hundreds of people set off fog horns.

He said even people in Lower Manhattan could hear it.

I would have heard it too, but I was too stuck in my own head.

I turned to face the New York Stock Exchange.

He said a small group had walked in and chained themselves to a balcony, then dropped fake hundred-dollar bills onto the trading floor.

He said it was the first time in its history that the opening bell had been disrupted.

They published the photos in the paper, he said.

But I saw no statue.

I asked some suit passing by about it, “They took it over to Bowling Green.”

So, there I went, and there it was, ready to take off.

The thing rippled with muscle.

It was what- two, three-times as large as a normal bull, and there was a smugness to it - the obnoxious confidence of a bully about to crush his target.

There was something captivating about it though, too, like solid magma: awful power frozen still.

The strength and power of the American people.

Which American people? I wanted to ask.

It wasn’t me, or, it wasn’t my people.

My people had to scream and shout and take to the streets just to be heard.

Passersby slowed to a stop to get a look at the bull.

I overheard two men in suits nearby, “Look at the size of its balls!”

“Almost as big as mine.”

It’s balls?

As I walked around to the other side of the statue, I noticed its ribs sticking out trying to escape its flesh, its tail poised like a whip ready to crack, and ultimately, its huge, bronze balls.

One of the men leaned under and gave the bull’s balls a rub and he shrugged, “For good luck.”

I stormed back to the front of the bull, So he can touch a pair of testicles and nobody has a problem with that!

I took another look at the statue and it surprised me.

The same bull that seemed obnoxious just a moment before, now looked defiant, triumphant.

Like it a had a huge set of jewels.

Strength and power.

Maybe this statue doesn’t represent what America is, but what it could be.

Maybe the only difference between the two is how you see yourself.

I got out of the cab, but instead of pressing the buzzer, I went across the street to the payphone.

“Come downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Just come down!”

The door opened and he ambled down the porch in his sweats and hoody.

“What’s going on? What are you doing he-”

I grabbed his head and kissed him, big and showy, a movie kiss.

Taken aback, he looked both ways down the sidewalk.

“Love, what are you doing?”

“I love you, and I’m tired of being afraid of loving you.”

His smile overcame him and he pulled me in for another kiss, then he whispered in my ear, “Why you don’t you come upstairs and show me how much you love me.”

Later, we went to a diner nearby.

After we’d made our orders, Steve put his hand out halfway across the table.

My shaking hand met his and he gently rubbed my inner wrist.

Behind his eyes I read: pride.

Of course, nobody’s eyes ever said anything, it was all projection.

Only now, I was going to choose what I projected.

When I got home it was quiet, dark, except for a single lamp.

Dad was still up, “Hey, Dad.”

He looked up, “Hey,” then did a double take and squinted his eyes. “What’s that on your neck?”

Oh no, “My neck?”

I looked into the mirror in the hallway and saw the wine-red stain of a hickey above my collarbone.

“Where have you been?” he asked, curious, jovial, looking for a story.

I took one last look in the mirror, choosing the word behind my eyes.

I took a deep breath and turned to face him.

“I was at Steve’s.”