Queer's Progress

1.

NED HAMET, HIS TEN O’CLOCK?

The doctor will be right with you, Mr. Hamet.

The nurse put Ned in an examining room, where he waited beside the window, preferring to look down at the ants 20 stories below negotiating First Avenue’s slush to sitting on the jointed slab surrounded by instruments of torture.

Dr. Kushner bustled in.

How are you, Ned?

Ned had to admire him—top dermatologist in the city, rolling up the big bucks healing people. Had he missed his calling?

Hello, Doc, said Ned. I’m fine, just the usual: Two freckles on my back, plus this thing on my nose.

Have a seat, lie back.

He meant on the slab. Cranked it flat, pulled down the light, went out of focus as he came in close on Ned’s nose.

A negligible little growth, a freckle like those that turned up on his back as regularly as rocks in spring plowing, all because when he was young no one knew to keep out of the sun. Hardly visible, but they drove Ned crazy. He knew the routine: Freeze them with that super-thin needle, sluice them off with laser beams or whatever, slap on the Band-Aid, wish him good day and leave it to the receptionist to charge the outrageous fee ten minutes of the good doctor’s time went for.

Being examined by a doctor is a special kind of ecstasy, like conversing with God or being adored by a lover. Ned was a hypochondriac, no denying that, but at least he didn’t indulge in private hysteria. No, he made regular rounds of the leading specialists, and did what they told him, too: His drinking was strictly medicinal, he shook his booty to music half an hour daily and a rabbit would envy his diet (but he insisted on regularity: A good bowel movement in the morning was a load off his mind).

Hmm, Dr. Kushner said pleasantly. This was a new note; usually he was reassuringly brusque. Take off your shirt and lie on your tummy, we’ll do your back first.

He rendered his back again flawless, but all Ned could think of—roaring in his ears—was the one word he couldn’t say. He could say AIDS, which he intended never to get. He could say heart attack—his heart never gave him a moment’s concern. But one word he could not bring himself to utter.

Dr. Kushner had no such compunction. Looming again at his nose, he said, Looks like a little skin cancer, Ned. Let’s take it off, get it biopsied.

"Can—?"

He could go no further. One horrifying thought: Die with my novel unpublished?

"Probably just basal cell, though it could be squamous cell or malignant melano— Hold still. Even if it is a bad one, this should take care of it, unless it’s already metasta— Hold still, dammit! Ned, you’re in your 60s, you have to expect—"

The worst day of Ned’s life darkened.

"Beg pardon, Doc, I don’t turn 60 for months yet."

Whatever. Whatever! Hey, this is nothing. Had a patient the other day, nice young guy, acne into his 30s?

Don’t think I’d like him.

Out of here by 2:30, walks down to 14th Street, gets stabbed.

Oh my God!

I mean, it’s New York: Jeep comes down the sidewalk, get out of the way, right? But this poor schmuck slaps it as it goes past. Reminding the driver of his manners? Guy gets out with a knife. I mean?

Did he die?

Course he died, said Dr. Kushner. "What kind of story is it if he didn’t die? Point is, one little skin cancer. Get another, we’ll take it off, too. And we haven’t even biopsied it yet, for goodness sake."

Doctors are too close to death to know what it means. Dr. Kushner sent Ned off into the world with a Band-Aid across his nose. He felt grotesque. Leprous. Doomed. And on the 23rd Street crosstown bus came the first stabs of what he knew was pancreatic cancer. And with church that evening!

He was going to ask the young man next to him to hold him, just hold him, but at Sixth Avenue the kid bounced off the bus.

2.

EVEN WHEN EDDIE tries to stay busy, things can slow up around him, trap him in syrup. Nothing’s going on, except the sun’s pouring down its hot honey, making people shift in their seats. Stays over the roof till afternoon, but once it starts rolling for Jersey, even in wintertime they have to get out from under, move to the shade wedged beneath the high west windows. Flee.

So he’s standing in the reading room cage thinking, What now? What next? This is 1991, week after we start bombing Iraq. That first night’s a new world! They close the exits, and just to get out of the 42nd Street Library everyone—no exceptions, not even Eddie—has to go through the front, descend the marble staircases beneath giant arches with the sinking sensation of What’d I do? In the Great Hall guards demand to see every scrap of paper. But it’s war. Cool, actually.

You OK, Eddie? goes Akesha.

Fine, he snaps. Poor Akesha. But she knows he has his moods.

The dumbwaiter chucks into place and Eddie takes out its load of books, spreads them along the counter, punches in the numbers. Usually that causes a stir, people race up to get theirs. But no one moves, which means the sun’s washing out the lightboard.

Eddie? says Akesha.

What?

She goes off to tell her troubles to the girls.

People are fidgeting like ants under a magnifying glass. Nothing for Eddie to do but watch. But it amuses him. These are people who choose a chair in the morning like they’re moving in for good—size up the neighbors, lay out their pads and pencils (counting every one), pull the next chair closer and drape their coat over it. Oy!

Then through Genealogy’s shiny bronze doors steps a shaggy-headed angel. Gilded by sun, green eyes snapping with thought behind his glasses, he walks the length of the room straight at Eddie, shows his number card and says, Four-thirty-four, please.

Hi! goes Eddie, startling a flash behind the specs. Cutest geek he ever saw. Now he recognizes him, he’s a regular. What’s he been missing?

Hello, says the geek, wary.

So what’re you working on, anyway? Eddie asks, shoving over a pile of musty books. You always get the oldest stuff.

On Walter Terse? Annotating his diaries?

Yeah? says Eddie enthusiastically, thinking Walter who? Which does not get past him.

The ‘Voluble Victorian’? English novelist-slash-essayist?

Cool! goes Eddie. The geek’s eyes are like jewels.

Well, he mentions a lot of people and things that don’t mean much any more, so it’s my job to try and figure them out so my boss can write footnotes.

Awesome!

Thank you, he says, and carries his books away. Eddie flips 434 off.

A line’s forming. When the sun goes off the board, people converge.

On break, Eddie yells down to Alan.

Eduardo, you can’t just— Eduardo, come back here!

Out of the cage, past the lascivious stare of the librarian on duty (what law is it says they have to be gay?), down the blazing shelves to the Dictionary of National Biography. Three fucking pages on "Walter Ivanhoe Terse (1827-1907), prolific novelist and social reformer fondly remembered as the Voluble Victorian." Very interesting.

Back to the cage, the line now epic in length. Snakes past the Bibles, where regulars hunting for lottery numbers curse the ones on line. Eddie starts working through the backlog. The girls never keep up, and Alan’s hopeless. When he rises up from his lair he gets in everyone’s way, though his tie and important expression reassure the ones waiting.

Did you hear me, Eduardo?

I’m back, Alan. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar.

Old line. Still works.

Downstairs, says Alan. "Now."

OK, down the steep flight to the dusty dark corner where rotting books hide his desk. Mildew’s unbelievable.

Sit down.

Can’t, I’ll get asthma.

Eduardo, your shift has two breaks, and they’re scheduled for—

Yeah, yeah. They work it out. Boss has to show he’s boss, no problem. Eddie stands and wheezes a little, flips him a Goya urchin look, and Alan rushes through it. No one gets books to the people faster than Eddie does. Creases in Alan’s forehead underline his words: "—’cause I don’t want to lose you, I know it’s only part-time and doesn’t pay much, but it’s not so bad, really. I mean, is it?"

I like it, Eddie says. Sorry, Alan, won’t happen again.

They go back upstairs.

He’s giving a lady one of her books, telling her when the other two arrive they’ll light up her number again, give them a few, when he sees the Terse guy heading for the return window and goes over to take personal delivery. Actually, he knows his name from the call slips: Andrew Thomas. Two first names. Waspy enough?

Thanks, says Andy-Tommy, sliding books beneath the bar.

Find it? Eddie asks.

No. Smiles: That is—

Every little bit helps?

It adds up.

"Would you agree The League of Optimists is Terse’s best?"

Smile goes wide for a second in that red beard. But the eyes go panicky, and Eddie feels it, too: Something grabbing his crotch? The fuck?

Andy-Tommy stumbles towards the catalog room and someone gooses Eddie, really digs into his ass.

Hey, big boy, Alan says—

It’s Akesha. Downstairs where they hang out there’s a Polaroid on the wall, seven of them jamming their faces together. Five are girls, and one day Eddie realizes he’s fucked every one of them. It’s embarrassing.

Oh Akesha, let’s go somewhere.

There’s that place, she says. In the stacks.

Eduardo! calls Alan, nodding at the line.

Back to the salt mines.

3.

NED WAS A SAINT to show up at church that night. But why stay home to brood about his impending demise when he could do that anywhere?

Besides, when he called over to Gramercy Park to see if he had an 8 o’clock, Harry told him the Andrew he’d just scheduled sounded like a coming-outer.

While he waited for Harry to finish his 7 o’clock, there came a ruckus from someone struggling with the street door. Ned went down and let in a supremely nervous young man.

Thank you. He bounded up the steps and turned around twice before beseeching Ned, Do you know where Gays Reaching Out—?

"I’m GRO, Ned told him. Have a seat, Andrew."

It staggered him. He looked cornered, condemned, found out, went red, went white. Oh, yes, said Ned to himself: Coming-outer.

I’m Ned.

Andrew, said the other, groping for his fingers like a drowning man for his straw.

They’re still in our room. Be a minute yet.

Sitting down, Andrew refused the offer of a mint, but asked, What is this church, Episcopalian?

"Mais oui. They give us the space. How did you find out about GRO?"

Signboard?

Ned nodded. He supposed there must be a certain appeal to coming out under institutional auspices. Once Harry and his counselee left, he ushered Andrew into GRO’s room of dirty tan paint, battered wooden desk, plastic chair and vinyl couch.

I’ll be settled in about two minutes, he said, looking for a pen that worked and observing Andrew. Virgin of 26, he guessed, wearing what could be his father’s clothes (particularly if Dad bought his pants by mail) and hiding his own advantages with an odd haircut, beard and black-framed glasses. Even so, Ned found his face forgivable. The glasses made his eyes smaller—glasses can seal off an entire personality—but they had a quality anyway. Homosexually virgin, he meant; thought he might well be married. Could picture his intellectual wife.

Ned put his mints on the desk with his cigarettes and matches, opened the notebook, read aloud, Kevin five dollars, and looked in the cash box.

Oh! said Andrew, and handed him a $5 bill. Here.

Ned made a notation and asked, Mind if I smoke?

No.

He did the best Paul Henried you can lighting up one cigarette while sporting a Band-Aid across your nose. Filled his lungs and, looking upwards, slowly breathed out. Ned always did smoke well. Andrew was too polite to say anything about the bandage, or perhaps too preoccupied to notice it—he was shaking like a murderer on the verge of confessing.

Ned asked, Are you a minister?

No, said Andrew, fear in his voice. No, I’m not a minister.

Ned took another drag. They had an hour.

Why would you think that? I don’t even believe in God.

Is that a prerequisite? No, your appearance, your manner, your speech. Were you raised in a religion?

Roman Catholic.

It fits, Ned noted. Oh, how it fits! Are you married?

No, I’m not married.

Ned took a drag. A man coming out at 40 or 50 has its sad side, though he’ll do what he can, but Andrew was young and not unattractive—a more rewarding proposition for a counselor.

Harry didn’t write down any specifics, he hinted.

Well, said Andrew. "Well, today I met—or didn’t meet—but we spoke—but it’s like looking through glass. . . Well, here’s the thing: I’m gay, I know it, but I have no sexual life, and don’t know how to start one."

He said it and lived.

I must have missed school the day everybody else got clued in.

Like dynamiting a dam. Always is. Talked nonstop for 40 minutes. The usual. Distant father, fairweather mother—two of those suburban parents who find support in their own rigidity. Hated sports. Never liked dating girls. In New York since finishing his Master’s the year before, apparently sentenced to solitary confinement. Nodding acquaintances, no friends. Lonely, unhappy, thoughts of suicide. Just that day he’d walked through the New York Public Library’s reading room, eyes glued to the denim glow of a page’s crotch, and panicked—ran—when his idol actually smiled at him!

How long have you known?

Since I was—three? said Andrew.

Isn’t it amazing? Ned remarked. "Children aren’t even thinking about sex, but gay kids feel branded from birth. I hoped things were getting easier for you young folks."

His job did interest Ned. Library research takes a knack he respected, and he’d looked with interest into the first published volumes of Walter Terse’s diaries. He even liked his clumsy novels, for Terse wrote about the world he lived in, not the Never-Neverland of his day that preceded the Hollywoodland of ours as fiction’s usual setting.

Why aren’t you teaching? Ned asked.

"Tried, but hated it. Everyone told me I liked it, but the sound of my own voice bores me."

Are you a private scholar? Meaning rich.

No, no, but the Terse Project’s funded by the NEH, foundations, all that. I’m full-time, and Professor Onorato also has a full-time editor, plus a student crew of research assistants.

I see.

Not exactly virgin, but he called his