Page 55 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
“It said something about how ‘experts’ agree that homosexuality has increased in the area, and I wasn’t going to argue with experts.”
“You’re a reasonable man,” Nathaniel agrees.
“The article went on and on about men in tight pants and makeup and I swear to god no travel agency has ever done a better job of selling a place. They practically gave the exact address—which entrance to which subway stop—where you could find the highest concentration of undesirables. It was like a treasure map.”
Nathaniel laughs, bright and easy. After this morning it feels like a miracle. “What happened?”
“There must have been ten other men who read the same article. It was like the gay Bat Signal. We were all looking at one another and trying to find some degeneracy and I wound up getting picked up by one of the other tourists.” It’s a wonder nobody got arrested. The whole neighborhood must have been swarming with cops.
The man who picked him up told him about a bar on Charles Street. A few weeks later, Patrick got back on the train after finishing his homework on a Friday afternoon. He went to that bar, got arrested in a raid, was handcuffed and booked, andwhen he called his aunt and uncle to bail him out, they said he’d made his bed and could sleep in it. He’d just turned eighteen. He’s about to tell some version of that story to Nathaniel, but Nathaniel speaks first.
“It’s like what Viv was saying about Whitman,” Nathaniel says. “He was searching for other queer men. It’s all over his poems. What’s the line—I wonder if other men have these feelings?”
Patrick stares at him. The line is something likeI am ashamed—but it is useless—I am what I am. And thenHours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever have the like, out of the like feelings.It’s a poem about heartbreak, but specifically and recognizably queer heartbreak.
“He thought Shakespeare was queer,” Nathaniel goes on. “And he wanted people to look back and remember that he loved men. It’s all the same thing. He was always looking, just like you were looking.”
Nobody falls in love in a diner, accompanied by the smell of fake maple syrup and the chatter of tired prostitutes. And maybe Patrick hasn’t, either. Maybe it happened weeks ago, and he’s only noticing now. There’s nothing new in his heart, but now it has a name.
“What,” Nathaniel says, when a minute passes and Patrick hasn’t said anything, “I do pay attention when you talk. And I read the things you leave around the shop.”
“I know,” Patrick says. “I just wasn’t expecting you to draw a straight line from Shakespeare to me getting blown in the pizzeria across the street.”
Nathaniel looks over his shoulder, like he needs to catch a glimpse of this pizzeria, this landmark of queer existence. Patrick starts to laugh. He muffles it in his paper napkin.
“It isn’t there anymore,” Patrick manages.
“They should put up a plaque,” Nathaniel says, and that sets them both off.
“Come on,” Patrick says after they’ve gotten themselves together and Nathaniel tosses a five-dollar bill on the table. “There’s something else I want to show you.”
Around the corner is a sort of five-and-dime, only it sells dirty magazines and has condoms that aren’t even behind the counter. There are also racks and racks of pulp paperbacks.
“In the back,” Patrick says, leading the way. “Ha. I knew it.” There’s a spinner rack of gay pulp fiction. One’s calledGay Cruise, the cover featuring an uncharacteristic number of fully clothed men.Gay Whorehas significantly less clothing on the cover. There are several others, all obviously gay and obviously pornographic.
“I can’t believe these exist,” Nathaniel breathes, almost starry-eyed at the sight of so much lurid gay smut. It’s two of his favorite things: paperback novels and—Patrick’s starting to realize—a touch of seediness. More than a touch, in this instance.
“You can get them at a couple drugstores in our neighborhood,” Patrick says, preening a little that he got this right, that Nathaniel likes this as much as Patrick thought he would. “But here—”
“You can’t beat the ambiance,” Nathaniel agrees.
“Exactly. They’re not my cup of tea—some are violent, and you can’t tell from the cover what you’re going to get—but I’m going to buy some for Luke. He loves them.” Realizing that it might sound strange to send pornography across the country to his ex-boyfriend, he adds, “I don’t know if he can get the same books in California.”
They both yawn all the way home, and yawn some more as Patrick lets them into the building.
“What if I don’t brush my teeth?” Patrick asks, stumbling toward his bedroom.
Nathaniel redirects him toward the bathroom. “Don’t get cavities.”
“Hey, Patrick,” Nathaniel says when he’s done brushing his own teeth, “Thanks. That was fun.”
“And educational?”
“Of course.” His gaze drops to Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick catches his breath, suddenly wide awake. He’s been waiting for the next time, letting the anticipation simmer every time Nathaniel brushes his shoulder or holds eye contact. But, not wanting to push, he’s been waiting for Nathaniel take the lead.
They’re standing awfully close, close enough that you start to notice all the places your hands aren’t. You spend the vast majority of your life with no doubts as to where your hands belong, but put someone less than a foot away from you and the fact that at least one of your hands isn’t on that person’s body becomes a glaring omission. At least that’s how it feels for Patrick.
And for Nathaniel, too, apparently, because he puts a hand on Patrick’s hip. It’s feather light, not reeling him in, not doing much of anything except resting there. That’s as much of a green light as Patrick needs.
