unconstitutional,
ex post facto
laws. None of these proposals would ever take effect, but they had already done their work. Simply by introducing them, their authors had conjured up a parallel nation in which old people were left to die in the streets in retribution for ancient transgressions. A nation in which everyone, really, was an alien, to whom benefits might be given or taken away by a bunch of white guys with bad comb-overs, voting silently in the middle of the night while C-SPAN played Vivaldi.
By the time Joel had worked through the pile of
Records,
it was almost six, quitting time.
At the Hill Club a few of his friends were huddled in the queer corner of the bar, that shrinking space they clung to like penguins on an ice floe. Charles, who curated colonial furniture for the Smithsonian and whose raincoat was draped over his nondrinking arm, lining out, so everyone would see it was a Burberry. Albert, who had been chief of staff for a Senate committee until the Republicans lost the Senate in ’86.When they took it again in ’94, he had just assumed he could go back to his old job. Not understanding that he should have filled the eight-year hole in his résumé with something other than: at Hill Club. Francis, who had been booted out of the seminary and had
then
become celibate—maybe from sheer exhaustion. Joel supposed you had to be pretty frisky if even a seminary couldn’t overlook it. Buck, a paperhanger whose real name was Edward but who was called Buck because sometimes he worked in the nude. Tucked into the farthest stool, old Walter, who had possibly not moved since last week.
His friends. They were chattering away, only Charles pausing to say, “Hey, Joel, what’s new?” Expecting Joel to answer, “Not much.” Nothing had been new in years: same job, same lover. Joel was a consumer of news, not a producer. Until now. As the ads in the back pages of comic books used to say: “Amaze your friends!” He could already see the looks on their faces as he told them …
Until that instant, he truly had not comprehended that his predicament was a shameful one. Why? No one ever called a gay man a cuckold: infidelity was the norm, it was no reflection on you if your lover occasionally partook of strange meat. Here at the Hill Club, his friends, those who were coupled at all, routinely and unabashedly related their partners’ latest escapades. They would cluck affectionately, like a doting mother reciting the hijinks of an errant son. Why couldn’t Joel do that? Just make light of it? Wait till you hear what Sam has gone and done, the rascal!
Because they had been not a couple, but a sermon. Their loyalty a standing reproach to all the doubters who insisted it was impossible, no faggots could live like Joel and Sam forever. He had never, he thought, rubbed it in. On the contrary, he had always been half-apologetic about their deviant behavior. As if fidelity were a little idiosyncrasy of theirs. As if it hadn’t cost them anything.
He could already see the faces. After the moment of astonishment,how Charles and Francis and Buck would marshal their faces, each of them striving to craft the appropriate mask of consternation and empathy. He had done it so often himself. He knew just how the muscles in your face tensed as you concealed your simple delight in unearthing a large uncut gem of misery. He knew how it felt to look straight in someone’s eyes when you wanted to turn away with disdain for his fatuity and richly deserved ill-fortune.
All of these ordinary human sensations would be sweetened in this instance by a special triumph: they had been right all along, it was never possible to be Joel and Sam. If Icarus had pals like Joel’s, they must have had to struggle just so, holding their frowns in place to hide their natural jubilation as he fell to earth.
Oh, and how would they ever keep a straight face when Joel said the most hilarious thing of all? We’re still going to be
ex post facto
laws. None of these proposals would ever take effect, but they had already done their work. Simply by introducing them, their authors had conjured up a parallel nation in which old people were left to die in the streets in retribution for ancient transgressions. A nation in which everyone, really, was an alien, to whom benefits might be given or taken away by a bunch of white guys with bad comb-overs, voting silently in the middle of the night while C-SPAN played Vivaldi.
By the time Joel had worked through the pile of
Records,
it was almost six, quitting time.
At the Hill Club a few of his friends were huddled in the queer corner of the bar, that shrinking space they clung to like penguins on an ice floe. Charles, who curated colonial furniture for the Smithsonian and whose raincoat was draped over his nondrinking arm, lining out, so everyone would see it was a Burberry. Albert, who had been chief of staff for a Senate committee until the Republicans lost the Senate in ’86.When they took it again in ’94, he had just assumed he could go back to his old job. Not understanding that he should have filled the eight-year hole in his résumé with something other than: at Hill Club. Francis, who had been booted out of the seminary and had
then
become celibate—maybe from sheer exhaustion. Joel supposed you had to be pretty frisky if even a seminary couldn’t overlook it. Buck, a paperhanger whose real name was Edward but who was called Buck because sometimes he worked in the nude. Tucked into the farthest stool, old Walter, who had possibly not moved since last week.
His friends. They were chattering away, only Charles pausing to say, “Hey, Joel, what’s new?” Expecting Joel to answer, “Not much.” Nothing had been new in years: same job, same lover. Joel was a consumer of news, not a producer. Until now. As the ads in the back pages of comic books used to say: “Amaze your friends!” He could already see the looks on their faces as he told them …
Until that instant, he truly had not comprehended that his predicament was a shameful one. Why? No one ever called a gay man a cuckold: infidelity was the norm, it was no reflection on you if your lover occasionally partook of strange meat. Here at the Hill Club, his friends, those who were coupled at all, routinely and unabashedly related their partners’ latest escapades. They would cluck affectionately, like a doting mother reciting the hijinks of an errant son. Why couldn’t Joel do that? Just make light of it? Wait till you hear what Sam has gone and done, the rascal!
Because they had been not a couple, but a sermon. Their loyalty a standing reproach to all the doubters who insisted it was impossible, no faggots could live like Joel and Sam forever. He had never, he thought, rubbed it in. On the contrary, he had always been half-apologetic about their deviant behavior. As if fidelity were a little idiosyncrasy of theirs. As if it hadn’t cost them anything.
He could already see the faces. After the moment of astonishment,how Charles and Francis and Buck would marshal their faces, each of them striving to craft the appropriate mask of consternation and empathy. He had done it so often himself. He knew just how the muscles in your face tensed as you concealed your simple delight in unearthing a large uncut gem of misery. He knew how it felt to look straight in someone’s eyes when you wanted to turn away with disdain for his fatuity and richly deserved ill-fortune.
All of these ordinary human sensations would be sweetened in this instance by a special triumph: they had been right all along, it was never possible to be Joel and Sam. If Icarus had pals like Joel’s, they must have had to struggle just so, holding their frowns in place to hide their natural jubilation as he fell to earth.
Oh, and how would they ever keep a straight face when Joel said the most hilarious thing of all? We’re still going to be
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