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					                                    THE CRY OF WOLVES



                                           Chapter One



Paul Kelly brushed past two homeless alcoholics guarding the entrance to Fourteenth Street

subway station and joined the other immigrants crowding onto the uptown number 6. As he

squeezed in between a large Latino woman and an elderly Chinese gentleman, also en route

to service rich America, he was careful to avoid their gaze of commiseration. For two years

now, he’d been opening and closing the front door of a residential building on East Seventy-

Third Street--a doorman. It made him cringe to think of his time there, the betrayal of his own

ambition.

   It appeared, he admitted, a great beginning, just what he needed to get on his feet, save a

few dollars. The pay was very generous--there was no denying this--but it felt as if he was

being showered with gifts for bowing and scraping to people who weren’t his superiors, but

who, more often than not, acted as such. For some employees, mostly elderly gentlemen who

had been in the Service and non-English speaking immigrants, the job could be described as a

godsend, offering a generous salary for little toil invested. But for an educated, white-guy in

his early twenties like Paul, it was ‘loser’ territory. (Twenty-third Street.)

   His cousin secured him the position through a friend who worked for a real estate

corporation, and Paul, who was staying with his cousin at the time, felt obliged to accept. He

didn’t think too deeply on the subject. Back then, he believed he’d just sail up the corporate

ladder, people opening doors and offering him opportunities from all angles. From his

doorman position he felt it was only a short elevator ride to the penthouse, unaware that this

ease of passage was reserved for the exceptionally talented or for those who had inherited the

privilege. Paul was one of those destined to use the stairs. (Twenty-eighth Street.)

   Following a year with his cousin (she had insisted on him staying to help her over a

broken heart), he found a beautiful two-bedroom apartment with a colleague in a pseudo-Irish
community in Queens. This he soon realised wasn’t his scene: bars throbbing with Irish

music, small talk on street corners concerning Irish football results and shops selling Irish

newspapers was hardly his idea of experiencing The New World. Fortunately after six

months his Polish roommate returned home and Paul found a studio for himself in the East

Village in Manhattan. For the first time he was happy where he was living, and it was one of

the reasons he felt the limitations of his current job so keenly. (Thirty-third.)

   The main obstacle in his career path was his uncertainty as to what field to enter. His last

few years in secondary school proved lethargic and he had only gained entry to a commercial

college. Taking a Marketing course, he intended to complete his first year certificate, move

on to the diploma, then transfer to university for a degree--it was the roundabout route.

However, having spent most of his first year masturbating in the male toilets to homoerotic

images some budding gay porn artist had executed on the doors of several cubicles, he

realised he would have to confront his homosexuality before it confronted him. (Forty-

second.)

   Admitting his sexuality in Ireland wasn’t a possibility. He was so frozen, so welded over

with fear, that for Paul to come out would have been... Well, he just couldn’t imagine what

they would do to him. His youth had been haunted with images of the town parading up to his

front door, dragging him from his bedroom--as his parents watched in shame and horror--and

parading him down the main street while his friends and neighbors jeered from the sidelines.

His genitalia would then be chopped off in a public execution and he’d spend his life as a

sexless cripple, forever disfigured for his crime. While this wouldn’t have happened--though

at the same time his town wasn’t completely safe for queers--Paul had been unable to see

through the ball of fear that had rolled up inside him. (Fifty-first Street.)

   He knew his career would be in business, imagining himself as a Media Executive or

running a fashion label or leading advertising campaigns. He was open to pretty much

anything besides, ‘Hello Mrs. Bernstein. How is your ball of fluff you call a dog? And I’m

not allowed ask you how you are, because that would be too personal coming from a servant.
And you really think I’m a piece if shit, don’t you? The funny thing is I probably have as

much money as you, except you’ve been living here for forty years and your rent is less than

mine. And I’m so fucking bored, I’m going to explode!’ He’d been there too long. (Fifty-

ninth Street.)

   Of course, like all men Paul was responsible for his own fate. What was the use of him

getting angry? Nobody cared. If he didn’t want to do the job anymore, he would just be

replaced as if he was never there. But where was he to go? This was the scary part.

Something was keeping his hand on the door handle. (Sixty-eighth.)



The buildings rose before him like spirals of achieved dreams. He liked to stroll up the

remaining few blocks, admiring the wildlife of the Upper East Side. It was obvious that in

this part of town wealth was the fashion, one being instantly recognisable as someone who

lived in the buildings or who serviced the rich in them. And if social inequality was

highlighted, racial inequality was also prone to rear its ugly head. He had often observed

black nannies pushing Aryan children in prams, but there were no black people living in his

building. African Americans who were successful lived further up Central Park on the

Westside, and, of course, were greatly outnumbered by their white counterparts. Paul had

never thought of himself as part of this underclass, but since his coming out he was beginning

to feel a solidarity with his disaffected ‘brothers and sisters’. If blacks were discriminated

against, gays were somewhere further down the scale. To say one was gay was to encounter a

begrudging acceptance--if that--from the world.

   His parents had ‘hit the roof’ on hearing their first born, their first contribution to the

continuation of mankind, their great hope for the future, was a poof. His mother, a staunch

catholic, took to bed and couldn’t get out for a week. His father took the trouble of writing

him a stern letter, warning of the dangers of AIDS and of growing old ALONE. Paul later

learned his dad was about to fly out and bring ‘his son’ home, the inference being that

someone had ‘got to him’ in New York. Fortunately he thought better of it, but still never
quite accepted the truth, believing Paul’s sexuality some kind of cosmic error, a possible

miscalculation of the Gods, or a freak of nature occurrence in which his sperm had been

infected with this toxic substance--something beyond his responsibility.

   Paul, deeply hurt by their response, refused to answer his phone for two weeks. Though

harsh on his parents this let them know that if they didn’t change their tune, they wouldn’t be

talking to their son at all. Then there was the inevitable tearful phone call with his mother.

   ‘I love you, son.’

   ‘I love you, too.’

   ‘We can work it out.’

   ‘There’s nothing to work out.’

   ‘Maybe you’ll keep an open mind?’

   ‘What for? Nothing’s going to change.’

   ‘You never know what God has around the corner for you.’

   ‘I’ll make my own decisions about my future, thank you.’

   In one fell swoop, Paul had gone from being the golden boy to the rotten egg. Where once

his praises were sung around coffee morning tables in the neighborhood, now he was a

change of subject. His existence had become the colour of Moira’s new dining-room curtains,

his dreams the fact that Helen was having a Tupperware party next week, his romantic

prospects the bad spell of rain they were enduring. Paul was in New York where they, his

parents, would prefer, if the truth were known, he would stay.

   Their reaction was a revelation. They were far more interested in how his homosexuality

was going to affect them! Not once did they empathise with him, or ask him how he was

feeling, or as to when he knew. His New York experience was proving no different, their

main preoccupation being the kind of job he was doing or aspiring to do. They never

mentioned rents or living expenses, or how the hell he was managing to survive in a foreign

city on his own, so far away from home. He concluded that they’d always been like this. First

it was Paul of ‘four grade A’s’, then ‘Captain of the school soccer team’, and now the
‘Marketing Executive’.

   Achievement? Yes, he wanted it. But it had cost him. It was all he was to them.



The locker room was littered with pictures of naked girls.

   Paul’s eyes were drawn to two co-workers who were already changing into their uniforms.

He dared not look for a moment longer than he should, just long enough to store their naked

torsos in his memory, to be revisited in later private moments. He’d always been a spy around

men. He’d grown up in their company, fought with them, played, smoked, studied, showered,

always so achingly close, but so far. This was no place to indulge his fantasies. One false

move could blow his cover and then he would have to leave. These colleagues weren’t any

more enlightened than the baying mob Paul had left behind in Ireland. His main gripe was

how they viewed gays as freaks, somehow weird, different. It was almost as if he was an

alien species with two heads, three eyes, webbed feet and a tail swinging behind him.

   As a rule, people didn’t bother him much. He didn’t give them reason to. He was ‘quiet’

Paul, a ‘nice guy’, ‘harmless’. It was a role he had slipped into early: ‘If I’m super-nice,

others won’t have reason to attack me, probe, expose.’ His silence however was becoming

more difficult to maintain. He’d grown up in a straight environment, but since his move to

Greenwich Village he was experiencing another mode of living. He couldn’t justify his Jekyll

and Hyde existence anymore.

   He fixed his hat and straightened his bow tie in the mirror. A Hispanic co-worker noticed

him admiring himself and insinuated that Paul would like it up the culo, as he had done on a

number of occasions previously in a half-jocular, half-offering manner. He had even gone so

far as to pinch Paul’s behind. Paul laughed it off, secretly desperate for the experience. This

would have been okay if he wasn’t gay. They could shag their lives away and no one would

care. But to be gay, to stand up against the world and admit it, left one open to all sorts of

bigotry. No, he wasn’t one of the boys, he was different. Paul Kelly was a fag, queer,

homosexual; and somehow to purify his existence nullified such seedy advances.
   An Irish co-worker joined them and it seemed as if the Archbishop had entered to put an

end to their sinful behavior. Paul didn’t like this guy. He was part of the ‘more Irish than

Irish’ brigade. They wore their green as a sort of battle cry, wrapping it around themselves in

a protest against their exile. Paul entered into a conversation about some Irish band that was

due over. They had discovered they shared a common interest in music--it was the only

common ground they could find--even if Paul thought his own tastes more refined. He

thought of the Morrissey line about ‘Giving people valuable time, he’d much rather kick in

the eye’. His survival, he knew, depended on keeping beasts like this contented. He’d been

forced to live in the lions’ cage and he had to make friends or be mauled to death.

   He made his way up to his sentry position. Where once he’d gotten some satisfaction from

doing the job well, it was now merely perfunctory. The morning proceeded. Tenants bustled

in and out. Paul helped them with their shopping, chit-chatted about their dogs, gave them

notice of any deliveries made in their absence. From his vintage point he could envy the rich

kids, commiserate with the lonely, scorn the arrogant, life’s rich pageant passing before him.
                                          Chapter Two



On re-entering his apartment building, Paul encountered his neighbor June.

   ‘Oh Paul, glad to bump into you. I just left a note under your door. I can’t talk now. Will

you be in later?’

   ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

   ‘How about tomorrow?’

   ‘Tomorrow’s fine. I’m not working until three. Do you want to do lunch?’

   ‘Can’t, I’m afraid. How ‘bout I pop over round eleven.’

   ‘Fine, but is everything...’

   ‘Oh yeah, I just have a favor to ask. Listen, I have to rush. See you tomorrow. Bye.’

   ‘Bye.’

   But June didn’t hear. She had already bounced out the door, leaving a rose scent in her

wake.

   Paul envied her, dolled up to the nines, heading to some record launch or concert. The fact

she worked for a major record label meant her diary was jam-packed with exciting

engagements. She seemed so full of that American ‘positivity’. He didn’t buy the whole,

‘don’t be a real human being, be always an up person’ mentality that was in constant

circulation; but, whether real or feigned, he had to admit her enthusiasm stood in stark

contrast to his hobbling up the stairs after another shift in doorman hell.

   The Americans could talk, he concluded, mainly about themselves - but there was

something in that. Irish people didn’t speak up for themselves, list off their accomplishments.

In America it wasn’t enough to say that he did marketing in college (which to an Irish

employer would mean that he wanted to do marketing); he had to convince people he was

born for it, ever since he organised the playbills for his junior infants play, he knew he was

were destined for it. People were more interested in who he was, rather than in his grades and

accomplishments. It was all about ‘personality’.
   His apartment was the jewel in his existence. In six months he had repainted and furnished

the studio from zero. From his Christmas tips he’d purchased a state-of-the-art sound system,

an all in one TV/VCR, and the latest Macintosh computer which he prominently displayed in

a makeshift office space between his kitchen and living-room. It pained him to admit that,

while the job was a thorn in his side, it had also allowed him to set himself up quite

comfortably. No sooner had he removed his jacket than his he checked his answering

machine:

   ‘Hi Paul. I know you’re at work but I wanted to let you know that I’m still on for meeting

up later. This rehearsal is going on forever but I’ll be finished by seven, so I’ll have time to

go home and change. So ten would be good for me. Call me if there’s any change. Ciao.’

   Paul settled into the sofa, his evening secure. He was thrilled for his friend William,

who’d just gotten his first break designing the costumes for a revue in the West Village. Paul

had been in college with William’s brother, who wrote to Paul asking if he’d meet up with

William when he arrived. He’d signed off with: ‘Oh, and he’s a bit of a poof, I should warn

you.’ Paul, who was getting more adventurous at that stage, wrote back saying he’d be only

too delighted to meet up.

   The first meeting was a little awkward, both wanting to like each other but unable to break

some immovable barrier between them. On the subsequent meeting, Paul came out to

William and they then spent the rest of the night complaining about the treatment they’d

received in Ireland as queers. From then on, they were like sisters.

   William was camp. He was overtly homosexual in that he spoke in a high-pitched timbre,

used his hands as tentacles, and was given to sudden outbursts of joy normally associated

with dizzy blondes. If Paul thought he himself had suffered, it was more in the vein of private

torment; William had faced the world head on. He didn’t have a choice. The moment he

opened his mouth, even to speak quietly, he gave himself away.

   Though being so open had its advantages. He’d been out on the gay scene in Dublin and

as soon as he hit New York headed for gay Chelsea. Landing a job in a gay fashion boutique,
he spent his spare time assembling his portfolio. When one of his gay colleagues in work

recommended him for this job in a gay-themed revue, he was interviewed by a gay producer

and subsequently passed with flying colors.

   Paul looked into his imaginary mirror again, examining his reflection for any signs of

queeniness, something to signify that he too had a passport to this exclusive homosexual club

whose members helped and promoted each other’s interests. Sadly, he could only conclude

that he wasn’t gay enough, that, indeed, he found the reliance on an exclusive gay identity

slightly distasteful.



Walking down Ave A, Paul felt like he was in a Mardi Gras. In succession he passed a highly

decorated Mexican restaurant, a grunge live music venue, a fifties style bar/club and a retro

fashion boutique. The streets themselves were alive with rock chicks, mid-westerners, Euro

trash, queens and beggars. He didn’t have to travel more than five blocks in any direction to

see what humanity as a race had to offer. Every ‘freak’ from small-town America, indeed the

world, found a welcome here. This was Bohemia after all, a place where rules were

something others adhered to; people were free to do or try or be anything.

   Paul fitted uneasily into the landscape. He was there by virtue of his renegade sexuality,

not any liberal philosophies. Indeed, he wondered at the excess of it all: bars didn’t close,

drugs sold openly on street corners, sex shops littering the landscape. He was, of course,

riddled with catholic guilt, so he was either going to do nothing or be unhappy in vice. He

was yet to learn that most prostitutes are more honorable than most bishops.

   He passed one of the new ‘cool’ Irish bars that had recently opened. He didn’t dare look

inside. He may see faces from his hometown or from college, people who he didn’t want to

know anymore, people associated with the old Paul. How could he stand in front of them

now: Paul Kelly, a man who makes love to other men; a man who likes to get on his knees

and take another man’s cock in his mouth; a man who likes to bend over and let another man

fuck him up his ass; a man who likes the reverse. All those girls would know that he fancied
their boyfriends, that he would lie down and throw his legs over his head and let their

boyfriends screw him, like they did them. Everyone would know.

   The bar he and William liked to frequent lay off the beaten track on a tree-lined residential

block. It had an air of mystery with its painted black entrance and its windows that were

decorated with multicolored crystal beads; one might have thought it was a herbalist’s shop,

or a tattoo parlor, or a fortune-teller’s salon. It wasn’t clear if the veil of secrecy was an

embarrassment of sorts, as if to appease its neighbors who might be agitated by living next to

a gay bar; or, as Paul liked to imagine, it was more in the vein of retaining an air of

exclusivity: if you didn’t know what it was, you had no right in passing through the entrance.

   As soon as it came into view, he, as usual, was overcome with a tingling sensation

knowing that the promise of finding love, Mr. Right, possibly lay behind that secretive

entrance. It had the ability to transform his mundane existence as if falling down a rabbit

hole, or revealing a world behind a wardrobe, or waking up in a field of poppies. It also had

the advantage of offering insulation against the bruises and bites of the world outside. The

constant prejudice one was always inevitably reacting against would disappear like a layer of

wax dripping off the face of dummy in a museum to reveal something lifelike beneath.

   Inside, only half the seats were taken. There was a DVD of a Bette Midler concert in full

swing at the one end of the bar. He was still getting used to the idea that he could enjoy a

Bette Midler concert. To say one liked Bette or Barbara or Diana where he grew up was, for a

boy, unheard of. He would have been laughed or beaten out of the classroom if such a

passion surfaced. But he loved divas, especially the dance floor variety: Martha Wash,

Barbara Tucker and India were some of his favorites. It was a new world opening up for him,

like the opening of a Las Vegas showgirl’s headdress, all the jewels sparkling in

fabulousness.

   He approached the bar and ordered a beer. William wouldn’t arrive until ten, but Paul

liked to head down a little earlier on the off-chance his illusive Romeo would be waiting for

him. He and William didn’t generally chase men when they were together; they were usually
having too good a time. Taking his drink in a masochistic manner from the over worked-out,

check-shirted barman of the ‘bear’ subgroup variety, he retreated to a little table with a candle

on it, anticipating some great happening or other.

   Two Latino queens were having a heated debate about hairstyles at the next table. To Paul

they were boring and so vicious besides; they could slay anyone with a look or remark. But

they had great bodies. He imagined them naked, one or the other standing by a moonlit

window in his apartment, his white hand imprinting their tanned torso. Unfortunately he’d

nothing in common with either one.

   At the bar two older guys were deep in a conversation, neither was listening to. These

same two, on a previous occasion, had tried to pick Paul up. Paul couldn’t decide which one

to choose, at which point it was suggested they could all have some ‘fun’. Paul refused, for

fear of being sent to hell for even thinking of such a thing--though he had thought a lot about

it since. It never excited him before, but somehow ‘live’ it sparked his interest. He wondered

if they approached tonight, would he? Would he have the nerve? He didn’t look over. If it

came up he’d think about it then. He wasn’t going to go looking for it.

   Another guy, who gave the impression of being well brought up, sat on his own opposite.

He was out of Paul’s league - not that Paul’s family were poor, his father being an accountant

- but Paul felt a phoney beside him. He seemed so himself: snooty, conservative, self-

satisfied. Paul figured he was probably a student in Columbia, probably used his sexuality as

an extra excuse to look down on the world. His life had been all ease, not because it was any

easier than Paul’s, but because he had avoided being wounded. He sailed above the abuse,

placed himself higher in his tower to avoid the attacks, imperiously looking down on the

wounded and attackers alike. And there he remains, watching a screen with Bette Midler

pouring out her guts for him, compelling him to listen to the words; and he says to himself,

‘She’s a little vulgar.’

   Paul decided not to go over and speak with him. He wasn’t in the mood to make the usual

effort that was required when conversing with Americans: they were always explaining and
he was always understanding.

  It must be close to ten.
                                         Chapter Three



A cold breeze blowing in through Paul’s kitchen window swirled round the apartment,

cleaning the dusty cracks with its freshness. He added a little air freshener to it, just enough

to kill the scent of boy that lingered in the living room from its bedroom incarnation. He

checked the kitchen for provisions. ‘Coffee? Yes. Milk? Yes. Sugar? Yes.’ He shut the

window before it got too chilly. It was nice to stay tucked in his warm bed on the days when

he worked the evening shift; indeed, he’d probably still be in bed, but for once, on the

previous evening, he’d left William to face the witching hour alone.

   William had arrived, tired, but in great spirits. Everything was a disaster with the

production, but this only drew out the best in him. The more difficult it became, the more he

was enjoying he challenge. He seriously doubted if the costume end would come together,

knowing full well that it would, and if he had to stay up all night till his hands bled from

sewing, those costumes would be a success.

   William expected Paul to attend the opening night and gave him a printed invitation. It

read:

                       ‘Paul Kelly and guest are invited to the opening night of

                                          ‘B’WAY FOIBLES’

                                       At the West Ave Theatre.

                                          Produced by______;

                                     Musical Direction by______;

                                  Costume Design by William Keogh.



   Paul could hardly believe his eyes: his friend up there with the big boys! He took the first

opportunity to excuse himself to the bathroom, and cried.

   It was an emotional night. He planned to get drunk and forget, but drink only heightened

his sensitivities. He wanted to embrace William, tell him how happy he was for him. He
wanted to tell him something about himself, about how lost he was, about how confused he

was about everything really. But William was on a bender, and got drunker and drunker, and

louder and louder, until Paul couldn’t hear him at all. It appeared that, as close as they were,

when it came down to it, Paul couldn’t let William into his secret, private part of himself. He

felt if he let him in, he might never get him out. He decided it was best to go. It was the kind

of scene that could have led to a fight of some sort and he didn’t want to burst William’s

bubble. It would have appeared as very sour grapes.

   Yes, his apartment was shining. ‘If only his life was like this!’ he thought: steady, fixed, in

place. It made him smile to think what an exception to the rule he was if the state of

someone’s house is supposed to reflect their state of mind.

   His humor had become somewhat perverse. He had failed so spectacularly in achieving

his dreams that he couldn’t help contrasting his failures with his expectations. At sixteen, he

thought he would be a millionaire at the latest by the time he reached twenty-one. He had

never given a moment’s thought to how he’d achieve this; he just knew it would happen. It

was strange to think back to a time when he had such absolute belief. Now he wasn’t sure

what he was capable of. But then... Back then...

   The doorbell...

   At eleven, precisely, June Horowitz made her presence felt to another human being. She

had spent the morning in bed, a morning’s grace from her demanding schedule. She was due

a day off and she either took it this week or she’d lose it altogether. Her little Irish neighbor,

Paul, was a cutie—though queer as fuck, she knew that straight off. She could spot gays.

Firstly, as she possessed diva-esque qualities, they generally liked her. And secondly, on

more than one occasion, she’d spotted strange men entering or leaving Paul’s apartment--

obviously one-night stands. After they had chatted a few times, she brought up the subject

and asked him straight out:

   ‘Paul, are you a raving homosexual?’

   Paul went the color of bloom and replied that he was. To which June responded that she
knew, she just wanted to make sure.

   Since then, whenever she was feeling a bit low, she’d call over and allow Paul to console

her. To be fair, this hadn’t been very often, but in the last few months the visits had increased.

Paul, like most gay men listening to a strong-willed woman, nodded and agreed

unconditionally. They shared an understanding where the straight woman is saying, ‘I have to

do what I have to do.’ And the gay man is saying, ‘I know you do. Keep doing it. Be

fabulous. Put down your foot. Take charge. Do it with style, grace, panache. And don’t leave

any survivors!’

   June took some pleasure in the fact that Paul was stuck in a dead-end job. It was such a

nice change from the crowd she worked with, who often acted like they were the pop stars

and not the people they were representing. It was such a fake existence really, all the hoop-la

that surrounded the industry - the endless bullshit! To June, Paul was working in the real

world. The fact he was a no one lent him a certain charm, like a child failing at some adult

game but providing entertainment.

   Her own rise to the rank of PA to the Director of Publicity for XZT Records involved her

mother ringing the Director’s mother and asking if her Director daughter could get June a job

in New York. The Director, who had known June since she was six, subsequently took her on

as her PA. June’s plucky confidence (which comes from being the only child of a rich Jewish

doctor) and her love of dressing fabulously on occasion, made her a perfect candidate for the

role. Though really only a glorified secretary, it wasn’t what she was doing that would benefit

her long term, but the people she was meeting.

   Paul jumped up and slyly flicked on his computer. He didn’t want to make it look like he

was waiting for her.

   ‘Hi June.’

   ‘Hi Paul. I’m not interrupting you am I?’ she said, noticing the lit screen.

   ‘Not at all. I’m just doodling around.’

   June, who hadn’t paid a moment’s notice to his computer in the past, now took an interest,
now that she wanted something.

   ‘Nice model.’

   ‘Thanks.’

   ‘I’m thinking of changing mine. I must get your advice on what I should buy. I normally

just go by the color scheme.’

   Her eyes fell on Paul’s marketing qualification that was framed on the wall behind.

   ‘Oh is this your...’ She wanted to say degree, but she knew it wasn’t a degree.

   Paul helped: ‘Certificate.’

   ‘Yes... are you going to make use of it?’

   ‘Well, it’s only a year’s course, you know. It’s not a major qualification or anything.’

   ‘Don’t be so self-effacing, Paul. It’s still something. Can you type and use Windows?’

   Paul had spent a year slogging to get up to fifty words a minute. His tutor insisted that the

secretarial skills, the boys made fun of, would be one of the most important things they’d

learn, that they’d get into a firm much quicker with them, indeed never be stuck for a job

anywhere in the world. Paul, who believed like the others he was heading straight for the

boardroom, scoffed at this, but persevered nonetheless.

   ‘Well, God, if you can type and that, you’d have no problem getting something in your

field.’

   June had shown enough interest in Paul’s life to prove she was concerned for his welfare,

the way he should be for hers and do the favor she would ask. She made for the lounge area,

as Paul switched on the kettle and began preparing the refreshments.

   ‘God, Paul, you have such a large collection of CDs. I must borrow some. I get loads in

work of course, but they’re never the bands I like. It’s funny, I don’t think I like any of the

bands on our label at the moment. I think I’d like to move into A&R, so I’d have some say in

what acts we sign. As it is, we end up having to plug bands that, frankly, I could care less

about. It would make my job so much easier if I did genuinely like them. At least then, I

wouldn’t have to lie when I’m doing their PR!’
   Paul loved this kind of talk. It gave him a window on a world he could only dream of. He

sensed that June knew he envied her, but that didn’t stop her boasting and blowing her own

trumpet; in fact, it encouraged her all the more. Her triumphant dances had an honest ring to

them, though. She was saying that she had what he hadn’t, and that he could aim for what

she’d got. She wasn’t going to tiptoe around him and try and make him feel great about his

pitiful life. She was in and he wasn’t. And that was June: ballsy, honest, annoying, splendid.

   To make things easier for her, Paul graciously brought up the proposed favor.

   ‘Oh yes,’ she said, downing the first mouthful of coffee, following it with a nibble. ‘Nice

cookies.’

   ‘Thanks, they’re Irish.’

   ‘Oh, in that case, I’ll have another. You must tell me where I can get these. Ted would

love them. You know what a sweet tooth he has.’

   Paul had met June’s drummer boyfriend once, a little while after he moved in, but he then

took off on a three month tour and Paul hadn’t seen him since.

   ‘He’s due back soon, isn’t he?’

   ‘He arrived yesterday.’

   ‘Oh...’

   Paul always found it awkward to talk about Ted because he was such a drop dead

gorgeous hunk. He wasn’t sure if June would sense the admiration, so he generally stayed

silent on the subject and let June ramble.

   She continued: ‘Yes, he’s back, but he’s really busy rehearsing for this New York Music

Awards gig that’s coming up in The Beacon--loads of stars and all the rest. Maybe you’d like

a ticket? I’ll see what I can do.’ This morning he was getting one whether he wanted one or

not--more sweetening him up.

   June was getting a little desperate as Ted had already refused to do the favor she needed,

citing his busy rehearsal schedule. This had led to another row that was still unresolved.

Things had been a little rocky between them since the tour, the problem being Ted’s
reluctance to call her from the road. The first month away he called her once a week and she

received a couple of postcards. Next month, she received a call every second week. Then she

didn’t hear a peep for a whole month, only receiving a late night call the day before he was

due home: ‘Hey babe, looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.’ Instead of lashing into him,

she pictured his brutishly handsome face on her pillow and said nothing. She would sort it out

with him when she met him face to face.

   Paul was privy to all this as June had been letting out her frustrations for his benefit.

Where men were concerned, Paul thought her a touch vulnerable. She put a brave face on

everything, but she was a sensitive soul who was likely to bawl her eyes out if she didn’t

receive that call. Even after a year together she was still unsure of her ground with Ted,

constantly complaining as to how much Ted liked her, how close they actually were.

   She was heading out of town for five days and wanted Paul to administer medicine once a

day to her cat who was getting over an illness. She knew it would be a pain in the neck but

didn’t have anyone else she could ask, one girlfriend also out of town and another on her

sickbed. She had, of course, a wide circle of acquaintances in media industries, but to impose

on any of these people over a private matter would be to break a professional code. She liked

the lights and the thrills, but at times such as these, when she really needed some help, she

was prone to think it a shallow, futile existence, a stick of cotton candy compared to a steak

dinner.

   Paul immediately accepted. He wouldn’t know how to refuse. June, delighted, instead of

pitying Paul for once, saw something of genuine kindness in him. He wasn’t being a

pushover, she thought; he was being helpful, friendly, decent. Even if it was a damn nuisance,

even if she should have had someone else to ask, someone closer who she could legitimately

impose upon, she was in trouble and he didn’t like seeing her so. He didn’t make her feel bad

either. It was ‘No problem’ and ‘Don’t worry about it’ and ‘Leave it to me.’ A weight was

suddenly lifted from her shoulders.

   Paul went over to her apartment and received his instructions. He held in his laughter until
he was safely back in his own--all that for a cat! It didn’t escape his attention that she was

heading to Chicago for a music convention and he was left minding her cat. It was obvious

she had what he most importantly lacked: connections. He was going to have to open up and

meet people. He seemed to be hiding behind William, behind drink, behind fear. He would

have to put himself forward, strike out on his own. ‘Pro-active’, they called it. And still he

felt unprepared, like a singer miming incorrectly to his own voice. He didn’t know where

this doubt originated, but suddenly insidious words surfaced from the vaults of memory:

‘faggot’, ‘queer’, ‘fairy boy’. Paul Kelly wasn’t fit to be seen with, to be heard, to be alive!

   He fell to the sofa, his mind spiraling down into a tunnel of darkness. He tried to focus on

some clear instance, a fact or object that would return him to his equilibrium but he just

descended even further into the mental abyss. When he finally came to and surveyed his

spotless room, nothing seemed to together. The computer looked absurd among the kitchen

appliances, the tea cups sat like foreign galleons in the sea of CDs and books, the windows

were bright with light but none seemed to enter through them. It was as if a stranger had

come in and put each piece of furniture in place.

				
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