onto the platform and starts heading toward me.
Russ won’t come around. We pull into the Sixth Avenue station.
– Wow.
I look at Russ.
– Wow, man, I just, like, went out there.
He shakes his head and looks around.
– So yeah, man, let’s, like, get that money.
We pull in at Eighth Avenue, standing in front of the door, waiting for it to open. It takes forever.
We hit the top of the ramp that leads into the heart of the station and I pause to look back. Roman and Bolo are at the bottom of the ramp. They’re moving quickly through the crowd, Bolo cutting a path for them. I look at the turnstiles, but Russ is just moving too slow for us to make a break for it on the street. I turn right, deeper into the station, heading for the A train platform.
We pass two down staircases, both closed for repairs. Russ has his left arm draped over my shoulder and is doing a little hop-skip to keep up. I hear a train pulling into the station on the A-C-E tracks, but I can’t tell if it’s on the uptown or downtown platform. I make a guess and drag Russ to the left and down the stairs to the downtown platform, with Roman and Bolo breathing down our necks. If there’s no train we’ll be pinned down here.
There’s a C local right there, doors open, and an A express that’s just pulling to a stop on the other side of the same platform. At the bottom of the stairs, I look back. They’re at the top, looking right at us and coming down fast. The A stops.
We circle the stairs and, as we come around the other side, I see the back of Bolo’s head towering above the crowd. He and Roman stand at the foot of the stairs for a second, looking for us on the A.
We pull out of the station. Russ is spent and leans against me, resting his head on my chest while I lean on one of the floor-to-ceiling poles. Behind me, I hear the voices of bridge and tunnel teens whispering, calling us faggots. Roman and Bolo just stand there at the other end of the car, watching us, close enough to have a conversation if we raised our voices a bit. They seem happy to be close to us and to stay close until we get away from the crowds. The Jersey boys behind us are getting brave, talking louder.
– Fucking faggots.
– Yeah, fucking ass-fucking faggots.
– Look at them. They have AIDS and they
Their voices are loud enough to be heard by most of the people in the car and I can feel tension building. Bolo is trying not to laugh and Roman is shooting little laser beams out of his eyes into mine.
– Ass-fucking, disease-spreading, sick, fucking faggots.
I take Russ’s arm from my shoulder, lean him against the pole and turn toward the voices. People observe this out of the deliberate corners of their eyes and the tension in the car jumps. Everyone is watching and listening now, but pretending not to. I stare down at the five boys on the bench seat.
– Hey, faggot’s atoughguy.
The train is slowing as it approaches the station.
– Got a problem, butt stuffer?
They all look the same. They all have the same too short hair, too big muscles, too small eyes,the same pin- fucking-heads. This will be easy. This will almost be fun. The biggest one gets up as we pull into the station.
– What about it, shit-dick, you got something to say?
The train is coming to a stop. I look over at Roman, smile at him,then turn back to the boy. He’s still talking.
– Come on, you fucking child molester. Say what’s on your fucking mind.
The train stops and I pucker up and make a littlekissy face at the boy. We’re two feet from each other. He grabs at me and I kick him hard in the shin. He yelps and I swing my right elbow up and into the hollow just below his chin. He falls back gasping as his friends jump up off the bench and come at me. And all the queers on this train in the heart of the West Village just a few blocks from the Stonewall Inn, where the gay rights movement was born in a transvestite riot, gobatshit.
The doors open. I grab Russ as we are pulled with the tide of the brawl pouring out of the train. TheA express we saw at Eighth Avenue is on the other side of the platform.
Roman and Bolo jump off the A.
The trains run on parallel tracks. For a while our C local has a bit of a lead. But then the A express carrying Roman and Bolo picks up speed and soon it’s running right alongside us. I watch through the scratched Plexiglas window while, just a few feet away on the other train Bolo mouths curses at us and Roman shakes his head. Then they are speeding away, ahead of us on the express track, racing toward Canal Street, as we slow to make our first local stop at Spring Street. I ease Russ down into a seat and try to remember how to breathe.
Russ sits there slumped against me. Bud rustles around in the bag and I unzip it a bit to see how he is. He sticks his head out through the hole and forces it open so he can stretch up and rub his head against Russ’s chin. The train is entering the station.
– Let’s go, guys.
I take Russ’s arm andit’s deadweight. He’s blacked out again. I sit back down. The car is quiet, almost empty, just the few people who didn’t get off to join or watch the fight. There’s a little drool at the corner of Russ’s mouth and Bud is licking at it. I feel his wrist, then alongside his throat and then I put my ear against his chest.
His eyes are open. I slide them closed. He looks asleep. I have to force Bud back into the bag. The train pulls to a stop. I take the bag from around Russ’s shoulder and drape it around my own. I stand up. The doors open, I step out. And all my bridges are burned, because now I really am a murderer.
SEPTEMBER 30, 2000
