HAVE YOU EVER HAD YOUR ASS WHIPPED BY A QUEER?

By George Birimisa
(Torso.Nov.1982)

IN 1952 I WAS FLAT BROKE, LIVING IN A TINY ROOM IN CINCINNATI WHEN I WAS OFFERED
A JOB AS A RADIO ANNOUNCER IN A SMALL KENTUCKY TOWN. I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THE
PROGRAM DIRECTOR WHO GROPED ME IN THE BACK SEAT OF A CADILLAC. I ALSO WASN'T
PREPARED FOR THE ACCUSATION THAT I WAS A FAG BECAUSE I USED THE WORD "GORGEOUS"
ON THE AIR. THIS IS A TRUE STORY.


It was the early Fifties — Eisenhower was President and I was 25 years old and
living in Cincinnati, Ohio. Television was brand new and one of its brightest
stars was Joe McCarthy. Everywhere I looked I saw his square jawed face — from
the cover of Newsweek to the March of Time newsreel. It seemed that every other
word out of Walter Winchell's mouth was McCarthy. Not a day went by without his
name being mentioned by Leonard Lyons or Earl Wilson in their nationally
syndicated columns. There was no doubt about it — next to Eisenhower, the junior
senator from Wisconsin was the most powerful man in the land. His name sent
chills racing up and down the spine of anyone who had endorsed a cause that was
slightly to the left of John Foster Dulles or Henry Luce. However, the real fear
didn't start for me until McCarthy spoke of concentration camps for homosexuals
— when he talked of extermination. His public outcry against homosexuals
resulted in a crackdown of gay bars across the land —many of them closed. A
surveillance program was created within the FBI — it was called Homex. 382
government workers were dismissed for homosexuality within months of McCarthy's
public denunciation. Over the next few years thousands were dismissed.

Even though I spent my early teens in the streets of a slum section of
Pittsburgh — I was a tough guy — I was still worried about being singled out as
a homosexual. I made sure that I never put my hands on my hips. I went to see
Bogart movies over and over again. I imitated the way the cigarette dangled from
Bogie's mouth but the smoke always curled up into my eyes — it made me cry.

I practiced flipping a coin a la George Raft in Scarface. In short, I got so
involved in the image of being straight that I almost believed it — until I saw
a sexy looking guy walking down the street. In those teenage days I'd drop
anything I was doing and follow him. It was surprising how many times I made out
— there were a lot of working men in the Fifties who were rough trade.

It was a warm June night when I walked into the only gay bar in downtown
Cincinnati. I hitched my thumbs into the pockets of my pleated pants in my best
butch manner. I snarled at the roly poly man behind the bar. "A boilermaker!"

"A what, sir?"

"It's a shot of whiskey and a glass of beer!"

I scowled as I drank the whiskey — as I chug-a-lugged the beer. I had to make it
perfectly clear to everyone in that bar that I was NOT a homosexual — that I had
walked into the place by mistake. I was lighting my Wings cigarette when a young
man in a fuzzy pink sweater tapped me lightly on the shoulder. "Hello there! How
are you?"

He looked vaguely familiar but he was too swishy for my taste — I turned away
and waved at the bartender. "Another boilermaker! Only this time with a double
shot of Carstairs!"

The Frankie Laine record had finished — the bar was silent. The young man in the
fuzzy pink sweater smiled but his eyes weren't smiling. He jabbed me in the
chest with a bony finger. "Aren't you the high toned one — pretending you've
never seen me before!" His voice was so loud it could be heard from one end of
the bar to the other. "Honey, you're not kidding anyone with your butch act.
I've seen you cruising the john at the Greyhound bus station a hundred times!"
He turned around and announced to everyone in the bar, "This one — she only
takes home sailors and marines!"

The skin on the back of my neck crawled — everyone in the bar was staring at me.
I gulped my drink and stumbled out the door. I was two blocks away before my
heart stopped its wild pounding. I vowed I'd never go near another gay bar as
long as I lived.

Now it was September in Cincinnati and I had graduated from the Granville
Broadcasting School in June using the G.I. Bill of Rights. I had sent my resume
to radio stations all over the country and I was still waiting for my first
answer. If it hadn't been for my friend Cliff I don't know what I would have
done for money. Even though he wasn't working he always lent me a few dollars —
he would borrow it from his sister who worked for the phone company.

I was sitting on my unmade bed in my closet of a room prying open a can of beans
and feeling sorry for myself when there was a knock on the door. I didn't know
whether I should answer it because it might be the landlord with an eviction
notice — I was three months behind in my rent. After the third knock my
curiosity got the best of me — I opened the door. A skinny old man stood in the
doorway with a telegram in his hand — it was from station WKTS in Nayton,
Kentucky, and they wanted me to come down right away for an audition. After I
found the tiny town of Nayton on the map (it was about a hundred miles away) I
rushed over to Cliff's house and borrowed enough money for bus fare and a pack
of Wings.

I knew this was it — if I didn't get the job as a radio announcer I'd have to
give up my dreams and go to work in an office or a factory. Well, I didn't have
to worry. It seems that one of the announcers had quit without notice — I was
hired without an audition. My starting salary was $36 a week. That wasn't much —
not even for the Fifties — but I didn't care, I was a bona fide radio announcer
and I couldn't have been happier.

My pink cloud lasted for about a week. For one thing, Nayton was as dry as a
bone — the nearest liquor store was across the county line — thirty miles away.
Since I didn't have a car there was no way I could get the beer and whiskey I
loved so much. I also knew I couldn't cruise in Nayton. I had to resign myself
to working 12 hours a day and then going to my room. Luckily, I had a stack of
Strength and Health magazines that featured my all-time favourite sex symbol,
John Grimek. I would masturbate over him at least once a day. I also had a
dog-eared copy of Donald Webster Cory's The Homosexual in America. I was
disappointed when the local library didn't have Andre Gide or Walt Whitman. All
I found were Readers' Digest condensed novels plus Earle Stanley Gardner and
Louisa Mae Alcott. I found out later that the library had banned Robin Hood — it
seems that McCarthy accused Robin of being a pinko because he stole from the
rich and gave to the poor.

One of my duties at the station was as disc jockey for The Mailbox Roundup, a
request program. Most of the requests were for Roy Acuff and Gene Autry. When I
got really bored I'd make up a fake request for Billy Ekstine or Nellie Lutcher.
Nayton was so out of the way that it was an earth shaking event when Sunset
Carson came to town with his horse. I think he made cowboy movies for Monogram
of Republic Studios.

I received my first real shock when I went to the movies. I eased myself into
the seat in the balcony and lit a cigarette. The usher rushed up to me. "This
section is reserved for niggers!" he hissed in my ear.

"Huh?"

"You must sit in the orchestra section!"

I was confused. "I can't sit here if I want to?"

"Move — if you don't want trouble!"

It finally sunk in when I saw a sea of black faces around me. I stumbled out of
the movie house. I tried to get revenge by interviewing the black janitor on the
air the next morning. It was a fascinating interview but it didn't have the
desired effect. Most of the people who called in said the janitor reminded them
of Steppin Fetchit — they wanted to hear him on the air every morning with their
breakfast.

My next shock came when I met the station manager. He was over six feet tall
with curly blond hair and milk white skin. I watched in amazement as he swished
into the lobby of the radio station — as he stood with one hand on his hip and
the other holding an ivory ciga-rette holder. He was motionless — his eyes were
glued to my crotch. "Welcome to WKTS, Mr. Birimisa!" he greeted me. "This is
quite a pleasure!" He held out a limp hand that was covered with rings. "I'm
Filbert Merck!"

"You're the station manager?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

"Did you expect King Kong?" He giggled and went into his office — he slammed the
door.

Since I was on my lunch break I sat down at the brand new IBM typewriter and
wrote a letter to Cliff. "You should see the station manager," I typed. "His
name is Filbert Merck and he's a screaming queen with rings all over his
fingers. He reeks of Chanel Number Five — at least that's what I think it is. I
don't know how he gets away with being such a swish — it's amazing — no one
around here pays any attention. Also, he can't keep his eyes off of my basket.
I'll bet my bottom dollar he's going to make a pass at me. He shook hands with
me — yuk! — he's got clammy claws. As for Nayton — I don't have to worry about
anyone finding out I'm queer — there's no place to cruise — it's a one horse
town. Here's five dollars of what I owe you — more on my next payday."

The next morning Filbert Merck called me into his office. He glanced at my
crotch before he looked into my eyes. "Have a seat, Mr. Birimisa," he said in a
prim voice as he inserted a Chesterfield into his cigarette holder.

I sat down and crossed my legs. I quickly uncrossed them — I spread them wide in
the best butch tradition. I didn't want Filbert Merck to suspect I was queer.

He lit his Chesterfield and then dropped his bombshell. "I read your letter," he
said quietly.

"You — ah — what?"

"The letter you wrote to your friend in Cincy — what's his name?"

"You couldn't have read it," I said confidently. "You — "

"Clifford Ross is his name!" His mouth twisted into an amused smile. "I read it
over your shoulder while you were typing it in the lobby!"

"But that's impossible," I argued. "I saw you walk into your office and slam the
door!"

"I sneaked out!" His eyes twinkled. "I'm surprised you didn't feel my hot breath
on the back of your neck!"

"Will you quit kidding!" I said uneasily. "You wouldn't read my letter — you're
not that kind of a person!"

"You want to bet?" His eyes moved back and forth from my crotch to my face. "Let
me quote from your letter. 'His name is Filbert Merck and he's a screaming queen
with rings all over his fingers. He reeks of Chanel Number Five — at least
that's what I think it is!'" He giggled as he tugged at his ear. "You're quite
right about the Chanel Number Five, Mr. Birimisa! I absolutely adore it! I feel
naked without it!"

If there had been a hole in the floor I would've climbed into it. "I — oh — I
—," I stuttered. My face was burning hot with embarrassment.

He leaned across the desk — his eyes glued to my basket. "I'm sure you hear how
good looking you are every day!" He walked around the desk. "Well, maybe you're
not good looking in the conventional sense — but there is something earthy about
you — something animal!"

"Oh, brother," I said to myself. "He's going to make a pass at me!" I realized
there wasn't much I could do about it if I wanted to keep my job.

He held up his hands with his fingers spread wide. "I've always been so proud of
my hands — of my long, artistic fingers!" He frowned as he shook his head. "And
you call them clammy claws!"

"I — I was just kidding," I said quickly. "That's just an expression. I always
say it to my friend Cliff in Cincy, I say, 'Cliff, keep your clammy claws off of
me!' Well, he doesn't have clammy claws. His hands are nice and warm!"

"Of course!" He walked to the window and looked out. "Oh, Mr. Birimisa, there is
a small matter that must be cleared up!"

"Oh? What is it?"

"Most northerners who meet me for the first time take it for granted that I'm a
queer. Did you know that?"

"Ah — no I didn't!" I answered lamely.

"Well, they do!" He paused. "I take it from your letter that you think I'm a
queer — is that correct?"

"I — ah — I didn't — "

"I am not a queer!"

"Ah — you're not?"

"Don't you believe me?"

"I — I — ah — "

"Stop stuttering and answer me!"

I squirmed in my chair. "Hell, it doesn't matter to me one way or the other what
you are. After all, Mr. Merck, you — "

"Fillie!"

"What?"

"My nickname is Fillie. It's short for Filbert!"

"Oh!"

"Everybody in Nayton calls me Fillie!"

"Ah — I see!"

"I'm afraid you don't see much of anything!" Saliva glistened on his lips. "You
haven't the vaguest idea of what's going on around you. To put it bluntly, Mr.
Birimisa, you are a blockhead. You know, I was under the impression from my
travels that queers are sensitive, perceptive men who are spotlessly clean. But
look at you — you need a haircut and your fingernails are dirty. I imagine you
are the exception that proves the rule!" He paced the room. "Now listen
carefully if you want to survive in Nayton!" He sat at his desk and frowned at
his cigarette. "Let me explain. We have our own double standard. That is — we
have the rules for me and the rules for you. Example — I could walk down Main
Street in a dress and high heels carrying a pink parasol and nobody would raise
an eyebrow. In fact, people would smile and say, 'That's Fillie for you — he's
always good for a laugh — he takes after his great Uncle Ephron who used to play
all the girlie parts in the pageants at the County Fair!'" He banged his
cigarette into the ashtray. "Everybody here knows me since I was born and — I'm
related to almost everybody in town! He smiled at me. "You see, Mr. Birimisa,
this is where I belong. But you — you're an outsider — you don't belong. If you
don't watch your step around here you'll be crucified and I am not
exaggerating!" he inserted another Chesterfield into his cigarette holder. After
he lit it he took a long drag and bent over, coughing. "Dear me! I feel just
like Greta Garbo in Camille! The only trouble is — I don't have her swan-like
neck — and — " he looked at me and smiled, " — I do have clammy claws!" He
giggled as he opened the door. "It's been fun gossiping, Mr. Birimisa, however,
I have oodles and oodles of work to do. Toodle-oo for now!"

As I walked down the hallway a wave of hopelessness swept over me. I realized I
was under the thumb of Fillie Merck. I thought of packing my bags and leaving
for Cincinnati but I was flat broke. I knew I'd have to wait until I saved up
some money.

Fillie didn't bother me for the next few weeks. I was just beginning to relax
when he called me into his office. 'What are you doing Saturday night?" he asked
bluntly.

"Ah — I guess I'm not doing anything!"

"Good!" He wet his lips. "You're coming with me. We're going to Waynesville to
hear this hillbilly band. They might be good enough for our Down At The Corral
show. I want your opinion!"

"You want my opinion?" I protested. "I don't know a thing about hillbilly music.
I — "

"You don't have to know anything," he interrupted. "By the way, the beer is
courtesy of WKTS and if you get soused and pass out I'll make sure you get home
safe and sound. I'll even tuck you in and tell you a fairy tale!"

"Very funny!"

"You can relax, Mr. Birimisa!" He walked around his desk and sat on the edge of
it. "It's not going to be just the two of us on Saturday night. We're double
dating!"

"We're what?"

"Do you think you could stand to be around a luscious blond for one night?" He
moved to the door — he jiggled the knob. "Cindy Lou James is your date and Velma
Anderson's for me!" He opened the door. "Oh, I almost forgot! Newton Bayliss is
coming, too. In fact, he's driving us to Waynesville in his brand new Cadillac!"

"Who's Newton Bayliss?"

Fillie shook his head in disbelief. "How long have you worked at WKTS?"

"Ah — three weeks or so!"

"And you don't know who Newton Bayliss is?"

I shook my head.

He looked baffled. "Newton Bayliss just happens to own WKTS lock, stock and
barrell!" He lowered his voice. "Take my advice and watch your step with Mr.
Bayliss. He's a queer hater from way back!" He paused, pursing his lips. "I'll
pick you up at seven sharp. Be waiting on the veranda. And — please get a
haircut and clean your nails. Also put some Mum under your arms. Your B.O. is
rather overpowering!"

The fireflies flickered in the twilight as I sat on the veranda. The silver
Cadillac pulled up to the curb at exactly seven o'clock. "Get in the back seat
with us!" Fillie ordered. "Mr. Bayliss wants plenty of elbow room!" I was
surprised at how easily the four of us fit into the back seat. A few minutes
later I glanced at Fillie — his hand was on Velma's leg. By the time we pulled
into the Dogpatch Inn in Waynesville his hand was under her skirt. I had a
splitting headache and the hillbilly band made it worse. If it hadn't been for
the fist fights that broke out I would have fallen asleep with boredom. That is,
until Newton Bayliss opened his mouth.

He was in his middle thirties with well-muscled arms and shoulders but he was
running to fat around the middle. He was about my size — maybe an inch taller.
His eyes were a pale violet and the upper lids drooped — it gave him a sleepy
look. It seems that Newton Bayliss had one thing on his mind — queers. He
described in gory detail how he had beaten up a gay sailor when he was in the
Marines. "It was a couple days after V-J day," he began his tale. "I was on
liberty — I celebrated for two days and I was drunk for two days. I hooked up
with a sailor — a big son of a bitch — about six foot three. He was a swell pal
— always laughing and kidding around. We were in this crummy dive of a bar near
the Navy Yard. I realized there was something peculiar about him — he never
talked about girls and he went with me every time I went to the head. He kept
buying me beer after beer — when I switched to whiskey he kept on paying. Well,
let me tell you, I got the answer to the mystery when he said, 'Let's go get a
hotel room with one bed!' Then he put his hand on my leg. 'I guess you figured
it out by now!' he said to me. 'You see, I'm different — I'm a queer!' I jumped
off the bar stool and boom — I cold cocked him. He went down like an oak tree —
I should have yelled timber! You should have seen him — I think I knocked all
his teeth down his throat!" He smiled like a little boy as he ordered another
pitcher of beer from the waitress. "Queers are all alike," he continued. "They
don't have any backbone — no iron in their spines!" He smashed the table with
his fist. "When the cops came I told them that the sailor was a queer — that he
made a pass at me. They turned him over to the SP's. I hope he's still in the
brig!"

I felt myself strangling with rage but all I could do was sit at the table with
a frozen smile on my face. I felt like a hypocrite as I chug-a-lugged my beer.
At last it was closing time and we piled into the Cadillac and headed for
Nayton. I'm not quite sure why I did it but I put my arm around Cindy Lou and
kissed her — she was nice and warm. Then I unbuttoned her blouse. When she
didn't protest I slipped my hand under her bra. It was then I got the shock of
my life. I felt her hand on my leg — I felt her fingers inching their way toward
my crotch. I wanted to push her hand away but I knew it would be a dead
giveaway. I had to admit I was shocked — I didn't expect a southern girl to
grope me.

At that moment headlights from a passing car flashed into the back seat. Cindy
Lou's mouth was open — saliva glistened on her lips — it trickled down her chin.
I realized she was sound asleep. However, the hand continued to move up my leg.
Now the fingers groped at my zipper — they were inside my pants and pulling at
the elastic of my jockey shorts. I got an erection. At last I looked down. The
hand was big and masculine — it belonged to Fillie Merck. Without thinking I
pinched the hand with all my might.

"Oooow!" he cried as he jerked his hand away.

"What's going on back there?" Newton twisted his head and looked into the back
seat.

"Just a cramp in my leg," answered Fillie quickly.

I smiled as I zipped up my fly. A few minutes later we pulled up in front of the
yellow frame house where I rented a room on the second floor. It was such a
relief to get out of the car — to be alone.

I jumped into bed and closed my eyes. All I could see was the sleepy-eyed face
of Newton Bayliss. I felt the anger choke my throat — I knew I hated the man.
And — I felt guilty for not saying anything to him about the gay sailor. I
jumped out of bed and threw on my clothes and I went for a long walk. When I got
back to my room I grabbed a Strength and Health magazine and began to masturbate
over Grimek. It was no use — I couldn't get an erection. Dawn was breaking when
I finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

For the next two weeks I didn't see Newton Bayliss. I heard he was up in
Louisville negotiating for another radio station. Everything settled into a
dull, gray routine. I got up at six — after I put in a twelve hour shift at the
station I had supper at the cafeteria. It seems that their special every other
day was chipped beef and gravy on ice cold toast. In the Navy we called it 'shit
on a shingle.' When I got home I would read for a while, masturbate and then I
would try to sleep but I'd usually end up staring at the roses on the ceiling
for most of the night.

It was a few days later when Fillie called me into his office. "I understand
you're a big hit on the Mailbox Roundup!" he said. "I hear all the girls in the
County are madly in love with you!"

"Oh? Where did you hear that?"

"Well — you received five fan letters today!"

"That's pretty good don't you think?"

"It's more than anyone else gets around here!"

I laughed. "Maybe that's because there's only one other announcer here!"

He pushed the letters and cards toward me. "Take them — they're yours!" His
mouth twisted into a frown. "Oh, Mr. Birimisa, there's something else!"

"Oh, good or bad?"

He shrugged. "If I weren't your friend I wouldn't be telling you this!"

"It's got to be bad!"

He leaned across the desk. "Mr. Bayliss told me he's pretty sure you're a
queer!"

"He said that?" My heart stopped. My mind flashed back to Saturday night and
Paducah. I had caught the bus after work — the minute I arrived I had rushed to
the nearest liquor store and bought a half a pint of Carstairs — I chug-a-lugged
it. I had a blurred memory of different bars and then the tiny man with the gold
rimmed glasses kept buying me boilermakers and I was falling down drunk. I
remember staggering down the street feeling like I could conquer the world and
then I went blank. When I woke up the sun streamed into the hotel room — it
blinded me. A fat green fly buzzed around the room — it sounded like a B-52
bomber. I grabbed my pants and checked my wallet — it was empty. It was then I
saw the envelope on the table. I ripped it open and a five dollar bill fluttered
to the floor. I squinted at the hastily scrawled note: You are worth a lot more
money but this is all I got. Good luck. — Oscar

As I looked at Fillie I tried to keep my voice from trembling. "I — I was in
Paducah on Saturday night and maybe ah — maybe somebody from here saw me with ah
— "

"It's your laugh!" he said flatly.

"My what?"

"Mr. Bayliss says your laugh is queer-sounding !"

Relief washed over me. I realized that no one from Nayton had seen me drunk in
Paducah. "You mean Bayliss is saying I'm queer just because of my laugh?"

"That is correct!"

"Jesus Christ Almighty!" Suddenly my head felt like it was going to explode with
anger. "That's stupid — ridiculous!"

"I'm not so sure about that!" Fillie argued. "After all, Mr. Bayliss is right
about you. You are a homosexual!"

"But that's not the point," I said through clenched teeth. "The son of a bitch
is — "

"Change your laugh !" Fillie interrupted.

"Change my laugh?" I echoed. "How in hell do I do that?"

"Well, if you want to fit in here in Nayton you better do what Mr. Bayliss tells
you to do!"

"If I want to fit in!" My voice trembled with rage. "How in hell does anyone fit
in here unless their ancestors were born here, for crying out loud! Will you
tell me?"

"Will you stop fighting me? I'm on your side!"

"I wonder about that sometimes!" I rushed to the door. "I'm getting out of
here!"

"I'm afraid there's more!"

I whirled around. "More?"

"Jeb Shadrack — you know, the old geezer who runs the gas station?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"He told Mr. Bayliss that he thinks you're a queer because of the words you use
on the air. He says no real man would use words like gorgeous and fabulous!"

"You're just making that up!" My mind went black with anger. "You've got to ah —
this whole thing — it's turning into some kind of a crazy nightmare!" I sprayed
saliva all over his desk. I think it's you — you're making this up. I can't
believe that — "

"I am not making it up!" Fillie retorted. "Witch hunts are like this and that's
what this is turning into! One person says one thing and before you know it it
snowballs into — "

"I've got to get out of this town before I go nuts!" I cried. "You know when I
first got here I slept eight hours a night. Now I'm lucky if I — " I felt my
lower lip tremble. For a second I thought I was going to cry.

Fillie put his hand on my shoulder. "Listen to me," he said quietly. "Cindy Lou
has a crush on you. If you would take her to the Saturday night dance all of
this talk would blow over!" He snapped his fingers. "Just like that!"

"I'm not taking Cindy Lou anywhere!" I jerked at the doorknob and rushed down
the hall.

In the next few days I did my best to be calm and yet I was self-conscious and
nervous. I was convinced that everyone who looked at me was wondering if I was
queer or not. I found myself stumbling and stuttering on the air — I tried not
to use the forbidden words but they popped out of my mouth. I even wondered if
Fillie had told Bayliss I was gay — if he were playing both ends toward the
middle. I was in the bathroom washing my hands when Fillie rushed in. "Ah, here
you are, Mr. Birimisa! Mr. Bayliss — he wants to see you in his office at three
this afternoon!"

"My pulse jumped. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. "Do you know why?"

He raised one eyebrow. "I'll give you one guess!"

"He's going to fire me?"

"That's the rumor — I don't know for sure!"

I choked with rage. "The son of a bitch!" I banged my fist in to the palm of my
other hand. "Thanks for telling me, Fillie!"

"Think nothing of it!" He waved and left the bathroom.

My mind whirled as I tried to figure out what I was going to do. I took a deep
breath and I pushed at the swinging door. In the lobby I sat at the IBM
typewriter and quickly wrote a letter — I stuffed it into an envelope and handed
it to the red-headed receptionist. "It's for Mr. Bayliss," I informed her. Then
I pushed at the door of his office.

"You can't go in there!" she cried.

I slammed the door in her face. Newton Bayliss was hunched over his desk — the
phone pressed against his ear. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit it. I
scowled as I blew smoke in his general direction. My mouth was bone dry and my
hands shook so hard I finally shoved them into my pockets.

"I'll ring you back, Jeb!" he said in his lazy voice as he slammed down the
phone. "Mr. Birimisa." He looked at me from sleepy eyes. "I believe our
appointment is not until three this afternoon!"

"I know it isn't!" I dropped my cigarette to the shaggy green carpet. I
scrunched it under my shoe.

I watched the blood drain from his face. "What — what do you want?"

"What do I want?" I thought about it for a moment. "Oh, yeah, I know! I want to
compliment you on your picture in the lobby!"

"What — what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the picture of you in your marine outfit — the one in the
lobby. I understand it was taken in Guadalcanal. Am I right?"

"You're right but — " He looked uncertain, confused.

I looked directly into his sleepy, violet eyes — I winked at him. "You were
gorgeous looking!"

"What did you say?" Suddenly his sleepy eyes were hard and cold.

"I said you were gorgeous!" I grabbed for my cigarettes. "I've always been a
sucker for a uniform and I gotta say that marine uniforms and sailors with their
thirteen buttons drive me crazy! Oh, by the way, did I tell you I was in the
Navy in the Second World War — just like the sailor you beat up?" I leaned
forward. "Tell me, is it true what everybody says about marines — that they take
it up the ass?"

His mouth gaped — he looked at me in disbelief. All of a sudden he came to life
— he jumped to his feet. His voice was a croaking hiss. "I'm not giving you two
weeks notice — I'm firing you right now — on the spot!"

I laughed in his face. "It's too late. I already gave my notice to the
receptionist!"

His face turned white with anger. "Then get the hell out of here! I can't stand
the sight of you!"

"Don't worry, I'm going!" I headed for the door.

"I was right about you all along!" His voice was loud, strident — it vibrated
with fury. "I know a queer when I see one! You're a degenerate — a queer!"

A curtain of red hot anger dropped in front of my eyes. I whirled around — my
arm shot out and I grabbed him by the shirt and I jerked him forward. "Yeah,
that's me — a fuckin' queer!" I was screaming at the top of my lungs. "George
Birimisa is a fuckin' queer! I hope everybody in this fucked up radio station is
listening to me!" I could hear my high-pitched laughter as if it was coming from
another person. "That's me — a queer!" Suddenly I stopped screaming — my voice
was quiet, almost a whisper. "Have you ever had your ass whipped by a queer?" I
held him within an inch of my face. I could smell his cigar-sour breath. I
watched the anger drain from his face — it was replaced by fear.

I shook him until his teeth rattled. "You chicken-shit son of a bitch!" I
screamed. I slammed him up against the wall. I was so angry I felt the tears
sting my eyes. "Why the fuck don't you say something?" Tears of rage rolled down
my cheeks. "Say one word and I'll knock your teeth down your throat!"

He was mute with fear — his eyes darted around the room looking for an escape
route. At last I let go of him. He fell forward, grabbing at the desk for
support. I rushed to the door. "You can take your fuckin' radio station and jam
it up your fat ass!" I slammed the door with all my might and rushed through the
lobby and out into the street.

I took deep gulps of the fresh air. As I raced down the street my body finally
stopped shaking. Suddenly I felt as light as a feather. There was no doubt about
it — a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders — a weight I had carried
ever since I first knew I was gay. I hopped, I skipped and I jumped down Main
Street. I laughed so hard I almost fell to the pavement. "I'm a fuckin'
degenerate!" I shouted at a startled man in overalls. "I'm a fuckin' pansy— a
fuckin' queer!"

Back in my room I had just finished packing when there was a knock on the door.
My heart thumped in my throat — I wondered if it was Newton Bayliss with a posse
out to tar and feather me. "Who is it?"

"It's me!"

"Come in, Fillie!"

He stood in the doorway with a limp hand resting on his chest. "My hero," he
cried. "You were absolutely fabulous !"

"I was?"

"Yes indeed. I heard every word! You were outrageous and I must say — I love you
for it!"

"No criticism this time?"

"No criticism !" He clapped his hands together. "I wish I had your guts!"

I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. "I've got to get out of this town
— right now!"

"I'll take you to the railroad depot, or are you going by bus?"

"I'm going to the highway to stick out my thumb!"

"Oh, I forgot!" He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill. "This
is the rest of your salary — what you've got coming!"

I shrugged. "You know I don't have any dough coming — I already borrowed on my
salary!"

He stuffed the bill into the pocket of my jacket. "You can pay me back when your
ship comes in !" He grabbed my suitcase. "Let's get going or you'll miss your
train !"

"Thanks, Fillie," I said. "I'll send it to you as soon as I get a job!"

"Forget it!" He threw my suitcase into the back seat of his open convertible.

"Aren't you scared to be seen with a queer?" I asked. "Don't you think you
should put up the top of your convertible?"

"Let them look all they want!" He started the motor. "I'm not worried about my
reputation. You see, I'm getting married!"

"You're getting married?"

"Me and Velma — next month. He screwed up his face — the smile was gone as his
body sagged. "You see, our marriage has been taken for granted since the fifth
grade. There's nothing I can — " His face crumbled and for a moment I was sure
he was going to cry. "That's the way it is here in Nayton. There is no other
way!" He stepped on the gas and drove down Main Street.

When we arrived at the train depot Fillie handed my suitcase to the redcap.
"Rafe, take care of this, please?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Merck!"

Fillie held out a limp hand. "I'm lousy at goodbyes. However, I must say, even
if I never see you again — you are my friend, Mr. Birimisa!"

"Ah, that goes for me, too, but can't you call me George?"

He giggled. "I believe in Emily Post and all the formalities!" He arched his
eyebrows and wet his lips. He put his hands on his hips and did a very bad
imitation of Mae West. I don't think his heart was in it. "This southern belle
is going to come up north and see you sometime, big boy!" Somehow I knew he
would never leave Nayton. He blew me a kiss and jumped into his convertible. He
waved as he drove off in a cloud of dust.

The redcap slapped his leg and yowled with laughter. "That's Fillie Merck for
you — always good for a laugh!"

I got on the train — I sat down and closed my eyes. When I opened them we had
left Nayton far behind. I took a deep breath as I realized another chapter in my
life was over. It was a very good chapter.