Tuesday, July 13, 2010

She had no fear of ordinary conversations


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The Slap of Love

Michael Cunningham


A year later, Hector was clipping happily along Christopher Street when he got nailed. It was a summer Saturday night, and Hector was working an outfit: short shorts, high tops, a tight black T-shirt. He could smell the river up ahead; he could feel the night’s sour promise blowing through.

He’d just crossed Hudson Street when a hand landed on his ass. A mouth hovered beside his ear and told him where it wanted to put its tongue.

It was some Jersey geek, a big one; a truck-driver type, in tight jeans and poly-blend tank top. Christopher Street was full of guys like this. They’d swoop into the Village, pick off a Hispanic or black kid, jump back into their cars and vanish back through the Holland Tunnel.

The guy had a hand like a shovel. He’d scooped up Hector’s ass and was pushing him along, narrating the twenty minutes that lay ahead. He had the money in his other hand.

He’d guessed wrong about Hector, though. Hector was just out for the evening, prettied up, looking for adventure. He told the guy to get lost. He made it clear that he wasn’t just playing hard to get.

The guy pulled his hand back and started hollering. "Fucking faggot, get away from me. You little slimeball."

Hector hurried on, left the geek shouting insults. This sort of thing happened all the time, but it still threw a shadow on the evening. There was always a feeling of threat. If a guy like that got really crazy, if he fiagged down a cop and told him Hector‘d been soliciting, who was the cop more likely to believe? A family man from Hoboken, or a half-black, half-Puerto Rican kid in shorts the size of a pot holder?

Down at the Christopher Street piers, Hector ran into Angel, who by then had changed his name to Angie. Angie was done up for Saturday night like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, in a glittery dress and what would become her signature accessories: drop earrings and seven-inch stiletto heels. As a matter of principal, Angie refused any shoe with a heel shorter than five inches.

"Hey, Ma," Hector said. All her friends called her Ma, even though, at the time, she was not yet sixteen.

"Hi, honey," she said to Hector. "How was your day?"

Angie didn’t speak in elaborate, biting wit like most of the rest of the queens. She was straightforward. She had no fear of ordinary conversations—her own hard fiash was enough.

"Fine," Hector told her. But Angie knew something was up. She could smell unhappiness the way a chef can smell a sauce starting to curdle.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," Hector said.

"Don’t lie to your mother. Talk."

He talked. Angie never had to ask anybody twice. He told her about the creep and assured her it was no big deal.

"Come on," Angie said, taking his hand.

"Where we going?" Hector asked.

"We’re gonna find that motherfucker."

Hector would have been happy enough to let it pass. He didn’t want trouble; he just wanted to dance with his adopted family and dish the dirt. As Angie dragged him back toward Christopher Street he tried complimenting her on her hair and outfit, hoping to distract her; hoping that in the name of her own splendor she’d decide against risking breaking a nail or dislodging her French twist. But once she got pissed off, Angie was as soft and reasonable as a hydraulic staple gun.

She pulled Hector down Christopher Street until they spotted the guy, lounging around in front of the convenience store on the corner of Bleecker, chugging a beer and cruising for prey. He was even bigger than Hector remembered. Angie strode up to him in her seven-inch heels, her dress glittering like a school of minnows.

"’Scuse me," she said. "Did you call my boy a faggot?"

The man swallowed beer, looked at her as if she was something he’d just picked from between his teeth.

"What’s it to you?" he said.

"‘What’s it to me? He’s my son, that’s what."

"What do you want me to do?" the man said.

"Apologize. Now."

The guy didn’t bother to stifie a belch. After a moment, Angie told him, "Do what I say. Don’t let the dress fool you."

"Fuck off," the man answered.

Then Angie, at five foot eight, under a hundred and fifty pounds, was on him. She could punch with the skill and precision of a professional bantamweight. The guy doubled over, spewing spittle and hot, meaty wind. His beer bottle cracked on the sidewalk.

Angie saw that the message had been received. She said to Hector, "Okay, now. Run."

She and Hector took off. Angie was fearless but she wasn’t stupid. And she could run almost as well as she could fight. She kept up with Hector, even in those heels.

"I warned you," she called over her shoulder. "Don’t let the dress fool you."

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