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in their peripheral vision and known he was too old to warrant
a glance, a wounded wolf ignored by the rest of the pack.
Tom had become invisible to them, ostracized even here in
Chelsea, where he had lived for twenty years. Go away, leave
us alone, look among your own kind. Or maybe all they were
saying was, you can look, but don't touch.
Tom smiled to himself. Truth be told, he cared little
whether they looked at him or not. What these boys didn't
know was that he no longer had any desire for any of them.
They were young and careless; the risks were too great. He
had had his wasted youth already, and after that all those
years with Eric, and after Eric ... well, the safest sex was
none at all, and if nothing else, Tom was determined to
survive, as he had done thus far. Latex from the Malaysian
jungle seemed fragile protection against so insidious an
enemy. Was it worth realizing afterward that the helmet that
was supposed to save your life had failed to stop the bullet?
The grocery store was open all night and Tom needed
things, so he went in and grabbed a basket. Skim milk,
yogurt, eggs, peaches, zucchini squash, sparkling water,
raisin bran, chicken breasts, toilet paper, and a pint of ice
cream. Even here, at this late hour, the store had five or six
guys in it who were shopping leisurely and cruising each
other. They were all younger than Tom and never even
noticed him. He walked home down West 20th Street with
two bags of groceries, past pre-Civil War townhouses, under
the shadowed trees, watching out for sidewalks upturned by
old roots and waiting to trip him and his eggs.
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Halfway down the block, he saw a vision: a drop-dead
gorgeous young man (what we would have called a
youngman in the bad old days, Tom thought), in bell-bottom
jeans and black leather motorcycle jacket and black leather
boots, who was unmistakably cruising him, leaning against a
wrought-iron fence, knee jutting out in Tom's path, unlit
cigarette dangling, lips wet and sultry. He was as thin as a
wraith but not unhealthily so. His hair, long and full and
raven-feathered, glistened with a blue sheen in the light of
the streetlamp, and his earthy skin and wide-set cheekbones
reminded Tom of a Native American he had met one night in
the meat-packing district and linked up with a few other
times but that was ages ago, before Tom had even moved to
Chelsea, when he was still a youngman himself, when this
boy would still have been a baby, if he had even been born.
Tom avoided his natural inclination these days to pretend
he didn't see him, and went ahead and looked.
 Got a light? the youngman asked.
Tom gave a startled smile though he should have
expected to be asked for either this or the time and fished
out his Zippo. Lighting the cigarette, Tom noted the vibrant
flame's reflection in the boy's black eyes. Remarkable how
much he resembled that other youngman from so long ago.
The tobacco crackled to life and the smoke wafted up,
clouding the distance between them and lending the dark face
an ethereal quality.
 Thanks, man, the youngman said.
Tom, feeling very much like an oldman, put his lighter
away and made as if to go, but the youngman lifted his chin
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and raised his eyebrows in invitation. Tom could scarcely
believe it.
 Come with me to the docks.
 The docks? Tom said, thinking, are you crazy? Did
anyone still go to the docks? Were there still any left? The
docks in Chelsea had become a yuppie sports complex, and
the mayor was having the Village docks dismantled, he
thought. Besides, the police were more vigilant these days
than in the seventies. That gig was up.
 Come on, man, the youngman said, reaching out and
placing his hand on Tom's fly.  I want you, but not here.
Tom looked around but saw none of his neighbors, either
on the street or peeping out their windows. He would have
batted the youngman's hand away if his arms weren't full of
groceries.
 I'm sorry, Tom said.  I've got to get home.
 Let me go with you, the youngman implored, rubbing
Tom.
 Stop that, Tom said, though he wanted it to go on. But
he was damned if he was going to invite this boy in. When
you were twenty, you never thought your trick was going to
rob you out of house and home, but at fifty, you were wise to
this potentiality, especially when this boy was the youngest
thing to give you the time of day since ... well, since before
Tom could remember.
 How about it, Dad?
 I can't. I've ... I've got a partner, see, and 
Stop it. He's dead. Eric's dead.
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 Oh, really? The youngman cast a cool eye on Tom,
drawing down on his cigarette. He dropped his hand from
Tom and dug a small brown vial from inside his jacket. He
unscrewed the lid, placed the vial up to his nose, and took a
whiff. Amyl nitrate. Poppers. He offered it to Tom, holding it
up near his nose.
 No, thanks. Tom hadn't smelled the stuff since 1984. He
caught a whiff of it now, by accident, and it took him back to
the Anvil and the Mineshaft and the Everard Baths...Jesus.
 I want you, the youngman said.
 My ice cream is going to melt. I have to go.
Dejection in the youngman's face. Tom broke away and
continued toward home. Sweat was dripping down his back,
more a result of the encounter than of the humidity. Why
should the kid have looked so disappointed? He could have
any guy he wanted. All he had to do was go back the way
Tom had come, to the Big Cup or even the grocery store. Tom
was sure one of them would take him home or go with him to
the docks, if there were any docks left to go to, if they hadn't
been Disneyfied like Times Square.
Tom looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't
being followed, but the youngman was nowhere to be seen.
He could not have run away so fast, not without a sound, not
in those boots. He had to be hiding behind a stoop. Perhaps
spying on him.
Sighing heavily, Tom left his groceries on the sidewalk and
went back to look for the youngman and tell him to beat it.
He made a quick search of the shadows, around the stoops
and the garbage cans and the recycling bins, but found no
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