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It was hot in the city. I was used to the heat though. Being a bearded New York gay in 1982 was when I was in my prime. Clubbing at night. Working in a bookstore by day. “Reed’s Reads” it was called. The owner, my boss was Charles K. Reed. He was a gentleman in every sense of the word. Smoked cigarettes from long cigarette holders. Enjoyed his brandy with a fine biscuit and was always wore a top hat when walking around town. He had owned the store for 15 plus years. I had been employed there for about a year and a half. This was before the days of the big chain stores. It was a more intimate setting. We had a reading area next to a fireplace, a small coffee bar, and a consistent customer base. Charles had been around. He was in the Navy in World War 2. “There was a lack of women around you know?” He would always say while telling a tale of one of the many ports they visited. He would tell stories of being a gay in the 1950’s. A much more difficult life than it is now. They had their underground establishments that would get busted up from time to time.
I remember he was told me about the downfall of “The Hole in the Wall” which was one of the more popular spots. It mascaraed itself as a jazz club but the only thing being blown there was men. And horns as they did have live jazz. The cops came in on a Tuesday. The bathroom stall walls looked like Swiss cheese from the number of glory holes back there. Some of the cops had been in there for the last 3 hours collecting evidence. A well-played move. You see, you don’t worry about what is on the other side of the hole. It does its job and you get off. Simple. How could they know it was the eager mouths of New York’s finest?
“All right you queers! Up against the wall!” One yelled. “You think you can live your lives of sin on my watch?” Of course everyone denied they were gay but the cops were good.
“If you aren’t gay then you won’t like this at all!” Said the leader. He then roughly grabbed slim young officer and planted a deep kiss on his lips holding him roughly by the hair. The bastard! He looked up with a sneer. His tough cop beard hugging rubbing against the soft boyish cheeks of his ‘victim’.
“No? Doesn’t turn you on?” He then ripped open the top part of his uniform revealing a rugged and muscular barrel chest. Dropping to his knees he unzipped the young officer and took out his sizable night stick. He began slapping himself in the face with it to get it hard which appeared to be working.
“Fuck yea.” Whispered one of the patrons.
“Ha I knew it!” Said the head cop. He had them. The embarrassment. The lost jobs. All it did was push the movement more underground. They would shut down one spot and another would spring up. All those guys and girls. Forced to live life in the shadows.
I don’t know what Charles was up to in the 60’s and 70’s. He never told too many tales about those days. I would frequently compliment him on his style and he would always reply that style is developed over time and he was once a much rougher fellow before he found himself. I could never really get that story out of him. I always like to hear about people finding out who they are. That is important to us friends of Mary so to speak. Not all of us ‘knew’ we were gay. It is a tough thing to admit to yourself. We have a strong community but that is partly a side effect of the ostracism and rejection from straight society we feel. Kind of like how a gang looks out for its own members when everyone else seems to have abandoned them.
A short while before closing that day a tough looking biker walked up to me as I dusted off a copy of The Midwife.
“Excuse me” he said with his voice rough from road dust. “Do you have book on bike repair?”
“That depends” I said. “You looking to handle it yourself or just trying to learn a little more about how it all works?”
“Oh I know how it all works. And believe me friend, I am used to working with my hands. I don’t need help to get the job done.” Bikers. Always have to play the tough guy. I have to admit this particular fellow had an air of confidence and self-assurance that emanated from his near foot long beard.
“In that case we talking Harley’s or jap bikes.” I knew I shouldn’t have asked. His baby blue eyes penetrated me.
“Look man. I don’t do japs. You understand me?” I nodded. “Now if you have something for a man like me; a bearded New Yorker who loved to hear the rumble of an engine made in the U.S. of A, then tell me. Otherwise I’m going to grab my hog and hit the road.”
“Sorry man. Just trying to be thorough. Back section under automotive.” The biker glared at and uttered a low growl. I felt my beard sag a little. I’m not the best with conflict. I kept a strong face but had to head into the bathroom to get myself together. I went into one of the stalls. I was mildly hyperventilating. And I leaned against the back wall in the corner as I calmed myself. It was there I saw it. Small. High up and almost behind the wall of the stall. It was etched into the concrete by someone who had been here for a while. They took their time. It read “Officer Charles K. Reed. July 1957”. It took me a minute to understand what I was reading. I sat on the toilet to wrap my head around it when I heard the door open. Slow, heavy boots stepped across the floor and into the stall next to me. His boot began tapping. This snapped me out of my thoughts. I tapped back. A book on bike repair fell to the floor. I heard the tape being pulled off the glory on his side. Then his feet moved out of my view. I knew what that meant. We all did.
You never can know who or what is on the other side of the glory hole doing work. Maybe it was a man. Maybe a woman. No way to know for sure but that day the thing on the wrong side of the hole did a bang up job. I walked out of the stall and looked at the clock. One more hour until closing. What club tonight? ‘Big Luke’s’? ‘The Gravy Train’? ‘Open Seasons’? ‘The factory’? ‘Bull DoRams’? So many choices. An hour later Charles was locking the door. Top hat on. Cane extended. “Headed home Mr. Reed?” I asked.
“Not yet. Think I will go for a walk.” He paused. “I used to walk these streets a lot more than I do now.” With that he clacked his roller skates together and headed down the street. I watched him fade into the distant fog of the night. I turned to begin the long walk to my apartment as a motorcycle roared down a far off boulevard.
Jim “Bear” Bearman
-July 1993