After the cast of Some Like It Hot joyfully received its third and final ovation, Rafe and I meandered out into the slushy streets of midtown along with the rest of the theatergoers. Flagging down a taxicab, we had a brief discussion about where to enjoy a late dinner. I nixed the idea of going to Zhou Dynasty, having eaten there with Alastair just days ago on my birthday. We settled on Caffè Pedrocchi, closer to Alastair’s apartment in the West Village.

A lovely meal of Northern Italian dishes like Risotto con i Rovinassi (risotto with chicken livers) and Osso Buco (lamb shanks braised with vegetables, white wine, and broth) was still being digested as we walked the handful of blocks to the apartment. The question of whether or not to invite Rafe upstairs was answered when, serendipitously, I managed to hail a cab as it turned the corner of Perry Street and West 4th.

“I’d invite you up but it’s getting late and I’m bushed. Maybe we can get together later this week. I’m sure Alastair would love to see you again. Bring Harlow too—”

“Yeah, I’d love that. When is Al returning?”

“Monday night or Tuesday morning. Give me a call.” Rafe reached for me but I side-stepped him to close the passenger door, deftly blowing him a kiss while backing away from the curb. He waved and turned to the driver to impart his instructions.

The tryptophan in my cup of almond milk hot cocoa wasn’t doing the trick. Still unable to fall asleep, I remembered the soporific effect some of Alastair’s jazz records had on me, although when he played them, he wasn’t trying to put me to sleep. Sorting through his shelves of LPs, I landed on a Bill Evans album, Nirvana. Evans on piano and Herbie Mann on flute should mellow me out. I lay down in bed and listened to Satie’s “Gymnopedie” on Alastair’s classic Bang & Olufsen system set at low volume, tendrils of nothingness curling around my senses.

High School was an ordeal. After Rafe’s mother insisted we see less and less of each other, we grew far apart, only passing each other in the hallways, nodding to each other or briefly exchanging pleasantries. Rafe was always popular. He played all three varsity sports and dated all the equally popular girls. He took Kelly Richards, captain of the cheerleading squad, to the Junior Prom. I didn’t go.

That night, me and a couple of my female friends who didn’t get asked either, went rollerblading at the rink in Harborfront Park. There was a sparse crowd, undoubtedly because most of the kids of our age were at the prom. We had some contained fun skating around and around, trying hard not to keep crashing into each other as the sound system blared “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang.

“Why didn’t you ask anyone to the prom?” Maddie asked me as we took a break to slurp on a couple of Sprites through butterfly silly straws.

“Me? Maddie, most people think I’m actually a girl who’s pretending to be a boy. Everyone else thinks I’m gay. I’m not Mr. Popular.”

“You mean like Rafe Metheny? I think he’s got a thing for you. He just won’t admit it to himself.”

“Rafe’s not gay. We were best friends for a long time and then…well, our families don’t mingle anymore since Rafe’s dad fired my dad and my parents separated.”

“At least you get to spend summers in LA. Even if it’s with your dad—”

“And his new girlfriend. But she’s cool. I think she understands me better than my father does. Or my mother for that matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t go blabbing this around, okay? I’ll tell you but it’s not for public consumption. Can I trust you?”

“Of course, Joey. What’s so hush-hush?”

“She lets me dress up and we go out shopping together. She understands it’s a phase I’m going through. Like she’s real tolerant and everything. We keep it from dad. He’d blow a gasket if he knew.”

“Oh my god, Joey. Do you think it’s a…a healthy thing to do? I thought you said you’re not gay.”

“I’m not!” I threw my cup of Sprite with the silly straw into the trash bin and rolled out toward the center of the rink. Turning back, I started to warble “Celebration” at Maddie. Then I crashed into Cyndi, the other friend I had come to the rink with.

I was in the middle of reading the most difficult chapter of Joyce’s Ulysses, “Oxen of the Sun,” which recounts the protagonist Stephen Dedalus’ attendance of a party in a maternity hospital, told in parodies of various popular literary styles. I wasn’t making head or tails of it when my sister Erica bopped into my room.

“Mom says there’s a phone call for you.”

“I’ll be down in a minute. Did she say who?”

“Yeah, it’s Rafe. Wonder what he wants.”

“Hello?”

“Uh…hi, Joey. It’s Rafe—”

“Rafe who?”

“Cut it out, Joey. I called to…uh…to ask you something.”

“Make it quick, Rafe. I’m in the middle of my reading assignment for English class.”

“Joey, would you like to go see The Clash in the city with me? This Sunday?”

“Why aren’t you going with Kelly?”

“She and I sort of had a fight and…well, she can’t go.”

“Why ask me?”

“I just thought you’d like to go. You told me you liked them. Remember? We bumped into each other at the mall last month—”

“Yeah, you were shopping with Kelly. Did she get those ugly Jelly shoes she was looking for?”

“Nah, none of the stores carried them. They’re imported from Europe, you know. Anyway, would you like to go with me?”

“Is your dad letting you borrow the Mercedes?”

“He won’t let me drive it into the city. I can’t afford to park it in a lot and he says it’ll get stolen or stripped if I park it on the street. We’ll take the train. I’ve got the schedule and it looks like we can catch the last train at 10. Plenty of time.”

“So that’s what the fight was about?”

“Yeah, she thought I should have sprung for the parking. The tickets cost me enough as it is.”

“There’s really nobody else who’d go with you?” There was a long silence.

“I didn’t ask anyone else, Joey. I’ve been thinking about me and you. We used to be best friends. You want to see The Clash. I’ve got two tickets. Why not?”

“Are you sure your parents will let you?”

“They don’t have to know. They’ll think I’m taking Kelly. So, should I come over around noon?”

“If it’s alright with my mom…yeah, I’ll go with you. See you then, Rafe.”

“Oh, great, and I’m paying for the train too. Thanks, Joey.”

That Sunday, at exactly 12 Noon, mom called me down from my room. Rafe is nothing if not punctual. He was standing in the foyer, wearing a Clash t-shirt, and holding a plastic bag in his right hand. Mom was speaking to him, probably confirming when we’d get back from the city.

“Hey, Rafe. I’m ready! Let’s go.”

“Joey, I brought you something to wear. It’s a Clash t-shirt. I hope it fits.” He handed the plastic bag to me. I was a little disappointed he hadn’t gotten me a corsage. Silly thought, I know.

“Oh, thanks. I’ll go and swap out my polo shirt for this gnarly t-shirt right now!” I started to climb up the stairs to my room.

“Honey, you can change down here. Rafe’s seen you without a shirt on.” She laughed but I attacked the staircase two treads at a time.

I was surprised to see Rafe’s sister Sally sitting behind the wheel of her Ford Fiesta, parked outside our house, a look of utter boredom on her face.

“Sally’s driving us to the station?”

“It would’ve taken us 45 minutes to walk all the way to the station. Sally’s home for the weekend and she volunteered.”

After some perfunctory amenities with Sally, she stepped on the accelerator and we started on the 10-minute drive to the train station.

“Thanks for the t-shirt, Rafe. It was really nice of you to think of getting it for me. How did you figure out my size? It’s almost a perfect fit.”

“He didn’t figure it out,” Sally interjected. “He bought it for Kelly. No surprise that girls’ sizes fit you, Joey. Although Kelly would probably fill it out better up front.”

“Sally, Joey didn’t need to hear that. Sorry, Joey. I did buy it for Kelly…but you look really good in it. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No, Rafe. I like it. I’m not offended. I’ll wear it to school so Kelly can see what she missed out on—”

“Hey, little bro, mommy packed a little lunch for you guys.” She tossed a paper bag over her right shoulder at Rafe.

“Rafe, you told your mom?”

“She kinda found out. I mean, Kelly’s mom shops at the same Shoprite on Nesconset Highway. She wasn’t against me taking you.”

“Poor Joey she calls you, all the time.” Sally turned into the parking lot of the train station. “She’s really hopeful that spending summers with your dad might straighten you out.”

“Tell your mom I really appreciate her concern.”

“Let’s not get testy now. Anyway, your train’s due in half an hour. There’s a comic book store a couple of blocks that way while you wait. Have fun, kids. Call me from a payphone tonight and I’ll pick you up. If I’m still awake, that is.”

A few minutes before three in the afternoon, our LIRR train chugged into Grand Central Station, just a 10-minute walk from Bonds International Casino at Broadway & West 44th Street. Although the place (there were two shows today, one at 5PM, the late show at 10PM) didn’t open its doors until 4PM, there was probably a line of ticketholders from here to kingdom come already.

The day before, the Fire Marshals cancelled the show when double the 1,800-person capacity showed up, with or without tickets. Promoters had over-sold the 8 original dates and had to extend the engagement well into June so all the ticket buyers wouldn’t be ripped off. Hopefully, we would be within the first 1,800 in line so they wouldn’t turn us back and offer to exchange our tickets for a future date.

We settled in about a thousand deep in the ticketholders line. Sally was prescient in telling us to browse the comic book store near the train station. Copies of the latest issues of The Fantastic Four, Batman, Teen Titans, X-Men, and Daredevil kept us busy while we waited. Finally, with NYC Police watching nearby, they roped off everyone who came after the 1,800th ticketholder and let us rush into the venue.

It was a madhouse of screaming fans jockeying for position in a ballroom without seating. Rafe pulled me along as he dashed as close to the stage as possible. I just barely evaded some serious elbows to the face and ribs. Other blows, intentional or accidental, were parried by Rafe. We camped down about 20 feet from the stage and had to wait another 40 minutes before The Clash actually emerged from wherever they were sequestered.

The music itself was exhilarating and they played for more than two hours, going through a setlist that included every important song they had recorded since they burst on the punk rock scene in the UK in 1977: “London Calling,” “Train in Vain,” “(White Man) in Hammersmith Palais,” “Guns of Brixton,” “Charlie Don’t Surf,” “The Magnificent Seven,” “Police and Thieves,” and “Radio Clash” among the favorites. A five-song encore was highlighted their cover of Vince Taylor’s “Brand New Cadillac” and their own “Janie Jones.”

Outside in Times Square as the sun set in the sky, simultaneously exhausted and energized by the concert we’d just witnessed, we made a fateful decision. With my stomach grumbling, we could either walk over to the Blimpie’s across the street and split a meatball hero or, as Rafe preferred, we could head downtown to have a sit-down pizza dinner at John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street. Pizza it was. We hurtled down the steps of the subway entrance and took the first 1 train that arrived. Disembarking at Christopher Street, we walked the few blocks to 278 Bleecker Street.

“So, tell me truth, Rafe. How many girls did you ask before you got down to the bottom of the list and called me?”

“I didn’t ask anyone else. It’s the truth. Like I said on the phone, I’ve been thinking about you, about the times we had together. We were best friends, Joey.”

“The best. Like the two musketeers. Ha ha ha.”

“Three musketeers, Joey. I think there was always a third person with us all the time.”

“Who? My sister? You always thought she was a big nuisance.”

“No, I mean…you, Joey. You’re two people in one. There’s Joey, the scrawny little boy with the giant brain who shrinks from groups of people…a loner. Maybe a sad loner—”

“I’m happy and well-adjusted, Rafe. You’ve been reading Sally’s college psychology books, haven’t you?”

“Then there’s…there’s a beautiful girl hiding behind or inside that lonely little boy. I don’t know what to call her. Does she have a name. Her own name?”

I reached over with a napkin and dabbed some pizza sauce from the corner of his mouth. He held onto my hand with a grip that wouldn’t let go.

“Don’t, Rafe. You’re hurting me!”

One of the counter boys rushed over to our booth when he heard me yell.

“You alright, Miss?” Rafe released my hand and lowered his eyes to the table.

“Yes, I’m okay. We were just horsing around. Just got a little too rough.”

“You should watch your strength, man. You could have hurt the little lady.” He turned away when another patron called his name and left us in peace.

“You see, everybody sees it. When are you going to admit to yourself what your real self is?”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s not admitting who you really are. Maybe that’s why Kelly had a fight with you.”

“You don’t get it, Joey. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m not trying to denigrate you—”

“Like your mother?”

“I won’t make excuses for her but she’s a high school English teacher not a medical doctor. She’s not a bigot. She’s just a mother concerned about who her son associates with.”

“She thinks I’m a deviant. Yeah, we’ve heard this chapter and verse already. So, you must think I’m one too.”

“No, I’m trying to understand you. Maybe help you if I can. I’m only 17. A lot of stuff that’s going on in the world just confuses the heck out of me. But I know one thing. I…I like you. I care a lot about you. You mean a lot to me.”

“Well, you could have fooled me. Where was your caring the last two years?”

“You know my parents. And your dad wasn’t much help either. He almost ran my dad over that time in the company parking lot—”

“That’s a lie! Your father made that story up!”

“Quiet down. They’ll think I’m a wife-beater or something. Let me get the check and we’ll get out of here before that kid calls the cops. A little night air might calm you down.”

Sunday night in The Village is pretty quiet and the streets are fairly deserted. Working people have to get up early on Monday morning. The bridge and tunnel kids have to catch the last buses and trains. The ones with cars want to beat the traffic leaving Manhattan. We had to cross over to the east side in order to catch a subway back to Grand Central Station. The last train to Port Jefferson departs at 9:45PM. It was a little past 9 as we hurried through the confusing maze of streets and random alleyways.

“Slow down, Joey. You’re going the wrong way. We have to cross the street here.”

“Leave me alone. I can catch the train myself. Thanks for the concert. Let’s never do this again!”

He caught up to me and grabbed my t-shirt. I fought to get away from his grasp.

“Let go! I’m not kidding. I can get home by myself!”

“Hey, douchebag, leave the girl alone.”

Two older teenage boys were walking toward us, a few feet away from us, now coming closer.

“Mind your own business. We’re just having a discussion, man.”

“Hey, babe, come over here. We’ll protect you from this goon.”

“Yeah, it ain’t safe for a young girl like you to be on the streets at night.” The other boy grabbed me and held me in a vise-like grip, laughing as the first boy threw a right hand at Rafe’s jaw. He ducked out of the way and tried to rush to my aid.

“Hey, let her go!” The first boy two-handed the back of Rafe’s head and he fell almost at my feet.

“Jerry, this girl’s got no tits,” the other boy declared as he reached under my t-shirt. His other hand grabbed for my crotch and recoiled. “She’s got a dick too! She ain’t no girl!”

“Couple of fags, we got here. I hate fags!” He picked up Rafe by the shoulders and punched him flush in the face, his right eye already puffing up and reddened.

“Help! Help! Rafe!” I tried to kick him in every area of his body my foot could reach but the second boy was either wearing shin guards and a cup or just too drunk to feel pain.

“Come on, Jerry. It ain’t worth it. Some cop might come by.”

“Okay.” He tried to punch Rafe in the mouth but Rafe moved quickly enough to just catch a glancing blow. “Shit, I wanted one more shot. But fuck it. Let’s go. Drop that sissy, dude.” I was plunked onto the ground and they both tore off in the direction of West 4th Street.

It seemed like an eternity but after a few minutes, a single patrolman ambled by, spotted us and rushed to see what was going on. I was cradling Rafe’s head in my arms. He was moaning softly but his wounds didn’t seem that severe. A black eye and a split lip were the sum total. I was a mess. My t-shirt was torn in a couple of places (which might have seemed like a fashion statement for a punk rock chick) and my hair was a good impression of a badly constructed bird nest.

“What happened here, Miss?”

“We ran into a couple of punks, officer,” Rafe said, his delivery slow and painful. “They ran off a few minutes ago.”

“There’s no sign of them. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“I’m alright.” He managed to stand up and, still wobbling a bit, he leaned on my shoulder. “No need. My lip’s already stopped bleeding. And I’ll put a cold compress on this eye when we get home.”

“What about you, Miss? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just need a hairbrush and a change of clothes. Maybe if you can point us in the direction of the subway that can take us to Grand Central Station—”

“It’s just two blocks that way. Can you make it?”

With Rafe lightly leaning on me, we crossed the street and headed toward the subway.

---

After calling Sally from a payphone at Grand Central Station, we caught the last train to Port Jefferson and settled in for the two-hour ride. I bought a box of tissues and a comb at one of the kiosks in the station. Cleaned up the dried blood on Rafe’s face and combed my hair into a reasonable arrangement on my head. There wasn’t much I could do about his black eye but I found a two-pack of aspirin in a foil wrapper in my wallet (my mom probably put it there when I joked about getting migraines trying to learn algebra) and gave it to Rafe with a cup of water.

When the conductor came by to punch our tickets, we were asleep, our heads together, our breathing synchronized.

“Miss, excuse me. Tickets?”

I woke up with a start, realized it was the conductor, and held out our tickets for him to punch. He slipped them into the slot above our seats.

“Your boyfriend get into a fight, Miss?”

“Yeah, we got jumped by some toughs in the Village.”

“Looks like he got the worst of it. New York’s a dangerous place. Take my advice. The island’s a better place to raise a family.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Sally picked us up at the Port Jefferson station a few minutes after midnight. She yawned through our quick explanation of how Rafe got his black eye.

“You’ve got a few hours to polish up your story, Rafe. Mom and dad are asleep. I’ll just nod if they turn to me for my two cents. I guess I should be a good sister this one time—”

“But it’s all true. It happened just that way.” I might have squeaked out that last part.

“You could avoid all of this if Joey didn’t look so convincing as a girl.”

“I’m not trying to fool anybody. People jump to conclusions.”

“Everybody, alright. Everybody. Owww!”

“Don’t touch it, Rafe. I can put some ice cubes in a towel and apply a cold compress to it. It’ll take 15 minutes.”

“Well, mom and dad are already asleep. What’s another 15 minutes?” Sally asked no one in particular.

I guess what happened that day rekindled our friendship. For the remaining month of school, we’d eat lunch together and walk to and from school together. We’d talk on the telephone often. He and Kelly grew apart until, ultimately, they officially broke it off. That’s when the jokes and nasty rumors started. But, really, were we that different from other close guy friends? It came down to the way I look. And I can’t help that. I am what I am. But I’m as confused as Rafe is about what I really am.

After school ended on June 26th, I left to spend the summer in LA with my father, per the agreement arrived at by my parents when they legally separated. As he promised, Rafe wrote to me every week and I looked forward to our senior year. After we graduated, we’d be geographically undesirable again, me at Columbia, he at M.I.T. in Boston. So, make hay while the sun shines.

Monday morning, wrapped in my warm terrycloth robe, I answered a video call on my phone from Alastair. Even for Alastair it was early. 9:30AM for me, 6:30AM for him. It looked like he was calling from his room at the retreat where GlobalNet had just held its year-end meeting.

“Good morning, Jo. How’s my bride-to-be?”

“Well, groom-to-be, I’m perfect except for one thing. I miss you. When are you back in my arms?”

“Jo, I wish I was there with you right now. Unfortunately, we’ve got loose ends that have to be tied up before Christmas. It’s a lot of agency hassles with some of the talent we’re looking to sign. One way or the other, Friday’s the drop-dead date. I promise to be in New York by Friday night. Mom wants to give you her official stamp of approval by Christmas Eve. You know she absolutely loves you to pieces but she wants us to spend Christmas with her.”

“I understand, Alastair. Business is business. But what is poor me going to do all alone in snowy New York City by my lonesome?”

“There are two tickets to Some Like It Hot anytime you want to see it. Take your sister Erica. You can have a day in the city together. Lunch, shopping, Broadway, dinner, the works.”

“That’s a good idea. I’m sure she’d love it.”

“We’ll talk, Jo. Just know I think about you while these tedious meetings drone on and on. I love you, babe. Can’t wait to see you again in the flesh.”

“Love you too, Alastair.” We disconnected.

I started to dial my sister when a voice call came in from Rafe. I was going to send it to voicemail but changed my mind and picked up. Oh, Rafe. What rough beast slouches to Bethlehem to be born?