Harlan's Race

like stepping on a sting-ray in the surf. You didn’t die, but the pain was paralyzing.
    “You going to see him?” Steve pursued.
    “I don’t want to live in a graveyard. But ..
    ‘Yeah,” said Steve. “Always the but.”
    He sat thinking. ‘You going to keep on clamming?” “I’ll stay here nights, and some days. But I need the time alone on the water.”
    In my room, I unpacked my gear.
    Steve was a thoughtful host — he had put me in the North Room, where I’d never slept before. But the pine furniture, antique kerosene lamps — all reminded me of the East Room that I’d shared with Billy in ’76. This window looked onto the back deck. Just 25 feet away, the cove waters riffled in a night breeze.
    On the bedside table went my colorful collection of tools. My faithful .45 and hardwood stick. My fish knife. Unpacking a cardboard box, I set up a desk on the table. My clunky old Remington Office-Riter, a dictionary and thesaurus, the Bible, a desk lamp, and office supplies. Carefully I stood Falcon’s christening picture on the windowsill.
    Then I stripped and looked in the mirror.
    Many gays are no smarter than straights about maturity — you’re over the hill at 30, dead and buried at 40. I was 42, and young guys still hit on me, mostly because of my “fame”. I tried not to wonder when the hitting would stop, and worked to stay looking good. Flat-muscled as a young man, today I was on the lean side of “ripped” — as with many runners my training now included free weights. Clamming would keep me hard. As a licensed athletic masseur, I knew how to use almond oil on my skin, so the only wrinkles were a few lines on my forehead, and squint lines by my eyes. A gun-metal sheen showed in my crew cut and body-hair. The dark tan was a good touch.
    My fingers caressed the old tattoo of a Leo on my left shoulder. Billy had worn the Virgo sign on the same shoulder. The touch led to other things, before I dropped off to sleep.
    Next morning, no clamming. Instead, I hauled on old running shorts and a ragged sweat shirt. A workout might help me decide yes or no on Vince. The stick went into the sweat-shirt pouch, in case I met trouble.
    “Catch you later,” Steve called, seeing me leave.
    Outside, a sandy path led through the beach grass. The black cat, Horatio, passed me with a songbird in his mouth. He was a muscle-bound animal with balls as big as his paws. We had jokes about how Horatio was hot, hung and heartless.
    Eroded by winter storms and littered with driftwood, the shore curved away both east and west, into misty distance. Tire tracks in the sand showed where the police Jeep had cruised by. Waves eased in, to stroke the sand like after-love caresses. Nearby, Marian and Joe were strolling arm in arm, talking.
    Here, the memories ambushed me.
    Billy and I had taken training runs on this shore — walked with our arms around each other, had a serious fight or two, worried about what was ahead. His image had held everything sane in my world — everything sacred, and clean. Now my Front Runner was a ghost who moved with endless, eerie bounds just ahead of me. I was the shattered kicker, trailing behind his shoulder. Try as I might, I couldn’t kick hard enough to pass him, to get on with my life. He was burning my kick to a cinder.
    Vince lived in a body that could still be touched.
    Billy, I asked that image within me, I was a jealous man when you were alive... more afraid of losing you than losing my life. Will you be jealous if I am with Vince ?
    The image replied, You decide. It’s your race, Harlan.
    At my feet was a piece of green glass, smoothed by waves.
    God, what is Your truth? Is it the terrifying things written in Your book? Or is it what I feel in my heart?
    God didn’t say a word. Only the gulls were mewing.
    I picked up the beach glass, and slipped it in the pouch of my sweat shirt.
    First, a few minutes of stretching. Then I broke into a gentle run, and headed east along the shore.
    I was an easy target for that second sniper, if he was sitting in the dunes right now. Then... screw the crosshairs, I thought. Nobody was chasing me except my own mind. Yes, that was my race. Trying to kick past Billy’s ghost. His image had become a monster that symbolized the hate of the gay-hunters, the pain of loss. I had to get ahead of the monster.
    Two miles out, I turned back where the ribs of a wrecked clipper ship poked from the sand. On the way back, somebody’s Doberman snarled at