Harlan's Race

you were in TV ads, you would. They’ve won all kinds of awards for commercials. Paul Eckhardt’s the producer-director, and Darryl Fiske is the DP. They go to Dorothy’s church, Harlan. They want to be out in Hollywood... move over to long format — documentaries and features with serious gay themes.”
    “Why the hell would they hire a freshman like you?” ‘Because I made an appointment and charmed their butts off. They need somebody who can... do what I do. Make juju. Evolve into a casting director ... executive producer .... Anyway, it’s the first time I’ve ever been wanted for my mind, instead of my body. I’m gonna shoot, but it’s going to be film, man. Diamond bullets ... into people’s minds.”
    This statement was touching. “What’s your title?” I asked. “Assistant producer.”
    “Sounds impressive.”
    Vince laughed. “It’s not. I’m a script reader, editing assistant, gofer and best boy. But I get to learn on the job.” “Good for you,” I said, sounding like a father.
    ‘You should come to L.A. and visit the studio,” he said. “Paul and Darryl would love to meet you.”
    But he didn’t say he wanted to see me again. And I didn’t care to see him. Screw golden romance. Screw passion. No more 20-something guys for me. Better somebody my age, who was halfway sane and had some common sense — if there was such a man. My old high-school flame Chris would be my age. He’d seemed pretty sane in those days. Maybe I should summon the energy to look him up.
    Two weeks later, the hospital sent me home, and Chino went back to L.A. Dutifully I kept up the program of TB medication.
    My life was at a turning point. For the moment, my lungs were too weak for running. I felt strangely lost without running... spirits empty and flat. And right now, roughing it on Fire Island, or socializing in L.A., would tax me too much. So I dug up my passport — hadn’t used it since the European track tour with the three boys in ’75 — and flew to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
    For three weeks, Russell and I sat in the hot sun at his villa. I soaked in the healing rays, and swam in the pool, and ate wonderful Mexican food. We actually did get to be friends. Russell respected the line I’d drawn. Besides, he had broken some ribs in a fall with a horse, so he wasn’t in shape to wrestle anybody into bed.
    One day he leaned painfully from his deck-chair and fingered my gold ring.
    “You still with what’s his name—Vince?” he asked.
    I didn’t feel like explaining that it was Billy’s ring. “No. That’s over.”
    “Then why the ring?”
    I forced a grin. “Social protection.”
    Russell guffawed. “From what? You look like some married man who’s out for trade.”
    As spring neared, I felt strong enough to think about Los Angeles. I suspected that Vince wanted to improve his status at the studio by bringing me in. But then Paul Eckhardt himself called me at the villa — expressed interest in my writing, invited me to a get-acquainted meeting. I’d never written a screenplay, but wondered if I could learn.
    So Russell had his Lear jet fly me to Los Angeles.

SIXTEEN
    Spring 1980
    At Los Angeles airport, Vince was waiting in the boarding area — a dark, quiet figure in the crisscross of passengers.
    His eyes met mine, with the accusations still alive in them. Ever the shape-shifter, 28 now, he looked like a serious film-industry professional. Tote briefcase slung over his shoulder, heavy with scripts, reels, people’s head shots and what-not. He wore sunglasses, running shoes and slacks, and a designer T-shirt. His dark hair was yuppie short. And he looked very fit.
    As we left the terminal, there was edgy small-talk.
    “You look good,” I said. “Been running?”
    ‘Yeah. I’ve missed it.”
    “Run for fun?”
    “I belong to the gay track club. You know ... the L.A. Front Runners. The ones who’ve been asking for your help for years.”
    I ignored his dig.
    “Some people in the community are disgusted with you because you don’t take the podium,” Vince persisted. ‘You don’t lead. You don’t even help.”
    “I’m no good on the podium if I don’t have anything to say.”
    As we crossed the street, Vince frowned at my own fashion look. “Coach chic” was now “bay-man casual”. Steve’s old Abercrombie & Fitch jacket. Spit-polished cowboy boots. The beaded belt of Steve’s that I loved. My hair and beard were trimmed, but pirate-length.
    “Your sugar daddy