Harlan's Race

things you know... the perspective that you have,” said Paul. “We young queers need the gay men and lesbians like you.”
    “I’ll think about it,” I hedged.
    They were all working hard to shoot diamond bullets. What was I doing? Still running from that .22 Magnum.
    Vince had his own tiny apartment, in a duplex next door to Paul’s and Darryl’s house on Rosewood Avenue. This was a quiet West Hollywood residential street, with modest stucco homes jammed side by side. I’d be sleeping at Paul’s and Darryl’s. That evening, their patio “soiree” was crowded with film people aged 20 to 35, all bright-eyed as baby kittens. Everybody was eating in the new health style — drinking juice and spritzers, noisy with shop talk. As I walked in, everyone went quiet, like I was a wild bull elephant looming into their space.
    The reception nonplused me. “Uh ... hi, everybody,” I said.
    “Hi, Harlan,” they all chorused.
    My old pirate eyes roved their eager young faces. In 1974, six years ago, when I had fallen in love with Billy, many of these kids were in high school. A lump swelled in my throat.
    Chino called to say tersely that he wasn’t coming.
    “But I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow morning,” he said.
    Late, after everyone else left, Vince lingered to talk with me, briefcase slung over his shoulder. From the darkened patio deck where the two of us stood, Paul’s and Darryl’s silhouettes could be seen through the kitchen window. They’d sent home the caterers, and were doing some last cleanup themselves. Paul gave Darryl a peck on the cheek. Darryl rubbed Paul’s back.
    I felt cold as ice. Vince shuffled his feet like a kid.
    “Hey,” he said, “why don’t you go out with the Front Runners tomorrow morning? We run together in Griffith Park.”
    “I’m not in shape.”
    “The next Memorial 5-K is going to be bigger and better. I’m race director, and I want to make it a primo event. Maybe you’d get involved this time. The club would love that.”
    “Another time,” I said.
    He shrugged, looking down. A sudden wind had come up, and the palms gnashed their fronds together in that strange night sky so full of color and sound. Slowly Vince’s hand reached into his briefcase, and pulled out Billy’s track shoe.
    “You were right,” he said softly. “I would have made a terrible terrorist.”
    He put the shoe in my hand.
    I stood there turning it over and over, feeling numb at this surprise victory. What did he want to do — grab a lifejacket from the sinking Titanic of our affair? The moment passed, and he turned away.
    Did he hope I’d call him back again? I didn’t. He walked away into the swaying palm shadows.
    Next morning, over coffee, Paul said, “Don’t forget us. You have family to step into, here in L.A.” “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think about your offer.”
    About a quarter of nine, Chino braked his Land Rover at the curb with a screech. He was unshaven, hollow-eyed. Blankets and clothes were stowed neatly in the back. As I climbed in, I could feel how my best friend was hanging on by fingers that were trembling and tired. One slip, a theft that cost him the vehicle and weapons, and he might let go
    — plummet away from us, down into the river of homeless vets on the L.A. streets.
    We went to the West Hollywood Athletic Club, where he put in a hard workout — too hard. It felt like he wanted to melt down thought in the fire of effort. From there, cleaned up, we went to Venice Beach, his favorite place to get away from everybody. We sat in an outdoor restaurant on the strand, and ate steak and eggs and salsa and fries, then stared at the ocean, past the skate-boarders and ladies walking their dogs. I wondered if he’d open up to me, about Vietnam. A tense and tender silence shimmered between us. Those energies around him, that ate the sunlight, were enough to drive away anybody — even an old buddy like Harry. I was another black hole. How could I do anything for him?
    We walked on the beach, and he complained about his scalp feeling tight. So I had him sit on the sand, and I kneeled behind him and massaged his head for a while, till his tense burning scalp loosened up a little.
    He didn’t close his eyes, or relax his neck into my hands, but he did murmur, “Caramba ... you’re good.”
    “As a coach, I was a licensed masseur — I’d better be good.”
    ‘Where are you going from L.A.?”
    “Back to the Beach.”
    “Why are you hanging onto Fire