The Front Runner

really preferred to talk about sport, chess, yoga, rock music, politics, the weather, life and other things. Suddenly the little group of devoted friends around him had swollen to hundreds, of both sexes.
    The media were already getting bored with all the rumors of bombings, and they sought out Billy for a little bright copy. The athletes' and the media's warm feelings spread to the spectators. Shortly he was the most popular, most talked-about athlete at the Games.
    As I watched it happening, it seemed like a miracle to me. After all the brutality we'd been through, it seemed like everyone's hearts were suddenly being touched with grace.
    Billy went wild in the Olympic village, and I let him. He was living as he'd always dreamed of doing.
    He had overcome the fury by nonviolence and compassion. He was out front, running free. He was accepted for what he was. He was even valued now, as someone who might speak for a whole universe of human feeling that had been denied. It was so ironic that, after all the efforts to keep him away from the Games, he should become their central figure.
    He was everywhere at once. He was playing chess with Armas Sepponan. He was in the Village record shop buying records. He was in the shoe shops trying on new track shoes (and refusing gift pairs). He was walking through the village holding hands with the black African runners (who hold hands with everybody because that's their custom). He was working out on the track with athlete friends jokingly yelling "Go Beelee" from the sidelines. He was holed up in the dorm having serious human discussions with people.
    He spent a lot of time in the discotheque, and danced so much that Gus Lindquist complained. The British and European girl athletes were crazy about him, and fought to dance with him. It was that phenomenon of the straight female finding the unavailable macho gay so irresistible.
    British girl miler Rita Hedley told the press that she was hopelessly in love with him. "He's the sexiest man I've ever met," she said, "and the closest I can get is dancing."
    Billy was very nice to Rita, very gentle, and danced with her to her heart's content. One evening when I was able to visit the Village, I got to see them.
    The discotheque was jam-packed, and most of the dancers on the floor had drawn aside to watch Billy and Rita going at it. Rita had on a midi-length red jersey dress that showed off her litheness. Billy was wearing faded bellbottoms, and an ancient T-shirt that said KEEP ON TRUCKIN', and he was irresponsibly, gloriously barefoot. Both their bodies were grinding, snapping, whipping, twitching. It was sexual, but also —somehow—pure and joyous. There was that gulf between them. She was dancing at Billy, but without hope. He was dancing at himself and me.
    Vince and I stood there watching, as the crush of
    young athletes around the sidelines stomped, clapped, whistled and demonstrated their enthusiasm. Several of the other dancers were imitating Billy's style.
    Vince was shaking his head. "The whole goddamn place is doing the boogie," he said. "Do you think they know what kind of a dance that is?"
    "He's started a fad," I said.
    We stood there being very amused.
    Billy saw us there and threw us a theatrical wink. The crowd roared with laughter.
    "Move it, Billy!" Vince called. "Shake it!"
    "Aren't you jealous, Harlan?" asked a Canadian hammer-thrower.
    "Jealous?" I said. "What for?"
    When the music stopped, Billy and Rita came walking over. Rita gave an ironic little bow in my direction, as if to say that she was returning Billy unharmed to my custody.
    Vince went wild at the Games too, but it was a different wildness.
    The press, and the gays in Montreal, were aware of his presence there. He was becoming a kind of anti-hero—the one who had been cut down so unjustly. He followed the track and field events, and Billy's performances, with melancholy avidness. Training little now, he put in a couple of token miles around the area daily, and that was it.
    In the evenings, when I was talking on the phone to Billy, Vince would plunge off into the night life of Montreal. He had blossomed out in a black leather cap with a gold chain on it, and seemed bent on tricking with every gay in central Canada.
    What worried me most, though, was that he was drinking. I reminded him as diplomatically as possible of what hard liquor can do to an athlete's blood vessels.
    "Oh," he said carelessly, "I'm just a little depressed and blowing off steam.