The Front Runner

concerned. They're perfectly willing to cut off their noses to spite their faces."
    We sat silent. Bruce was morosely playing with pieces of drying-up Italian bread on the tablecloth. Nearly everybody had left, and the waiters were taking down the mike. At the bar outside, a few lingered—we could hear them laughing uproariously.
    "Harlan," said Aldo, "I don't like to ask you, but is it true, about you and Billy?"
    "Of course it's true." I was so mad that I could say it, finally.
    Bruce and Aldo both studied my face. "You must be out of your mind," said Aldo softly.
    "I was, for a while there. I fought my feelings for him for four months. It wasn't doing either of us any good. I finally decided that society has no right to deny me a mate. They all have mates. You guys have mates. Animals have mates. Even the goddamn bacteria have mates. Why should I be alone?"
    "Has either of you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist?" asked Bruce.
    "You guys don't read the papers. The psychiatrists are starting to come around. A lot of them don't think it's a mental illness any longer. They look at it as an alternative."
    Aldo snorted. "Go tell that to Mr. Track Fan. He pays his five bucks to see the pure red-blooded American boy run the mile. He doesn't pay it to see no fairies."
    "Have you had any reaction from Billy's parents?" asked Bruce. "They must be furious."
    "The kid's father is gay," Aldo said. "They all know that too."
    "Jesus," muttered Bruce. The idea of a gay father was totally new to him.
    "And Billy's father approves, if you want to know," I said.
    They were silent for a moment. Then Aldo said, "Then the thing at Penn State . . . you gotta pardon me for bringing it up ... but you must have been guilty."
    "No, I wasn't," I said.
    "Well, they don't know that." Aldo waved his hand at the empty restaurant, conjuring up the men who'd just left. "Their imaginations are just running wild.
    They're wondering how many teams you've slept your way through."
    "The only athlete I ever slept with is Billy. But I suppose they won't believe that either."
    Was it possible that I was saying these things? Right over this restaurant table? Was it possible that strangers would dare to sermonize to me about my right to love someone?
    "No, they certainly won't," said Aldo. "For instance . . ." He started getting all steamed up again. "What really set everybody off was the four of you traveling around Europe together. They just assume, that you're carrying on with all three of them."
    "Did it ever occur to them that maybe Billy and I don't merely go to bed together? That we love each other?" I was really getting mad now. "That neither of us wants anybody else? Do they know so little about human nature?"
    "You're the one's a dummy about human nature," said Aldo. "They want to think the worst. And then when you got back, that thing in Time about that party you were at. To them that was the last straw. They all know about Steve Goodnight, and that he writes dirty books about boys. The fact that you and Billy had the chutzpah to appear in public in this guy's company, it was just too much."
    "There were a whole lot of straight celebrities at that party, and a lot of society people."
    "That's not the point, and you know it."
    "Steve's book isn't dirty. It's a work of art."
    "What do you know about art?" said Aldo. "You don't know the Mona Lisa from a Marlboro ad."
    "I don't know about art. But I know about love. Steve is writing about love in that book."
    Aldo shook his head uncomprehendingly. "Harlan, you're beyond me. You're really a changed man."
    "I am," I said. "And I'll tell you something else. And you can take it back and tell them. They are not going to stop Billy and Vince and Jacques from going to Montreal. In particular, they are not going to stop Billy. I will fight them every step of the way. The kid's father is one of the best civil-rights lawyers in the
    country. That means that if we have to fight them right up to the Supreme Court or something, we'll do that."
    We were now alone in the restaurant. The waiters were clearing up, rattling dishes, looking at us, wishing we'd leave.
    Aldo was looking at me searchingly. "Harlan, you're a brave, beautiful, Irish fool. You'll be all over the newspapers. You'll be roasted alive."
    "I mean it," I said. "Billy and I are fighting for our lives. Nobody is going to take him away from me. He's all I have, Aldo."
    "Christ," said Aldo, looking away. The heat of my feeling was beginning to