The Front Runner

the lawn. But because of the rain, the officials adjourned it to a nearby bar on Broadway.
    So everybody packed into the bar. The runners were dry and clean and bundled into sweats or regular clothes, their hair wet, their faces glowing. Hot coffee and tea were being served by the race committee. There were a couple of cardboard boxes of ham and bologna sandwiches, and the runners were all fishing into them hungrily. Everybody was relaxed, laughing, talking about their injuries and illnesses and how out of shape they were, and the usual bunch of lies.
    Finally Billy came in, in his usual floppy bellbot-toms and his Prescott blazer, his hair clean and wet and somewhat combed. The reporters wouldn't even let him get close to the tea urn—they backed him into a corner and asked him their questions, and he was very affable and relaxed with them.
    Finally the race director got up, the talking shushed, and the director made a pleasant little speech. The first three finishers came up, and he handed them the trophies, and everybody clapped. Billy was given a big, handsome, sterling silver bowl, while flash cameras went off, and the other two guys got smaller bowls. Billy came back to us lugging it, stopping to talk to a couple of people. The soft glowing expression on his face told me that he'd had a good time that afternoon, which was just what I'd wanted.
    Jacques clapped him on the shoulder, and Vince inspected the bowl. "Silver . . . they must have known you'd win," Vince said. Silver is for Virgos. We all laughed.
    The metropolitan media left, but there were still quite a number of people around us, when another reporter stepped up, followed by his photographer. "I'm Ken McGill of the National Intelligencer," he said pleasantly. "Could I ask you a few questions?"
    "Sure," said Billy. He was squatting on the floor, trying to fit the trophy into his gear bag, but it was too big.
    A little warning buzzer at the back of my mind
    sounded. The Intelligencer was a tabloid, and not overly interested in sports.
    "There's been a lot of rumors going around about you," said McGill.
    "Oh yeah?" said Billy, still holding the bowl. He must have picked up my thought, because he suddenly looked watchful.
    "You have a reputation for answering questions very frankly," said McGill.
    Billy now knew what was coming, and so did I. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Jacques' and Vince's smiles had disappeared.
    "Like ... what do you want to know?" said Billy.
    "The rumor mill says you're a queer," said McGill.
    The group around us went dead silent. Elsewhere in the bar, the talking and laughing and milling around seemed suddenly loud by contrast. A number of runners were still bent around the officials, getting their official times off the long long list of damp sheets.
    Billy straightened up slowly, his face suddenly cold and set and defiant. He had gone white around the nostrils. He looked down at five-foot-seven McGill from his five-foot-eleven with his terrible clear eyes for several long moments. McGill met his gaze boldly, earnestly.
    In all fairness to McGill, he was not obnoxious. He had been sent to get a story, and he was getting it.
    "The right word is gay," said Billy.
    "Let's compromise and call it homosexual," said McGill.
    I felt a slow, sad sinking of my stomach. A fine tremor started to spread along my arms and legs.
    Billy smiled a little. "I think you're funny," he said. "I really haven't made any secret about being gay. What's the big deal?"
    McGill looked at Vince and Jacques. "I understand you two are homosexuals also. Is that true?"
    "That's right," said Vince. Jacques nodded his head slowly, looking down.
    The group around us were frozen, mouths open. More and more people were getting up and coming over. Then McGill's eyes came to rest on me.
    "Harlan," he said, "the rumor mill says ..."
    In my anger and my pain at the way he'd questioned the boys, I cut him off short. The words came so easily that I hardly thought about them.
    "Save your fucking breath," I said. "I'm as gay as they are."
    Betsy thrust forward, her chin out. "You forgot me," she blazed at McGill. "I'm a gay woman."
    Aldo pushed through the group, and was about to grab the reporter by the lapel. "It's none of your goddamn business," he said. Vince was also moving toward McGill in a very threatening manner.
    I grabbed both Vince's and Aldo's arms. "Leave him alone," I said. "He's just trying to do his job." I looked at McGill. "Maybe you've got some