The Front Runner

out. I sat watching them pass the lounge door, shaking with nervousness. Then I saw Billy.
    He came walking slowly through the lobby, alone, hands in pockets, wearing an abstracted air. He was wearing his most tattered jeans, a washed-out purple jersey, his eternal worn-out Tigers, and a $150 jacket of brown split-suede that his father had given him
    for his last birthday. As a concession to anonymity, he had on dark glasses. With an aimless air, he stopped in front of the billboard announcing the coming attraction. a revival of Last Tango in Paris. Gravely he studied Marlon Brando as he grappled with his teenage daemon. He did not see me.
    My muscles started to slump with relief. I was just getting up when I overheard the two strange gays talking excitedly.
    "Look, that's Billy Sive," said the swimmer.
    "Darling, I can't believe it."
    "It's him. I saw him close up at the Garden."
    "And he's alone, darling. He must have broken up with what's his name, the coach."
    "God, he's beautiful," said the swimmer softly.
    He got up, his eyes fixed on Billy. I knew he was going to cruise him. My first impulse was to walk over there and break his thoroughbred neck. Then a base thought entered my mind. I would try to watch what happened, and stay out of sight, and see if Billy would let himself be picked up.
    Billy turned away from the billboard and pushed out through the glass doors. The swimmer followed, while his friend stayed sipping coffee. As casually as I could, I went out on the street. I could see then-two heads among the people milling outside. My hands were clammy with the sweat of fear.
    Billy was already halfway down the block, ambling sadly along, not looking at anything, his uncombed hair blowing in the spring sunshine. The swimmer came up by him, walked at his side, spoke to him. Billy didn't look at him, just hunched his shoulders, and kept going. The swimmer laid his hand on Billy's arm. Billy shook it off.
    They reached the corner. The swimmer was still talking and put his hand on Billy's arm again. This time Billy turned swiftly on the swimmer, his fists clenched, and even from thirty feet away I could see the hostile expression in his eyes. The swimmer shrugged and turned back toward the theater, passing me.
    Billy stepped off the curb and started across the street. He hadn't noticed that the light was red. A
    battered yellow cab was speeding along the crosstown street toward him. He didn't see it.
    I sprang forward, yelling, "Billy!" I could see him lying terribly injured on the street, legs shattered. I could see an ambulance screaming with blinking red lights.
    The cab screeched to a halt just four feet from Billy's uninsured million-dollar injury-free legs. It skidded a little sideways, the smoking tires leaving black skidmarks on the street. Billy started a little and jumped sideways.
    The cabbie leaned out the window. "Mutha-fuckin cock-sucka! Why doncha watch where ya goin?"
    Billy raised his middle finger at the cabbie, and ambled on across the street.
    "Billy!" I yelled again, now on the corner. He heard me and turned. I ran across the street while the light was still red, narrowly missing getting hit myself.
    He was waiting for me by a florist on the corner. We stood looking at each other. Hot sweat poured down my body under my clothes at the thought of how the cab might have hit him. I felt so ashamed that I had thought he would walk off with that swimmer. I tried to put my hand on his arm. But his eyes were somber and reproachful, and he shook it off.
    We walked along the avenue in the sunshine, jostled by shoppers.
    "Look," said Billy, "we can't go on if you're going to treat me like this. You're afraid of losing me, but you're creating a situation where you might."
    "Don't threaten me," I said.
    "It's not a threat. It's a fact. If you don't believe in me, how can we love each other?"
    He stopped and faced me amid the afternoon strollers. We were speaking in low voices, but if we'd shouted, no one would have paid any attention. Stranger things happened on Manhattan streets than two gays having a domestic quarrel.
    "Look," he said, "if I could show you all the thoughts in my head, you wouldn't see anything there that would make you jealous."
    I was feeling more and more ashamed.
    We were walking again, toward Fifth Avenue.
    "What can I do to make you more sure?" he said. "Whatever works, I'll do it. I don't care what it is. I just don't want to have these fights with you."
    We went along Fifth