PART-3, PETER PARTY

The first two parts of "PETER PARTY" set the stage for the lethal, worldwide epidemic that few people understood in 1979.  Part three goes beyond homophobia and the painful struggle of one man.  It identifies the culprit that changed all sexuality before this mass murderer had a name.



                               *



Peter and Gregory were calling each other Dopey and Grumpy in anticipation of their two-day romp through Disneyland. They had no way of knowing their fun would be derailed in just a few hours.  
     In the hot, smoggy, Southern California sun, they were each toting bulky packages from the Lenox Shop.  Peter stopped, felt faint and dragged himself to a shaded picnic table. Confused, Gregory watched Peter swoon as his eyes roll up into his head. Gregory propped him up for ten seconds.  In a panic, he slapped Peter.

Disoriented, Peter moaned, “Was I out long?” 

Gregory gasped, “I’m getting help.”

Between coughs, Peter woozily called out, “Where’s my Lenox?

Later after some rest and superficial treatment, Peter was discharged from the first aid station.  In a courtesy wheelchair, a teenage hostess pushed Peter out of the park with his cherished, glass, "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," figurines on his lap.



                          *

                    

   On the afternoon of the “Leather and Lace Ball,” Peter rang our bell. Toby opened the door.  He was leaning against the exterior wall, frozen pathetically in a frail posture with facial bruises and cuts.  She ushered him in and ran for her medical kit.  Stu lectured him about dumping Gregory as listless Peter plopped into the Frobel's La-Z-Boy recliner.

Toby was swabbing Mercurochrome on his injuries when I mentioned to Stu, “Toby’s very nurturing.  She’ll be a great mom.”  
Stu responded with a harsh dirty look.

I suddenly realized that having children was a touchy subject as Peter struggled to catch his breath, “It w-w-was like that scene in ‘Psycho.’ Gregory came after me with my twelve-inch serrated chef’s knife.”

     Stu bellowed, “How much did you give him this time?”

     “Nothing,” Peter said, “I told him to kill me...that way he won’t get any of my money.  I said the Union 76 station was hiring and that pumping gas would be good for what's left of his soul."
     I said, "Good for you."
     Peter said, "No. The lout cut the wires off my stereo and threw it in my car. I tried to stop him when he came back for the speakers but he knocked me down.  Gregory came back again with an empty oilcan carton.  He probably found that disgusting box in the trash and crudely threw my new Disney Lenox in it. I grabbed his arm and he attacked me.  He’s probably at a pawn shop right now.”

While Peter was recuperating Toby sighed, “I gotta go, I promised to help Larry-Wayne dress for the ball.”

Peter gasped, “I’ll be okay.  You don’t want to keep our prima donna drag queen waiting.”    

Glossy-eyed Peter looked terrible but he was anxious to be apprised of Larry-Wayne's metamorphosis.  He called his apartment three times for updates. Finally, Toby took the phone off the hook. 

     Peter managed to stand.  He paced for a minute like an expectant father until collapsing back into the chair. He blew his nose and complained about dizziness until falling asleep. 

I ran some errands.  Two hours later I found Peter snoring in the same spot.  
He woke up as Toby triumphantly returned.  She opened the door and arranged Peter, Stu and I on the sectional sofa.  She began humming the “Miss America” theme but Larry-Wayne wasn’t responding to his cue. 

In a singsong voice Toby called out, “Hortense honey, your public awaits.” 
Larry-Wayne appeared in the doorway in a Garbo-like pose.  He entered in white pumps and struggled with his balance to gracefully pass us in heels.

Stu commented, “Hey lady, you’re the best dressed guy here.”

Larry-Wayne was wearing an ankle-length; ecru gown with lacy edging that Toby found at Goodwill. She altered this backless frock that now featured a provocative slit up the front.  His ensemble was accessorized with elegant, long white gloves and costume jewelry.

Larry-Wayne tried to be campy but he was also bursting with pride.  He stumbled through the living room, completed a loop via the kitchen and gave us a congenial wave as he passed the transom.

“What do you think?” Toby crowed.

Peter said, “Lovely. But he is going to shave?”

“Yes,” Larry-Wayne said impatiently with a little stomp of his foot. “My face, but not the mustache.”

Sensing Larry-Wayne was getting defensive Toby injected, “Just wait till I finish his make-up.”

“If those gloves were a little longer,” Stu mused.  “Your arm hair wouldn’t show.”

I had no relationship with Larry-Wayne but I thought it was harmless to add, “For such a special occasion, a nice girl would shave her back.”

Annoyed, Larry-Wayne put his foot on the coffee table and said, “Do you think I should shave my legs too?”

From a foot away we looked at his overly hairy leg.  Slowly the gap in the material parted as his dress’ slit widened past his knee until his exposed penis was staring us in the face.

     Simultaneously Stu and I rose to scream our disapproval.  Larry-Wayne felt threatened. He jumped out of his high-heels and ran, laughing all the way back to his apartment.

                              *

That night, Toby, Stu and I got to Peter’s cocktail party fashionably late. His apartment was crammed with gays in masquerade costumes.  Larry-Wayne, fully made-up and resplendent in dazzling, faux, gold earrings grabbed a copper soup tureen and started banging it with a wooden spoon.

     “Announcement, announcement,” he decreed while motioning towards Peter. 
Peter was not dressed for the occasion.  Instead, on this warm night, he wore jeans and a cable-knit sweater. He staggered to his feet at the kitchen table.  He looked worse since the afternoon because I noticed darker hollow pockets under each eye and his lesion-like pimple was bigger and contrasted his ghostly pale face.

Peter was shivering as he squinted and pointed to us in the cluttered doorway.  
In a weakened, yet dignified tone he uttered, “These are my straight friends, please don’t hit on them.”

Ostracized, Gregory sat alone in the furthest corner of the room swilling beer.  In the kitchen, Larry-Wayne was stirring his version of bug juice as his latest pretty-boy pawed at his posterior.

Peter whispered to the Frobels, “I’m feel awfully sick...I’m not going to the ball.”

     Stu joked, “What is it...Irritated Bowel Syndrome?”

     “No silly. I’m having trouble...” After muffling a cough Peter panted, “I’m having trouble breathing.”

Suddenly, Larry-Wayne more emphatically banged the copper tureen and screamed, “Emergency, emergency! Fuckin’ Gregory threw fuckin' acid in the fuckin' punch.”

To the distinct clinking sound of glasses being set down, fleeing Gregory pushed through the throng on his way out. Seconds later as the sound of beer bottles being twisted open filled the air, everyone’s attention went to the kitchen table. Peter had fallen off his chair and lost consciousness. Stu tried to resuscitate him but Peter wasn’t responding to his amateurish try. 

     In an attempt to assure everyone Peter was okay and to clear the room Stu broadcasted, “You go ahead. Peter’ll catch up soon.” 

     Stu and I, with a great sense of urgency carried the limp body to Frobel’s car.  I was left to close up the apartment as Toby and Stu sped Peter off to Valley Hospital.

    

                              *

In his three days in the hospital, Gregory never visited or called. On the fourth day, Toby, Stu and I were shocked to find out that Peter Party succumbed to what was diagnosed as walking pneumonia. 
     A week later, Larry-Wayne told Toby about the autopsy results.  He also said that Gregory was not only interrogated by the police but they did a criminal investigation on him.  There was no evidence of foul play so charges were never filed.  Even the tainted bug juice wound up being a hoax.

                         *

An over-flow crowd lined the perimeter of Peter’s non-sectarian funeral. The mortuary’s assistant director was conducting a dispassionate eulogy as a murmur filled the air. Distracted, most eyes turned off the speaker as intoxicated Gregory brusquely entered the standing-room-only chapel. 

Sloppily attired, wearing army fatigue pants and his new purple tie-dyed Mickey Mouse tee shirt, Gregory stumbled forward. The disruption continued as he loudly struggled to find a seat.  Eventually, at the front row, Gregory rudely jammed in next to Larry-Wayne.  Larry-Wayne shunned him and got up to stand against the far sidewall.

Upon finishing his tribute, the assistant director individually called five others to the rostrum to say some benevolent words.  Larry-Wayne was the last of these people.  
Larry-Wayne was not a gifted public speaker. He bent down until his lips almost touched the microphone’s bulbous end while grasping its long shaft with his right hand.  Larry-Wayne contorted his body to read directly from his prepared text.  He recognized his futility, looked away from his index cards and leered at Gregory. 
In that awkward moment, Larry-Wayne took a deep breath and stammered, “B-b-bad things happen to n-nice people.”

Larry-Wayne couldn't continue.  He sobbed as the gallery gaped at Gregory.  Pressured, Gregory hustled towards the exit.

     Larry-Wayne ripped the microphone from its mooring, pointed at escaping Gregory and cried, “And good things happen to bad people!”

                              *

The reading of the will took place at the law offices of Dewey, Horowitz and Howe.  Along with a stenographer, Executor Jerome Horowitz sat on one side of an oblong conference table. Opposite him were Peter’s uncle and his lawyer who had flown in from Cannon Falls, Minnesota.  To their left was Larry-Wayne.  At each end of the table was a conservatively dressed stranger.

At precisely 10:00AM, Horowitz welcomed everyone and introduced himself.  He expressed his sympathies, checked his watch and asked the stenographer if she was ready.

“It doesn’t look as if anyone else is coming,” Horowitz stated.  “This will is uncomplicated and I anticipate our meeting will be brief.” 

After some ancillary details were addressed, tension filled the room as the reading started.  The Frobel's were included in a short group of uninvited friends and associates who were given $25,000.

     “To Laurence Wayne Tate,” Horowitz continued. A list of thirty semi-precious and household items were read into the record.

     The solemn mood was broken as the room's polished oak door slowly opened.  Gregory wistfully poked his head in.  Holding a safari hat, he sheepishly entered wearing the same camouflage pants from the funeral and a florescent lemon-yellow Izod shirt.  Gregory, beaming haughtily, settled himself between the stranger at the far right and Peter’s uncle.

Horowitz cleared his throat to diplomatically signal for decorum and continued, “Additionally, I entrust to Mr. Tate, the responsibility and well being of my cat, Precocious.”  
Gregory leaned forward and caught eye contact with uneasy Larry-Wayne.

“To defray costs and to properly support this endeavor,” Horowitz concluded, “I bequeath to Mr. Tate the sum of $100,000.00.”  
Gregory, who had collected on Peter’s $100,000.00 life insurance policy earlier in the week, cockily stared at Larry-Wayne.  Intimidated, the recipient didn’t notice Gregory curl his lower lip and nod as if to say, not bad.

     Horowitz cleared his throat and stated, “To Gregory Yale Billingsley, I leave my cremains.”  From a cabinet behind him, the lawyer produced an ornate bronze urn.  He said to Gregory, “I will discuss privately the manner in which Peter's ashes are to be dispersed.”  Horowitz added, “Moreover, I bequeath to Mr. Billingsley $100,000.00 and the remainder of my worldly possessions.”

There was a brief moment of quiet before Gregory jumped out of his seat and cried, “That’s it...a hundred fuckin' G's?”

     Horowitz resembled a judge as he pounded the table with his palm and demanded, “Sit!” 
     It was now Peter’s uncle and to a lesser extent, his counselor’s turn to smirk.

Greater apprehension filled the room as Horowitz deliberately rearranged his papers before announcing, “And in finality.”

Peter’s uncle, smelling blood, lurched forward and greedily glowed in anticipation. Gregory, feeling robbed of the bulk of Peter’s fortune muttered profanities as he listened intently.  Uncertain, Larry-Wayne looked out the window and worried about having to be chained to the cat.  And bereft of emotion, the two polarized strangers idly observed.

     Horowitz repeated, “In finality... I leave the remainder of my estate, in excess of $672,000.00, to be divided evenly with the Las Vegas ASPCA and the Nevada Burn Victims Fund.”

     Wailing, Peter’s uncle ranted into the Horowitz’ face as his attorney spouted legal precedent. 

The two strangers were calmly shaking hands when Horowitz again pounded his table and asserted, “This will is valid and incontestable.  These proceedings are over.”

                          *

Gregory took a cab to a bar.  Alone, in a quiet alcove, he set Peter's cremains on the table and thought about lawyer’s suggestion to “discreetly” spread Peter’s ashes throughout Disneyland.
     He was wasted when he took another taxi home. Instead of walking towards the path that led to his apartment, Gregory went two-hundred feet out of his way.  At a dumpster, he callously tossed in Peter’s funerary canister. 

Inside the apartment, Gregory immediately telephoned a used furniture store and began a week-long process of liquidating everything...even articles earmarked for Larry-Wayne.  It wouldn’t matter because Larry-Wayne had already came, packed his scant belongings and left with no intention of returning.  
Two days later, Larry-Wayne realized he "forgot" the cat but didn't care. He had no way of knowing but the issue of caring for Precocious was moot because Gregory had already poisoned it.  Poetically, Peter’s ashes and his cat’s remains were interred in the same garbage heap.

                         *

Displaying similar symptoms as Peter, three other attendees of his funeral soon died.  The authorities never linked Gregory to what would become a rapidly developing global epidemic.

                         *

In 1983, I put a TV talk show on in the middle of a stand-up comedian’s routine.  He joked that he had AIDS. I had never heard the term. 

The comic finished his act by saying, “So I told my mother, don’t worry I’m not gay...I’m Haitian.”  I didn’t understand but the audience responded as if it was the funniest thing they ever heard.

                              *

In the style of a wealthy vagabond, Gregory, a carrier of the deadly disease, crisscrossed the country infecting countless men with Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.

Thirty-five years later, no longer sexually active, “healthy” Gregory lives a comfortable, eccentric hermit's life, in Key West.



                              *



By 2016, it was estimated that 36.7 million men, women and children have died from Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS).  Since awareness has risen and treatment options have improved, the numbers have decreased.  However, there's still no cure.
Through education, the public has a better understanding that AIDS victims are not singularly homosexual.  So while the percentage of ignorant, intolerant people may have decreased over time, the sheer number of them still see the gays as pariahs.
We all have freewill. So whether you support the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender (LGBT) community or not, we should respect everyone's right to choose what's right for them. Yes, gays do live difficult lives. 

PART-2, PETER PARTY

In PART-1 of this story, homophobia and the general attitude towards gays in the late-1970's were addressed.   
     PART-2 will now discuss the tendency of the straight community to forget that gays aside from their sexuality, have the same wants, needs and aspirations as they have.
     Before the reader finishes this section, the inevitability of PART-3 will be obvious.



                               * 



Ciro drove us to the party at Stu Frobel's apartment. 

Along the way, I was thinking of the Spear’s when I commented, “You’ll know this place is a real shit-box if I don’t move in.”

The Flamingo Royale Apartments was a beautifully landscaped series of four, three-tiered units with their own grassy, chaise lounge-filled courtyard and pool. A fifth, premium-priced section that included the management office, clubhouse with a gym, lit tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, Jacuzzi, sauna and laundry room was in the center.

Stu Frobel's place was in an outer arm of the complex.  From the parking lot, Ciro and I were easily attracted to unit #65 by an invisible divining rod that used raucous music and the alluring aroma of barbecue.

     Stu, with an Italian sub in hand, saw me turn into his courtyard.  He waved us over and handed Ciro and me a Mason jar.    

     He pointed to a plastic tub filled with icy liquor and floating fruit chunks, “Try the bug-juice.”

Over thirty people were dancing, swimming and laughing. Tipsy Stu introduced us as we mingled through his neighbors.  

I nudged Ciro, “Just like the parties Hal Spear would throw.”

“C’mon,” Stu said as he handed us each a burger, “follow me.”

     Inside his apartment, we met his wife Toby.  I soon found out that she was friendly, quick-witted and intelligent...and another fellow New Yorker, (Flushing Queens). 

     Toby (27) was over-qualified at a furniture store where she put in beaucoup hours and netted a scant living as a commissioned salesperson.  At a hundred thirty-five pounds, Toby was a squat five-foot-two.  She had long stringy auburn hair, wild reddened eyes and a set of blackened teeth that caused her to avoid smiling.

     Before giving us the grand tour, Toby handed Stu a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres and said, “Bring these out.” 
I soon realized that the only thing better than her personality; was the spacious living quarters that she was offering me. 

                              *

Back at poolside, Toby called over a thin man in his late twenties.  This cheerful fellow was wearing a tawny, yellow polo shirt with a solid red bandana, tied like the letter “X” around his neck. A small dark pimple on his cheek distracted an otherwise immaculate, pale complexion. 

Toby teased, “Somebody has that freshly laid look about him.”  He blushed with a swishy head shake conveying that nothing could be further from the truth.

“This is Peter, from two doors down,” she said. “We call him Peter Party because this shindig isn’t shit compared to the bashes he throws.” 

     Dainty Peter dipped his jar into the punch for a taste and in an effeminate voice pouted, “Ugh, it’s so watery.”

Purposefully, he scooted off to his apartment and returned with partial bottles of grain alcohol and vodka. Peter victoriously emptied their contents into the mixture.

     He sampled the concoction and throatily uttered, “Much better.”

     “Peter I love your bandana,” Toby said as she sipped from her Grateful Dead coffee mug.  “Is it new?”

     “Yes I just got it,” he answered. “Actually, it’s a neckerchief.”

     Stu, between hiccups interrupted, “I thought it was a ribbon.” 
We all laughed.

     Peter huffed, “I’m exhausted. I must sit down.”  He was singing, “Tie a Red Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree,” as he pranced away like a woodland sprite. At an umbrella table, he hugged and politely kissed a bare-chested, muscular, dark complected man with long black hair and sat down.

     Toby took Ciro and me away from the mainstream.  She rehashed the perks of living there and described where the amenities were.

     Ciro chimed in, “Dimi (his nickname for me) if you don’t move in, I’m breaking my fuckin’ lease.”

Toby went into a comical repartee that cut-up her neighbors with catty remarks. 

     “Who are our hosts?” I asked.

     “They left fashionably early,” she began. “The boyfriend showed us the sex toys they bought from the jackpot he hit. They’re probably neck-deep in tapioca trying them out right now.”

     We were all laughing as she continued, “Now ‘Mr. Red Ribbon’ on the other hand, he's a real sweetheart.”

     I said, “Peter?”

     Toby said, “Yeah.  He’s really loaded.  A few years back he inherited a ton of money.”

“Wow, that’s so cool,” Ciro said.

“Not exactly,” she whispered. “His folks were killed in a car accident back in Minnesota; his younger brother was badly burned.  The kid survived a couple of surgeries but died too. Later, some uncle had the brass balls to contest the will.  The asshole had no case but Peter’s sexuality was dragged through the mud. In such a small town, Peter’s life was in shambles so he moved here.”

Dumbfounded, Ciro and I gaped at each. 

“Peter doesn't need to work," Toby said, "but he likes being a maitre'd in one of the gourmet rooms at the Sands.”  She then pointed out a gaunt man with beady eyes sitting alone. “That’s Gregory (40)...” In a vexed manner she sneered, “That prick is Peter’s anti-social, unemployed other half.  He’s out of his mind. Nobody likes him.” 

“Sounds real wholesome,” I mused, “Peter’s folks would have been so proud.”

“It gets worse,” Toby said. “In their other bedroom, they have Larry-Wayne, another leech. It’s annoying to Peter that Larry-Wayne's a whore and brings home 'flavor of the week,' strays.”

Ciro and I laughed. 

“It’s not funny,” she asserted.  “Peter is a doll and pays all the bills. Those freeloaders do nothing but sponge-off him.”

My eye caught a tall, skinny, formless blond in a bulky, blue gingham bikini crossing in front of us.  Her face was gloomy, bony and plain.  She stood alone at the pool's edge and slugged down a giant cup of bug juice.  Seconds later, we watched her pound a second helping down her throat before sipping on another refill.

     “That’s Lona Ekadamitzky (25),” Toby said, “she’s a change-person at Sam’s Town. The poor girl is insecure and doesn’t say much. Her husband is always loudly accusing her of cheating on him.  But she’s not the type. That douche-bag is so stuck on himself that he takes her devotion for granted. Some bastards just feel better when they knock their women around.” 

Ciro broke the tension with an unintentional belch and asked, “Which of these geniuses is her husband?”

     “We won’t see him tonight, he’s working.  Horst deals BJ on swing shift at the Maxim.”

     “Horst Ekadamitzky!  What’s he a foreigner?” wondered Ciro.

     “Nah,” Toby shrugged, “he’s from Ohio.”

     Beyond Lona, near the diving board, two women were having a private conversation.  Suddenly the brunette rose up, removed her bikini top and dove into the pool.  The other hesitated and soon followed by doing a cannonball.  They were giggling and splashing each other when Lona, going with the trend undid her top, (revealing practically nothing). Unsteadily, the inebriated Lona jumped in.  She swam to the others who were now tightly embraced and kissing.

     Upon arrival, the couple's passion stopped to give Lona a dirty stare down.  Rejected, she slithered away. Before Lona could get a foothold on the ladder, the black-haired man who Peter sat with intercepted her. Lona covered her chest with her arms and crouched rigidly below the waterline.  Her frowning, undignified face was all we could see as he engaged her in a strained conversation. Lona was made more uncomfortable as he shortened the distance between them and lowered his body to be face to face with her.  She looked panic-stricken as he tenderly stroked her cheek. 

     The tension in her face eased into a blossoming smile. He pecked her cheek, kissed her neck and then her mouth.  Lona resisted for a few seconds until kissing him back.  Their fervor escalated. The pool wall obscured our vision but underwater, they were obviously pleasuring each other.

     Unashamed, topless Mona came out of the pool. In front of all those witnesses, they groped one another and passionately kissed while toweling each other off.  He was sporting an enormous cylindrical bulge in his crimson Speedos as they passed us, arm-in-arm. Lona grinned as her free hand decadently dragged her bikini top along the ground. 

Ciro said, "Ain't that the guy Peter kissed?"
I said, "Maybe Casanova plays for both teams?"
Frampton’s, “Show Me the Way” was blaring as Toby sighed, “She looks pretty.  But if one of these yentas blabs to Horst tomorrow, she'll look pretty messed up.” 
Seconds later, between the Frobel’s and Peter’s apartment, they vanished into unit #67...curiously, the door was left ajar.

     Despite being wasted, Ciro staggered over to peek through the open door. From the corner of the threshold, he made-out their bonded silhouette in the darkened kitchen.  Dissatisfied by the indistinguishable show, Ciro was about to leave when the refrigerator door opened. The man bent down and reached in. Ciro could see Lona, massaging his groin from behind.  He took out a bottle of Beck’s and turned to face Lona.  She took down his trunks.  The man spotlighted by the little fridge bulb was gulping beer as Lona enthusiastically performed oral sex.

     Ciro dashed away as they turned towards him.  He hid under the exterior staircase on the opposite side of the courtyard and childishly laid in wait. But the door never closed.  Ciro sensed it was safe and returned for another look.  He saw Lona kick off her bikini bottom and get carried over this man’s shoulder.  They were entering the bedroom when she got a stinging slap on her butt...Lona didn’t protest.

     Inexplicably, Ciro entered the Ekadamitzky's apartment.  Clouded by the bug juice, he assumed it was a “gang-bang.”  Ciro patiently waited his turn on the love seat.  Soon, he overheard their small talk evolve into moaning and eventually to the rhythm of the headboard slamming against the wall.

     At the same time, Toby and I were getting along like old friends.  I told her my situation with the Spear’s and she offered me the room for $130.00/month.  Before I could accept, she mentioned her babies: Spode, Colette and Smokey.

     “Because the window is always open for the cats,” she started, “you won’t have to pay any utilities.”  To seal the deal, I offered her my hand. Instead, she hugged me.

     Suddenly she pulled away and muttered, “Oh shit!”  
Frantically, she looked for Stu but it was too late; Horst was marching up from the parking lot.  Of German and Russian ancestry, Horst had an Aryan look and an unapproachable demeanor.  He had taken an “early-out” and was about to walk-in on Lona.

     Ciro, to pass the time, was cleaning under his fingernails with a key when Horst entered the quiet apartment.  Without challenging the stranger’s presence, stoic Ekadamitzky greeted Ciro with a nod before advancing through the darkness. 

Ciro was irked that this man was rifling through the kitchen cabinets like he owned the joint.

He was about to defend his place in line when Horst picked the cold, half-finished beer bottle off the counter and asked, “This yours?”                                                              Ciro shook his head as Horst opened the fridge.

The refrigerator light illuminated the floor. Horst discovered the black-haired man’s discarded, little red swimsuit.  He turned on the lights and was about to pounce on Ciro when the sound of the headboard smashing the wall started again.  At the same time under the coffee table, Horst noticed his wife’s bikini bottom; he charged into the bedroom.  Amid screaming, Ciro ran out towards the parking lot.  Seconds later, the black-haired man streaked past Toby and me holding his Speedos.
She said, "How do you guys run with something that big between your legs?"
I said, "I can't relate."                                       We laughed.

                               *

In my new room, Ciro and I slept the party off.  We were about to leave the next morning when Peter clutching his pedigreed Himalayan cat “Precocious,” knocked on the door.  He was bleeding from the mouth, had a fresh scratch on his forehead and his pimple was now a glistening open sore.

     Toby cried, “Did Gregory do this to you again?”

     Peter nodded as Stu said, “Did he want money?”

     Toby's motherly instinct held Peter close as he whimpered, “H-he used up all his allowance and had the audacity to ask for fifty more.  We all know why he wants it.  And I’m not paying him to cheat on me.”

     “Get rid of him,” Stu said.

     Peter gnashed his teeth, “Please, don’t tell me there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”  Stu was speechless as Peter looked his fluffy white cat in the eye and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll always be together. I know Gregory doesn’t have the same enthusiasm for monogamy as we do...but I love him.”

Precocious mewed.

“Besides,” Peter added, “he'd never really hurt me."
Stu said, "But..."
Peter cut him off, "I changed my will again."
Toby said, "No..."
Peter said, "Yes.  And this time I made him sole beneficiary.” 

Stu recognized the contradiction and went on to remind Peter of Gregory's beatings, the times he's been robbed and death threats.  Peter started crying.

I said, “C’mon, we gotta go.” 

In the car Ciro asked, “You don’t think Gregory has the balls to kill Peter for the money?”

I didn’t answer.

Instead I reflected on meeting Stu at the Fremont and said, “Gays do lead difficult lives.”

                              *       

I was happy the Spear’s weren’t home. I got ready for work, gathered my things and without complications left their apartment for the last time.

     The Fremont was four blocks from the El Cortez. On my first break, I hustled over to tell Hal what’s what and get my twenty dollar deposit back.  
     Luckily when I arrived, his table was standing dead. Hal was slunk low on his boxman’s stool, staring off into space. His dealers were chatting among themselves.  From their body language, I guessed that they didn’t like Hal. This was a great opportunity for me to say my peace, recover my money and get back to work.  He was intensely sucking a cigarette when his face brightened at seeing me.

     “Why didn’t you call.  We were worried,” he whined as he squashed out the last nub of his Old Gold into the full ashtray atop the chip bank.

     I owed him no explanation and said, “Oops.”

     “Who’s the lucky girl?” he probed.

To avoid conversation I said, “Hal, I have some news...”

     He cut me short and grumbled, “Suzie loves me fifth best.” 

     I should have just interrupted him; instead I shrugged.

     “Number five," he bellowed, "can you believe it?” .

     A dealer snickered, "No. Not again..."
     Hal plowed on, “She loves her mother, father, brother and even Arbuckle their ratty chihuahua better than me.”

     Impatiently I looked at my watch. 

     His voice cracked, “She left me! After nine years of bliss, she flew back to New York this morning.”

I was thinking; maybe it's because you’re an asshole but said, “She’s probably homesick.”

     In a clear and upbeat tone Hal changed the subject, “I hate to do this but with her out of the picture, you DO understand that I’m forced to jack-up your rent to $135.00...plus half the power bill.”

     Had he not been at work, I would have told him where he could shove his apartment, the two real palm trees and the grill “they” use for parties. Hal took my hesitation as a bargaining ploy. 

     Poker-faced with a long meaningful drag on a fresh cigarette he reasoned, “I know you’re short on dough.  I’ll make it an even buck and a quarter...and I’ll throw in the first two months electricity, free!” 
In emphasizing his point, Hal’s hand upset the ashtray, spilling its filth onto the table’s chip bank.  With his head down struggling to clean the mess, I tossed his key across the craps table. I winked at one of the smirking dealers and without confrontation, left.

                             *

Besides furnishing me with a solid home, the Frobel’s became good friends. At first, they seemed equally co-dependant on having fun.  But soon it was apparent that Toby took on all their responsibility.  Although I liked Stu, I gravitated to Toby’s earthiness and she rapidly became a trusted confidant.


 

                         *



At my first dinner party at Peter’s, his lavishly decorated, rented apartment impressed me.  No one could ever guess that our units had identical floor plans. His looked like it belonged in a magazine.  He had a full chef’s kitchen featuring; expensive copper cookware hanging from the ceiling and walls, granite counter tops and a hand-carved wood block, containing twenty professional knives.

     I was glad that Ciro was invited because the gourmet fare that night included; king crab, broiled filet mignon wrapped in bacon, asparagus in cream sauce and twice-baked potatoes. 

These festivities also served as my formal introduction to Peter’s caustic life-mate Gregory. Luckily as Gregory got drunker, his “butch” mentality softened.  Soon, he captivated us with poignant combat experiences from Vietnam.  But when his mood shifted, he went on a distasteful rant, in explicit detail, how he was sexually “passed around” by bullies in his platoon.

I whispered to Ciro, “I hope that was just his fantasy.”  Gregory’s lurid depictions abruptly ended as Precocious jumped onto Peter’s lap.

     The cat arrogantly posed while pampering Peter stroked her nape and groaned, “Toby, I’m sorry I didn’t make those canapés you adore.”

     “Forget about me. You made all your favorites and hardly ate anything.”

     While reaching for a tissue with the air of a Victorian dowager Peter said, “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”  He dabbed his nose. “I’m spent.  I can’t explain it.”  Genteelly, he blew his nose and added, “All I want to do is sit.”

Toby said, “Trust me. Everything tonight was super.”     

Everyone was nodding in agreement when Gregory grabbed the bread knife and took a swipe at the cat. 

Precocious scampered to safety as Gregory growled, “One day that fuzzy piece of shit is going to get too close to the trash compactor.”

     Toby pulled me aside, “I told you he’s crazy.  Did I tell you, he’s trying to sue the Army, the Federal Government and the State Department?”

     “Why?”

     Tittering she said, “He’s claiming the whole military thing made him a fag.”

     I said, “Really?  Don’t seem possible.”

     “Get this,” she concluded, “Peter has footed all the legal fees.  We’re talkin’ ten thousand minimum and they have no shot.”

Larry-Wayne (30) stopped our conversation when he came out of his bedroom.  He grabbed two beers and disappeared back inside. 

A six-footer, with long, thick, sandy hair, Larry-Wayne was shirtless and wearing an unbuttoned, brown, hand-crocheted vest that displayed his well-developed hairy chest and arms. He had blue, denim cut-offs and his scruffy cowboy boots were pointy. 

Larry-Wayne’s handsome, rugged, western look was completed by a coarse five o’clock shadow and a bushy mustache.  Based solely on his looks, few people would guess he led an alternative lifestyle.

Throughout the early stages of the party, he remained on the sofa, in permanent lip-lock with a kid who looked sixteen. Before the Caesar salad had been served, the horny couple retired to Larry-Wayne’s room.

     Stu softly said, “Hortense is such a tramp.”

     Everyone laughed except me, so I asked, “Who’s Hortense?”

     Toby’s contorted lips hid her discolored teeth as she giggled, “Larry-Wayne is proud to be a whore and likes to be called Hortense.” 

I nodded but didn’t understand.

     Stu gestured with his thumb at the closed door and whispered, “Who’s this new one?  What happened to Apollo?”

     Toby chuckled, “Didn’t he call that one Lorelei?” 

Peter reached for another tissue, shook his head as he rolled his eyes, “Lorelei wasn’t named Apollo either; his name was Nunzio. That one was married with a kid.”

     Toby segued, “Peter, is this the same cold from weeks ago?”  Peter bobbed his head as he patted his nose dry in a refined manner.  While looking at him, I noticed that the pimple on his cheek had grown bigger and darker.

     Later, on our way out Peter announced, “In two weeks, the Flamingo-Hilton is hosting the annual, ‘Leather and Lace Ball.’  Before we go over there, I’m having a cocktail hour.  You’ll be the only ‘straights’ but I do hope you stop in for a drink.”

                              *

The week before the Ball, Peter was so tired that he took a few days off from work.  He took Gregory to visit his friends in Venice, California.  At the beach house, Gregory was his usual unsocial self. He was happy to drink alone as Peter and his friends shopped the arty community, ate in contemporary restaurants and went clubbing after dark. 

     Peter felt somewhat revitalized after three days.  But he resented his friends’ negative observations about Gregory.  This discomfort worsened when they suggested he seek medical care for his condition. They compared his “cold” to something being called “G.R.I.D.;” that was mysteriously killing homosexuals.  Peter was in denial over having possibly contracted “Gay Related Immuno Deficiency” and felt compelled to leave. Gregory was so delighted at this change of plans that he didn’t squawk at going to Disneyland for two days instead of one.

                              *



Yes, there are good and bad people in every walk of life.  You will find out in PART-3 that bad things happen to good people and good things happen to the bad.

While the early phases of "PETER PARTY," concentrate on one victim, the entirety of the piece is really about the late 1970's wild card that nobody imagined possible, the "G.R.I.D."  We all know now what the epidemic, "Gay Related Immuno Deficiency," soon became known as and how it impacted all sexuality, on a global scale.

PART-1, PETER PARTY

This story's theme is freewill.  Regardless of how we got the gift of choice, not enough people appreciate it and far too many take it for granted.
     My life experiences in Las Vegas taught me many lessons. One lesson, starting in September 1979, may have been a hard sell but slowly, over time, I have evolved and righted my flawed thinking.  
     I'm far from perfect but I am more enlightened to the lifestyles of others.  In the end, all they (we) want to do is live. 
     Due to the complexity of the central issue, this blog will be separated into three weekly parts.  It will begin with the general ignorance of most people, continue with the struggles of the main character and hopefully will end with a better understanding and appreciation that your freewill is only good and pure, if you respect that others have the same privilege.



                                *



Halfway up the rickety, exterior stairway, heavyset Hal Spear (34) was winded. To rest and mask his shortness of breath, he stopped to call my attention to the concrete public area.  I scanned his tired, two-tiered horseshoe complex, (the modest pool stood out to me as the only positive). Hal’s luxurious description of the Fiesta Apartments and his Utopian Las Vegas lifestyle there had been greatly exaggerated.

“Both those palm trees are real,” he gasped as he flicked his Old Gold cigarette butt over the rail.  “P.S.,” he added, “and they use the grills for parties.”

A man crossed our path at the landing. I thought it was odd that neither he nor Hal acknowledged each other. Hal remained mute as we went the length of the long creaking walkway.  
When he heard the door of that man’s ground floor unit close he whispered, “Goddamned faggot.”

Hal’s was the last apartment.  The door’s faded orange enamel was cracked and rusty, bare metal was exposed where minute paint chips had flaked off.  Three diamond-shaped, gold appliqués emblazoned with the black numerals identified his apartment number:  1-0-1. 

Inside, the one-minute tour of the amenities included: a narrow rectangular living room and a kitchenette with a hidden breakfast nook, in a far right alcove. The left corner featured a full bath and midway down that unadorned wall was the bedroom door. 

     Hal led me to the only piece of furniture in the room, a cheap MacDonald plaid convertible sofa.

     “This is where you’ll sleep,” he announced as he lit up another cigarette.  While demonstrating the “simplicity” of opening it into a bed, his second tug resulted in nipping his finger on a sharp edge.  He sucked the blood from his wound until diverting my attention to a portable TV, on a chintzy, rolling stand.  
     “This baby is a Quasar.” He elbowed my ribs and bragged, “Seventeen inches.” 

     The picture was slow to come up. 

“We get great reception,” Hal bragged as the black and white image finally appeared. He showed me some tacky flower-print aluminum snack tables and explained, “You can eat while watching your favorite program.”  
While Hal suffered through a prolonged coughing spell, I noticed a thick snowy band creep up the TV screen.  Hal noticed too and switched it off. 

Hal took a handkerchief from his pocket and trumpeted his nose without turning away from me.  
When he composed himself, he made a gesture suggesting a vastness to his empire and said, “And it’s all yours for fifty-flat a month, plus your long distance.” 

I had just started dealing craps at Hotel Fremont (September 1979) and needed a temporary place to stay.  So I accepted. 

We were shaking on the deal as the door opened.  Hal’s bespectacled wife strode past us with two large grocery sacks.  In silence, she advanced directly to the kitchen. Hal followed her, opened a box of generic saltines and took several out. 

He extended a cracker toward me, “Want?”  
I shook my head.  Awkwardly the three of us looked at each other without introductions. 

I said, “Are there more bags in the car?”

Hal laughed, “She’s legally blind...she can’t drive.  Besides it’s only a six-block walk to the shopping center.”

Angrily she said, “Three more bagsh.” 
She left. I instinctively followed.  
We walked the length of the complex to the stairs before she asked, “Are you going to shtay with ush?”

     “Yes.”

     On our way down she said, “You’ll be very happy here.”

She left the supermarket cart behind as we carried up the rest of the packages.

An unseen shrill voice from the ground floor called out, “Don’t leave that damned wagon here.”

She peeked over the railing and meekly answered, “Yesh Mishter Hanrahan.  Right away shur.”

Hanrahan came into view and snapped, “And be quick about it.”  I recognized him as the same neighbor Hal just identified as a homosexual.
I chirped, “Everyone’s so friendly here.”

Mortified, she gulped and stammered, “Y-yesh, v-very.”

“He didn’t seem gay to me.”

She looked at me queerly and said, “Why would you think that? He ishn’t gay.”

In the apartment, we found Hal with cracker crumbs on his lap, sitting on “my” bed watching, “The Price Is Right.”  The slug just sat there examining the register tape without even offering to help his wife store anything. 

In the kitchen, I got a better look at Mrs. Spear. She had short-cropped, stale, straw-like blond hair.  Her mousy face featured a continuous Stepford-esque half-smile and she spoke so softly that I could barely hear her speech impediment.  Her frail arms were disproportionately short for her small body and I soon learned that Hal took joy in referring to them as “twigs.”  However her oddest physical attribute was her anemic skin tone that resembled the color of frozen chicken.

She finished with the groceries and was about to leave when Hal blurted out, “Suzie, why didn’t you get the General Mills variety pack?  Post don’t make Cherrios.”

That was the first time I heard her name.

     Suzie responded, “Had a coupon.”

     Hal said, “Oh.”

     At the door she said, “Gotta bring the cart back to Shafeway.”  She wasn’t out of the apartment ten seconds when the suddenly spry Hal ran to the window to witness her disappear.  From the closet, he produced a rusty left-handed pitching wedge and began whacking Whiffle golf balls. I was hoping the club’s head would fly off and break the TV screen. He “teed-off” again and the ball ricocheted off the blank wall, the front door and hit my leg.  
     Hal boasted, "I'm getting better every day.  And by the way, did I tell you, the El Cortez (Casino), promoted me to boxman." 

     I didn’t let on that I thought a boxman was an old man job but I was impressed that he had accumulated over $12K in his profit sharing account. Even though I wasn’t exactly certain what profit sharing meant, I was certain who was sleeping on whose couch for fifty dollars a month. 

Later, Hal and I spoke of our previous day’s chance meeting at the Boulevard Mall. We reminisced about attending the New York School of Gambling.  However, I soon realized, we shared few mutual memories.

When Suzie returned, she immediately chastised Hal for “playing ball” in the house.

“Why must you embarrass me in front of our new roommate?” Hal whined.  He then whispered to me loud enough for her to hear, “And this, coming from someone who pees so loud at four in the morning that it wakes up the whole house.” Perturbed, she looked away as Hal winked at me, “Now that we have a paying guest, you can show some common courtesy and aim for the porcelain.”

Suzie ignored him and invited me to sit down with her.  Hal clumsily squeezed between us and engrossed himself in a rerun of “Gilligan’s Island.” 

     Forced to speak through Hal, I asked a series of marriage related questions, starting with; “Where did you meet?”  
     Despite her detailed answers, her monotone voice and never-changing plastic smile made her responses seem phony.

     Later, I hit a sour note with my last question, “Are you planning a family?”

     Hal’s eyes never left the screen as he carelessly flicked off an ash and said, “Suzie can’t make babies.  She don’t get no periods.”  
Humiliated, her body went limp.  She stared at the floor.     

     I thought it prudent to excuse myself and said, “I’m gonna take off now. I’ll move in after work tomorrow.” 
Hal puffed smoke rings and remained seated as Suzie stood up.

He extended his left hand without looking away from the TV and hissed, “How about that fifty?”                                      I gave him twenty and promised to pay the balance at the end of the week. 

At the door Suzie said, “You’re welcome to shtay for dinner.”

“Thanks.  I'm meeting a friend.”

     “Oh.”

     Out of curiosity I asked, “What am I missing?”

     Hal chimed in, “Its Tuesday, it’s variety pack cereal night.  Except we got no Cherrios...do we Suzie.”

                              *

The next morning I sat alone in the Fremont’s help’s hall. I was waiting to be served when a tall, sloppy fat blackjack dealer sat next to me. 

“Hi. I’m Stu Frobel. Teddy Rideout told me you’re looking for a place.”

“Sorry, I put a deposit down yesterday,” I said. “I’m moving in tonight.” 

Stu, from Flushing, Queens was friendly and easy-going in describing his place.  I patiently listened as I recalled Hal’s outrageous depiction of the Fiesta Apartments. Therefore, I was unmoved by Frobel’s continuing list of assets.

     In an affected manner the waiter glided to my table.  He set down my breakfast and snatched-up my meal ticket.

     Stu whispered, “Next time front a buck and he won’t take your ticket.  When I eat here, I make a profit.”

     Rather than commenting on Stu’s girth, I wrinkled my nose, made a limp wrist motion and said, “Your ‘friend’ is a little light in his loafers.”

     Stu unconsciously slid the plastic pepper shaker across the table from one hand to another and said, “Don’t say that. Lee’s good people...even if he didn't let me eat for free. Hell, nobody expects you to admire gays, but you gotta admit; they do lead tough lives.”

I conceded, “Okay.”

Stu got up and scribbled out his phone number and address before saying, “Besides, who cares who’s doing who.  It's none of my business.  Folks is just...folks.”  I was considering the merit of his unsolicited philosophy as he added, “Listen, one of my neighbors hit a big slot jackpot and is throwing a party tomorrow night. Come on over, you’ll have a blast. While you’re there, you can see my apartment.” 

     He read my indifference, pointed to a flyer advertising his place on the employee information bulletin board and said, “I’m not worried about it. I’ll rent that room with or without you.” 
     I read his sign after he left.  Stu had mistakenly harped on tennis courts, pools and saunas.  What he failed to mention was: a private bedroom and bath, and king-sized bed.

                               *

I returned to the Spear’s apartment after work and found them sitting on the sofa eating thickly sliced salami sandwiches and potato chips.  We exchanged hellos as I noticed residue from Hal’s over-flowing tartan beanbag ashtray was strewn all over the snack table and onto his paper plate.

     Suzie with her typical forced smile peered over her TV Guide and said, “How wasch your day?” 

I told her of a funny circumstance that ended with, “But a guy on my crew got fired.”

     She said, “I’m glad you like your new job.” 
Obviously, she wasn’t listening.

     But she snapped to attention when Hal roared, “Suzie napkin.” Rather than joining them on “my” bed, I brought a bar stool from the breakfast nook as Hal scraped a dollop of store-brand yellow mustard off his shirt with his pinkie. 

     “Goody,” said Suzie. “The ‘Shound of Music’ is coming on next.”

     “Forget about it,” bellowed Hal as he sucked his finger. “We ain’t watching faggot crap...right Steve.” 
Suzie nagged him to let her watch it.  She droned on and I realized that my attitude towards the Fremont waiter made me as bad as Hal and Hal was an asshole.

     Hal snarled, “Goddamned girlie crap every friggin’ night,” before begrudgingly giving in to her.

Five minutes later, the opening credits came up and Hal ordered, “Suzie, make me toast.”  
She glanced over her shoulder and scurried to the kitchen.  When the bread popped up, she smeared oleo on and hustled back.

     Hal took one bite and groaned as if stabbed in the stomach, “You call this enough butter. Get me more butter.”

Like Edith Bunker, she pitifully ran to obey him.

     I whispered, “I thought you didn’t want to watch this?”

     Hal smiled, “Shush, I’m watching the movie.”  
I had seen enough, I left for the night to visit my friend Ciro the Hero, (before he became Ciro the Zero).



                                 *

At Ciro's, I told him of my situation and added, “Hal’s a prick...and she’s killing me with kindness.”

“It’s obvious what you should do,” Ciro said. “Tomorrow, go see that other apartment. I’ll come with you.”                          I was still indecisive about the whole thing when I got “home” after 1:00AM.

                              *

I tiptoed into the Spears’ apartment and in the dark, discovered my bed was turned-down and made. On the pillow, Suzie had left a note that read: I’m so glad you’re staying with us.

     In seconds after lying down, I was pissed off.  Between the thin mattress and the creaking of the springs, there was no way I was going to get comfortable. After thirty minutes of twisting and turning, I desperately stood up and reconfigured it back to a couch.  In so doing, I too nipped my finger.

     I finally dozed off when Hal’s thunderous snoring started.  A few minutes into my second hour awake, I decided to see Stu’s apartment.  
     At 3:30AM, while staring at the ceiling, I entertained myself by imagining how bad the noise would be when they made love.  It then occurred to me that Hal wasn’t going to be “spearing” anyone!  I guess that notion soothed me enough...I fell asleep.

                               *

The concert started promptly at 7:00AM.  Hal opened his performance with a prolonged overture of sneezing, wheezing and guttural phlegm spitting.  I wrapped the pillow around my head and cursed his existence.  The virtuoso came out of the bedroom for a cameo appearance before continuing into the bathroom.  His recital, aided by the fine acoustics of a more intimate venue, continued with a chorus of honking nose blows, an intense coughing spell and concluded with a crescendo of flatulence.  Somehow when the shower was turned on, I was able to nod-off for a few more minutes.

Hal was still in the bathroom when he woke me again by shouting, “Suzie, did you find my green clip-on?”

She said, “Remember the tomato soup?  It’s in the hamper.”

I closed my eyes and curled into a fetal position. At that moment, if I had a gun, Suzie would have been a widow.

A tap on my back startled me as she whispered, “You awake?”

I emphasized my sarcasm, “Are you serious?” 

Suzie tore open the curtains and returned to annoy me.

My light sensitive eyes barely saw her painted on grin as she said, “C’mon shleepyhead, it’s twenty of eight.”

I looked directly into her frozen chicken colored face and said, “I’m buying a gun.”

Suzie ignored me, advanced to the refrigerator and began butchering the lyrics to, “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”

I muttered, “Oh boy, show tunes,” as she began rattling pots.

Her Wendy’s uniform came into focus as she called out, “Will you be joining ush for oatmeal?” 

I snapped, “I don’t eat breakfast.”

“Don’t be bashful. There’s plenty and look, I’m shlicing up a banana.”

I was nauseated.  My senses were being bombarded by everything I hated, I held my nose and sang out low, “These are a few of my least favorite things.”

I drifted back to sleep until Suzie, set down a cup of Postum and chirped, “Have a great day.”

Hal was already dressed for work in a business suit even though his shift wouldn’t start for three hours.  However, instead of his sports coat, he was wearing a silk smoking jacket with an obvious burn hole in the lapel.  
When I focused on the hole he said, “Ah, I knew you’d like it.” Hal did an awkward pirouette and added “Good-Will.  Not bad for four bucks?”

He advanced to the window’s edge and watched Suzie leave the complex.

When he was certain she had started her twelve-block walk to work he asked me, “Wanna come to Foxy’s (Firehouse Casino) and take a shot?”                                                      Graciously I thanked him, not for the offer to gamble, but for leaving early.

                               *



Next week, Part-2 of "PETER PARTY," introduces the audience to flamboyant Peter, his minions and the surprising amount of people leading similar obstacles.