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.