Faggots by Larry Kramer, Reynolds Price Page A

neighborhood of polacks and schvartzas and put two sons through Harvard without aid from any husband in sight, he having been evacuated when she sensed aroma of pussy not her own?)—yes, Lester Lemish, Fred thinks IT WAS YOU who drove him thusly, thus wishing your ending in hell, not for making him a cock sucker, because Fred has come, finally, to quite like that, but for thinking him a coward when in fact it was you who did not give him the image of a Man who could kiss and love and hold someone close, someone to look up to and emulate and be.
    Lester Lemish died a couple of years ago today. Algonqua, in a sadness for his memory, had called both of her sons this morning. She spoke to Ben’s secretary and Fred’s answering machine.
    The funeral had been held at the Washington Hebrew Congregation. The rabbi, Earl Chesterfield, Oxford-educated, plummy-toned, and a nose job, had not known Lester, and since the Lemish name was not a graven image on the donors’ tablets, the services were short.
    Ben and Fred had escorted Algonqua down the center aisle. She was in her moment of some sort of triumph, bawling enormous heaving Whats and Whys, wearing the black-and-violet Garfinkel shantung and tulle she’d bought years ago for Fred’s Harvard graduation, since altered, who would notice?, as she passed the many friends she’d spent a lifetime being nice to, hoping they would be nice back to her.
    Fred, not an easy loser, was enormously, tenaciously gratified that he was not allowing a tidge of remorse to graph his heart. The day was sunny and so evidently was his interior. Thank you, Messrs. Cult, Nerdley, Fallinger & Dridge. The bastard, the prick, the old fat fart has finally fled this earth. Had not Fred waited a good many years for this, his own moment of some sort of peculiar vengeful triumph? Hadn’t he wanted it, dreamed of it, fantasized it, since he was three? And could he now not find love at last? For had not one of his new clairvoyants prophesied that love would come “with the death of a white-haired man?”
    Lester had requested burial among the war dead at Arlington, not because of any patriotic gesture, or comradeship for any remembered brothers-in-arms, but because, as a veteran of the First World War—the Great War as the English know it—he was entitled to free interment. So in he went, for nothing. Fred, ever ready for a dramatic moment with a dramatic moment, had even fantasized a funeral oration, should anyone ask him to speak, which they did not, that would begin: “I shall now speak ill of the dead.”
    One of these days he will finally realize: What a wasted life! What fine potential down the tubes!
     
     
     
    Dr. Irving Slough had placed the following ad in the Avocado, which had been answered by Dinky Adams:
     
     
    SEARCHING
Lover wanted. White youth under 35, masculine-looking appearance actions tall slim dark hair good body with definition, all wanted by very affluent New York doctor/executive white 50’s with houses Fire Island Sutton Place and Greenwich. No strings attached. Your own bank account. Am keenly interested in life and all repeat all its many splendors, including traveling, sports cars, expensive restaurants, fine living, additional items. Young man must be sincere, able to relate to older man, desire Greek home several times a day. If interested, please re-read. Take particular note that youth must be masculine both in looks and behavior and not involved in anything like hairdressing. Answer in detail, with photo essential, to Box 11991 Madison Square Station.
     
    Dr. Irving Slough (pronounced, not as by the British, “sluff”) had come to his oldest and dearest friend, Hans Zoroaster, to exchange some niceties for tomorrow’s opening of The Toilet Bowl.
    Irving, who was from Baltimore, had been born Schlepp, a perfectly good German noun meaning the train of a dress. He was fifty-five, though not feeling it, with the very handsome face and smile and teeth of the young Cary