Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [74]
There’s a C local right there, doors open, and an A express that’s just pulling to a stop on the other side of the same platform. At the bottom of the stairs, I look back. They’re at the top, looking right at us and coming down fast. The A stops. Ding-dong! People dash back and forth across the platform, transferring from train to train. I take us to the right toward the A train, making sure Roman and Bolo see us heading that way before we disappear from their line of sight. The crowd is thick and I use my elbow to make some room for us as we loop around the backside of the staircase Roman and Bolo are on. Around and toward the C train.
We circle the stairs and, as we come around the other side, I see the back of Bolo’s head towering above the crowd. He and Roman stand at the foot of the stairs for a second, looking for us on the A. Ding-dong! The doors of the C train are closing just ahead of us. I kick out with my right foot and the doors smash against it. Ding-dong! They pop back open and we jump inside onto the C. And so do Roman and Bolo, ducking in through the next door in the car, about ten yards away. Bolo holds up his scratched thumb and gives a little grin like he’s the fucking Fonz.
We pull out of the station. Russ is spent and leans against me, resting his head on my chest while I lean on one of the floor-to-ceiling poles. Behind me, I hear the voices of bridge and tunnel teens whispering, calling us faggots. Roman and Bolo just stand there at the other end of the car, watching us, close enough to have a conversation if we raised our voices a bit. They seem happy to be close to us and to stay close until we get away from the crowds. The Jersey boys behind us are getting brave, talking louder.
—Fucking faggots.
—Yeah, fucking ass-fucking faggots.
—Look at them. They have AIDS and they still act like faggots.
Their voices are loud enough to be heard by most of the people in the car and I can feel tension building. Bolo is trying not to laugh and Roman is shooting little laser beams out of his eyes into mine.
—Ass-fucking, disease-spreading, sick, fucking faggots.
I take Russ’s arm from my shoulder, lean him against the pole and turn toward the voices. People observe this out of the deliberate corners of their eyes and the tension in the car jumps. Everyone is watching and listening now, but pretending not to. I stare down at the five boys on the bench seat.
—Hey, faggot’s a toughguy.
The train is slowing as it approaches the station.
—Got a problem, butt stuffer?
They all look the same. They all have the same too short hair, too big muscles, too small eyes, the same pin-fucking-heads. This will be easy. This will almost be fun. The biggest one gets up as we pull into the station.
—What about it, shit-dick, you got something to say?
The train is coming to a stop. I look over at Roman, smile at him, then turn back to the boy. He’s still talking.
—Come on, you fucking child molester. Say what’s on your fucking mind.
The train stops and I pucker up and make a little kissy face at the boy. We’re two feet from each other. He grabs at me and I kick him hard in the shin. He yelps and I swing my right elbow up and into the hollow just below his chin. He falls back gasping as his friends jump up off the bench and come at me. And all the queers on this train in the heart of the West Village just a few blocks from the Stonewall Inn, where the gay rights movement was born in a transvestite riot, go batshit. Ding-dong!
The doors open. I grab Russ as we are pulled with the tide of the brawl pouring out of the train. The A express we saw at Eighth Avenue is on the other side of the platform. Ding-dong! We plow through the small riot and safely into the A train. The doors don’t close. I watch as Roman and