Farewell Uncle Ho 19
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 19 (Sun., Dec 25, Mon., Dec 26, 1966)
When I came downstairs with my two suitcases, Bat handed me three hundred dollars in twenties that he'd gotten out of the safe in his office. "This should get you through basic, since you'll be making a lot less."
I put the money away, while keeping an eye on Lon who was slouching on one of the two couches and glaring into the fire. "You can deduct it from what you're paying me." I offered.
"It's alright, Ben." His chuckle was forced. "I can afford it." Bat's face was drawn. He was under the strain of the moment; it was time to say good-bye, and he was trying to get it over with in as good a form as possible.
"Okay," There was an awkward silence. "thanks for letting me stay." Since it was obvious that I'd outstayed my welcome to judge by the reaction of all concerned. Another, even more awkward silence ensued, before I could let go and say: "See you, then." There were no hugs, no kisses, no wishing me well, and no one reacted other than Bat's embarrassed wave.
Marv was going to drive me over to the hotel on Waverly Place, just off Washington Square Park but was plainly relieved when I told him that I'd take the subway. I needed to put a good distance between them and me as badly as they wanted me gone. I was sure that everything would probably go back to the way it was, before I'd upset their straight-guys' applecart.
Hotel Earle was a dive that I'd known from my high school days, when I would pick up a trick in the park and needed somewhere to go. Although it was a residence hotel, they held a certain number of rooms, which could be rented by the hour and catered to same-sex couples. It was cheap, not very clean, certainly not terribly respectable; it was my Greenwich Village. It was just what I needed at that moment, something Bernice would never approve of. Besides, it was much closer to the ominous Army Building on Whitehall than was Avenue T in Brooklyn.
The only part of New York for which I would ever feel even a tinge of homesickness was the Village. I went to grade school just four blocks to the southwest of this hotel and to high school just three blocks down and three-and-a-half blocks to the west. Since the schools were private, progressive, and catered to professional parents, this was where I grew up. Chinatown was where I did my homework and slept.
I was standing at the window of my second-floor room and had to smile when I saw the old hanging tree, just inside Washington Square Park on MacDougal. I had learned about it on a field trip in third grade. Where now, in warmer weather, hippies were singing folk songs, and tourists were running around barefoot just because Neil Simon had dared them to, was once were people had been executed and buried, along with anyone else who'd qualified to be buried anonymously.
Potters’ field was what they'd called it, back then. After World War II, we would call it a mass grave, the recent fate of so many Europeans. At one time under Washington Square were some 250,000 cadavers from two major yellow-fever epidemics, which were barely covered by soil. Only one hundred forty years ago, the remains had given off a horrible stench. It was said to have been a gruesome playground for street urchins, who would play with the bones and skulls, and for stray dogs, which would carry off human remains for their own treasure. However, in 1842, just one hundred two years before I was born, not far from here, the cadavers had been removed to the new Potters' Field uptown, and the park planted, letting trees thrive on human tragedy. I contemplated into which mass grave I would eventually be dumped.
Slowly removing my winter coat and then the cardigan, I wondered if I would ever see Bat again. And then, avoiding any other morbid thought, I took a shower and went to bed.
***
As I was coming out of the front door of the hotel onto Waverly Place, I heard a once familiar voice from high school. "Hey, Chūgokujin!" I looked around quickly, being blinded by sunlight on snow. "Over here, Ben." Then I saw him walking a dog, that was pissing on the base of the hanging tree.
Not having worn galoshes since I was a kid, I was still getting used to them but was glad of their improving my ability to keep from slipping. "Hey, Haruki!" I yelled across the street and waved but almost lost balance while stepping into a pile of snow on the curb.
"Why are you coming out of your old flophouse?" His laugh was just as sexually suggestive as it had always been.
"You want the long or short version." Since I was bundled up in Bat's Mongolian gear, I figured I could tell him the long version while his dog pissed ice sickles.
He looked at me with a contemplative demeanor. "There's something wrong, isn't there?" And when I probably looked as lonely as I felt, he suggested that I come up to his place. Obviously, his parents weren't there.
When we were seniors in high school, his father, a retired Army Lieutenant Colonel of Hispanic and therefore also of Catholic heritage, had seen me coming out of the Hotel Earle one bright afternoon with another guy in tight, tight, short, shorts with a huge bulge, who had been somewhat effeminate, if not downright camp. Anyway, the inquisition that ensued substantiated Colonel Hernandez' assumption that I was no suitable playmate for his son. Although, Haruki's Japanese mother would allow me over for short visits when her husband was away, I was indubitably persona non grata when the Colonel was in town.
They lived in a beautiful, old, brick townhouse in the middle of the 70s block on Washington Place. There was apparently money involved, and of course, I had no information as to the family backgrounds. Haruki and I had been casual friends at school, which had not changed, even after his father had declared me to be an untouchable. But the friendship had never developed beyond casual, mainly because he had a slew of girls chasing him, and I was under suspicion of being Queer.
Having said that, though, he'd always had a pet name for me, which I found just a little odd for a straight guy. Okay, the name was Chūgokujin, which basically means Chinaman in Japanese, and was nothing special, as such, but I was the only one for whom he had a pet name. So, as we carefully climbed the seven or eight salted granite steps toward the townhouse's front stoop, I decided that I was going to ask him what the deal was.
After we had taken off our winter outdoor clothes, he led me into the kitchen, were it was just slightly too warm. He made us a pot of green tea, and arranged hazelnut cookies on a plate as if preparing to have them photographed. His smile was warm and engaging, but his voice told me that he was tense with anticipation. "Okay, Chūgokujin, out with it."
Since I'd decided to go for the whole truth and nothing but, I related the rise and fall of Lon and Ben, the final telephone conversation with my mother and the consequences thereof, and the fact that I was waiting to report for active duty.
"I always found it funny, that you hung out with an underclassman," Haruki's eyes searched in mine over the top of his tea cup. "even though he was Chinese."
"We're the same age, so what's so odd about that." I took a cookie, disrupting the symmetrical pattern.
He watched me as I broke the symmetry of the cookies and frowned somewhat. "You're telling me that you are two years younger than me?"
"Yeah, I'm twenty two." I bit off the corner of the cookie to discover that they were either very expensive or homemade. "I skipped the fourth and seventh grades." Haruki's surprised face demanded an explanation. "My parents are both teachers, so I was under pressure to perform."
His focus went from the cookie plate to me. "And you didn't waste all that time dealing with girls."
"That's about right." I was trying to pluck up the courage to ask him about his nickname for me. "Uh, you may find this awkward, Haruki, but why do you call me Chūgokujin, when you didn't have a special name for anyone else at school."
"You have always fascinated me, Ben." I was relieved that he wasn't finding this discussion difficult. "My mother, as do many Japanese, thinks that Chinese are inferior, and was trying to get over her own prejudices by letting you come over when Dad wasn't here." He was watching me closely for any reaction. I was well aware of what possibly the majority of Japanese generally think about the Chinese, but Haruki's mother never let on that she was like that. "So, I called you Chūgokujin to remind myself that I never wanted to become what my parents are."
I nodded that I understood, but found it hard to stay put in this house. I was considered inferior by his mother because I was half Chinese and damned by his father for being Queer. Then it dawned on me that this was exactly what I was going to be up against in the Army.
***
As I was getting ready to leave, he surprised me again with: "I wish you wouldn't go."
"Okay, Buddy," I looked into his expectant face. "what are you trying to tell me?" His young Beagle seemed to want me to stay, too. He'd been sniffing me, wagging his tail and trying to hump my leg, all morning.
Haruki's face was glowing, "I think maybe it's time I tried it." but it was hard to tell if it was due to his actually propositioning me, or if it was because his dog was misbehaving.
He was at least making sense, although not being totally coherent. "And where are your parents?" I thought knowing if we were going to be interrupted would be a good idea.
His laugh was sharp and unexpected. "Mom moved to Hawaii where there are enough Japanese to make her feel at home, and Dad now lives in Puerto Rico, which is the closest he could legally get to Cuba, where he's from." He coughed, then laughed. "They're, um… Well, they're divorced, and I got the house and a trust fund to pay for it and my education." Then, just for a split second, I saw sadness in his handsome face. It was just a flash, but it was there. "Haven't heard from either one of them for six months or so."
"So, what you're telling me is," I took his face between my hands at almost arm's length, not close up. "that you're lonely and want some company."
He nodded and looked away from me, defeated. "Yeah, that about sums it up."
"Haruki," His eyes returned to mine. "there's nothing wrong with that." I smiled at him and was damned close to kissing his luscious lips but kept myself under control. "I'd love to keep you company. And if you're up to it, for the next fifteen days. And you don't have to offer me sex."
"But," His look turned to pleading. "I want to, at least, try it out with you." His eyes were moistening but hadn't turned teary. "I've always wanted to be your best friend. But my parents were running interference, and..."
I drew him closer into a hug, so he didn't have to look at me. "And what, Haruki?"
"And there was that Lon guy. I knew that I didn't have a chance. I'm not as ruggedly good looking as he is." He laughed through the now forming tears. "And I don't speak Chinese."
I laughed with him about the situation and a little bit at him for being so self-deprecating. "And neither does Lon. His Chinese is at about pre-school level." I pushed him back a little to look at him. "Look, Dick, see Spot run." I mimicked.
With the heart-felt laughter that followed, he managed to release no telling how many years of pent-up anguish about himself. Once he calmed down, he told me that he wasn't into guys. It was just me. He had a sexual thing for me and not for any other guy he knew.
I was flattered. But this would need some serious explaining.