Shantih Journal 2.1 - Page 94

and the offenders retreated out the door. The chief heckler hissed “Faggot!” as he passed. The manager still refused to identify himself. We shall find out his name in the morning when I get all my networks plugged in. When I walked out the door, I looked like any other fat old bald-headed man. I can just hear my husband if I dare tell him about it. “Lordy mercy, chile, can’t even get out the country more than a couple of months and you go acting like a country bumpkin. Don’t you know in the city just to keep quiet and mind your own business?!” He’s right, of course. But I will never forget the kiss which the guy in the red dress threw to me as we boarded separate cars on the PATH train. It was better than all the candles and the incense and the glorious Bach as only a NYC organist can play it. We queans must stick together, or our tiaras aren’t worth a tinker’s malediction. 94