Free The Circus in Winter by Cathy Day Page B

games.
    Sometimes Marty offered Chicky ten bucks to be his human ashtray—follow him around all night with a beanbag ashtray plopped on his head. Other times, Buddy the bartender gave Chicky free beers if he'd circulate during happy hour with baskets of french fries and onion rings on his head. Business boomed, and Chicky was in bliss. He basked in the spotlight, proud to be known as a funny guy, a useful guy. If one night he failed to show up, people called him at home, begging him to get his ass down to Snake Eyes.
    At Chicky's twenty-first birthday celebration, Marty Cutter asked Chicky if he could balance a mug of beer on his head. Chicky did it, no problem. As he retrieved his drink, Marty looked down at Chicky's head, which was directly at crotch level. "Damn Chicky, too bad you ain't female. And white. Or I'd have to marry you."
    A Son of KY clapped Marty on the back. "You got that right, man."
    Someone called out, "Who says you gotta marry someone who holds your beer and sucks your dick?"
    Laughter.
    Buddy leaned over the bar. "Way I heard it, Marty don't even care if it's white. Or female."
    Marty went red. Everyone knew he'd served five years at Pendleton for breaking and entering—a fairly long stretch. They laughed uncomfortably and returned to their drinks, casting sideways glances at Marty when they thought he wasn't looking.
    When Chicky went to take a leak, Marty said, "You know what I heard. Chicky hangs out up at the park at night. In the
restrooms.
"Rumor had it the gray cinder block bathrooms at Winnesaw Park were queer hangouts.
    "That's bullshit, Marty," Buddy said, wiping the bar with a mildewy rag.
    Marty crossed his arms. "At my parole meeting, a deputy told me they picked him up in there during a drug bust." His story was a complete fabrication, but Marty figured no one would willingly approach Johnny Law to check. "Mark my words," Marty said, "Chicky's a swisher."
    When Chicky emerged from the bathroom, Marty yelled, "Jesus Chick, took you long enough. You keepin' company in there or what?" Everyone laughed uncomfortably and returned to their drinks, casting sideways glances at Chicky when they thought he wasn't looking. He laughed, but didn't get the joke. For the rest of the night, no one asked him to do the Chicky Dance or put anything on his head, so he went home early, a little deflated.
    The next night, a winter storm warning was in effect, more than ten inches predicted. The first flakes floated down like dandelion fluff. When Chicky walked into Snake Eyes, the temperature inside was warm, but the reception was ice cold, nothing but turned backs and hard stares. Undaunted, Chicky clambered up onto a barstool, plunked down a dollar bill, and asked Buddy for a draft. The bartender stood with folded arms and didn't move.
    "Hey. Can I get a drink or what?"
    "Depends," Buddy said, finally walking over. "Are you gonna fix what you done. Or what?"
    Chicky looked around. Everyone was staring at him, except for Marty Cutter whose eyes were fixed on the black-and-white above the bar. "I don't know what you're talking about, Buddy."
    "Lemme show you then." He walked around the bar, yanked Chicky off his barstool, and shoved him outside onto the sidewalk. They walked into the alley that ran alongside Snake Eyes. Buddy was in shirtsleeves, his arms and nose flushed red in the cold. "What the hell do you think you're doing writing shit like this on my place?"
    There on the brick wall. Spray painted. GAY POWER. A foot and a half off the ground.
    "I didn't do this, man." Chicky looked around nervously. A few guys had followed them into the alley.
    "Don't give me that shit, Chick. It's a perfect match." Buddy thrust him toward the wall. The graffiti just met him at chest level. "I don't want to see you around here anymore. Got me?"
    Marty came out, mug in hand. "Probably has AIDS or something." He started to take a drink, then seemed to think better of it and threw his mug at the words behind Chicky.