Free Gay Place by Billy Lee Brammer Page A

possible. He knew all about the boys from the college with their yellow typescripts.
    “It’s called No Way Out — The Dilemma of the Modern Radical, ” Jobie said.
    Willie continued to eat. Harris, sitting nearby, looked up startled.
    “No Way Out,” the young man repeated. “Our culture is ossifying. We are become a nation of conformists — automatons if you will — with backyard barbecue pits and corporate security …”
    “Wish I had some corporate security,” Willie said.
    “… smug and complacent, terrified, in reality, by the awful reality of …”
    Someone else interrupted to order fresh ice and setups. Jobie went on.
    “… of … today’s window dressing world. There’s no way out, ” he emphasized. “There’s only hope for the young — the radical young — those few not yet corrupted and housebroken by the pressures of conformity in modern society. They have got — these young — to make an affirmation in the dead and empty air.”
    Harris looked up, drowsy with food and beer. “Make a what?” he said amazed. He held a large piece of beefsteak in front of him on the end of a fork.
    “An affirmation, man,” Kermit said. “Dig those people, yes!”
    “Goddam right,” Harris said moodily. “We’re all dyin’ of the fallout.” He regarded his piece of beefsteak for a moment and then poked it into his mouth.
    “That’s fine,” Willie said. “That’s real good.” He reached out for the typescript. “I’ll take a look at it at the office tomorrow.”
    The young man held on to the papers. “I’d prefer,” he said, “to bring it by myself and be present when you read it. There are some allusions, references, that might need to be explained.”
    “Fine,” Willie said. “Bring it by.” Jobie started to speak, but Willie anticipated the next question. “Bring it by tomorrow after lunch. I’ve got an hour then,” he said.
    Kermit and Jobie wandered off to another table. It was nearly closing time now, and the waitresses were moving about, picking up empties, urging customers to finish their beer before curfew. Huggins came down to the end of the table with a gaunt, moist-eyed girl alongside him. The girl carried a guitar.
    “Where’ll we go?” he said. It was always a terrible decision to face at the midnight closing.
    “We could all go home,” Roy said. “There’s a new place.”
    “Whose home?” Huggins said, grinning.
    They discussed people’s homes — other people’s homes, mostly. No one volunteered shelter for the party.
    “How about Harris’s apartment?” Huggins said.
    “How about yours,” Harris said.
    “It’s a mess there,” Huggins said. “And my phonograph’s broke.”
    “I’m tired of Thelonious Monk, anyhow,” Willie said. “I think he’s basically a reactionary.”
    Some of the others joined them from the other end to discuss housing prospects. The girl with Huggins hung the guitar round her neck and struck a few chords. The jukebox was turned off inside and customers moved out of the garden. The girl began to sing as the others discussed places to go. The girl sang in a flat, unhappy voice about slaves following the Big Dipper north to freedom. Waitresses gathered up glasses and pitchers and bottles and stood just inside the building, next to the bar, looking out at the young people grouped round the main table and the girl playing guitar.
    “Let me take Cathryn home,” Willie said to Harris.
    “If you want,” Harris said.
    “Let me take her,” Giffen said. “In the Alfa.”
    “Don’t I have any voice in this?” Cathryn said.
    “I’ll take her,” Harris concluded. “I brought her — I’ll take her. I got a sense of responsibility in these delicate matters.”
    Earle Fielding came walking across the grounds from the parking lot. Ellen Streeter was the first to see him — she ran out to greet him, taking his arm. The others hooted a greeting from a distance and then fell silent as Earle approached.
    “Where you been