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Stonewall: Stories of Gay Liberation 95

“Don’t go inverting everything.”
Invert? Invert. Floyd had psychology books from twenty years
before when invert meant only one thing.
“Then take the picture for godsake and get a move on.”
“I told you, man! I can’t take it for nothing.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can,” Floyd said. “This is getting
old. I want to close up shop.”
“Wait,” Robert said. “I got it.” He pulled out his wallet and
reached inside. He handed the folded-up paper to Floyd.
“What’s this?” Floyd asked. “The number of your Swiss bank
account?”
“No, you asshole,” Robert said. “It’s the combination to my
gym locker.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Go on. Read it!”
Floyd unfolded the smudged slip of paper. “I need my reading
glasses.”
Robert stared down at the picture of the blond athlete, but he
barked his order at Floyd, “Read it.”
Floyd hooked his half-lens bifocals over his ears and read the
word “Post mark.”
“That’s the title,” Robert said. “It’s a poem. A short poem.”
“Good,” Floyd said. “Short and sweet.” The afternoon had not
gone the seductive way he had hoped and he regretted missing lunch
as much as he missed lunching on Robert. “I have low blood sugar.”
“Read it, please. No one else has ever seen it. I wrote it on my
way out here. To send back home. To everyone back home.”
“‘Postmark,’” Floyd read. “‘Dear God: You created me, then
you hated me....Dear Folks: You conceived me, then deceived me....
Dear Teacher: You taught me, then you fought me....Dear Boss: You
hired me, then you fired me....Dear Lover: You painted me, then
you tainted me....Dear Death: You embraced me, then erased me.’”
“Well?” Robert asked.
“It’s not...bad.”
“Not bad?”
©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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