The Celestial Lily Rusch

There was a moment, as we smoked Camels on the sidewalk outside Fierce, when I believed I could love Eddie. It was one of the last times I ever saw him, during the spring of 2005. We met at Fierce every Tuesday, karaoke night, though neither of us sang.

He had tried to sing once, his first time there, a year earlier. His atonal, thickly accented rendition of “Into the Groove” prompted a chorus of boos. To gays, dishonoring Madonna was tantamount to sacrilege. Panicking, he removed his shirt, which placated the crowd. He was handsome, resembling a young Lou Diamond Phillips.

As soon as the keyboard faded out, he stormed off stage, humiliated. He might have left the bar completely if Wayne hadn’t lied, told him he was amazing, then given him a peck on the lips and a tweak of the nipple.

I knew Wayne from my job at New York Adventist Hospital. Wayne was a nurse; I was an orderly. He had invited me out for a drink a few years ago. I had thought, naively, that the existence of his boyfriend, Leonard, meant his interest in me was platonic. We ended up just being friends, which was definitely for the best.

As Eddie puffed away furiously, he railed against Wayne, who was inside with Leonard. Wayne was forty-four. Boyishly handsome, he could pass for thirty. Leonard, bald with a paunch, looked his fifty-two years and then some.

“Black don’t crack,” Leonard would often say proudly of his boyfriend, content to be the ugly one, indifferent to Wayne’s dalliances with twenty-somethings like Eddie.

“White sags,” Wayne would invariably retort. Leonard would give a comical shrug.

“He doesn’t love Leonard anymore. He only stays with him for his money,” Eddie scoffed. Leonard was a corporate attorney. He and Wayne lived across from Washington Square Park, a few blocks away.

“It’s not that simple,” I told him. I hoped to deter him from causing a scene.

Eddie and Wayne had vicious fights, but they made up every time. Leonard disliked Eddie, but he continued to tolerate his presence. Their odd love triangle always remained intact, though it occasionally morphed into a rectangle, pentagon, or hexagon on certain wild nights I had heard about.

“Wayne’s such a pendejo.” Once Eddie slipped into Spanish, I had only a slim chance of defusing the situation.

“He’s just afraid,” I defended Wayne weakly. I knew it was wrong of him to string Eddie along. Eddie clearly didn’t want to share him.

“Sí, he’s a coward. He just stood there silently while Leonard made fun of my shirt, called it ‘a bit fruity.’ Wayne bought me that shirt himself. He picked it out for me, said it made me look like Ricky Martin,” he recalled wistfully. “He just uses me, that hijo de puta,” he spat.

I had heard Leonard’s remark earlier, thought nothing of it. The shirt was fruity, literally. Its print was comprised of unpeeled bananas. I was usually very attuned to others’ emotions. Tonight, I was distracted. Brendon was back as the bouncer after being out for two Tuesdays in a row.

“Why don’t you find someone else?” I suggested. He had many “someone elses,” but I didn’t mean one-night stands or restroom rendezvous.

“Because I’m screwed up, that’s why: loco.” He moved his finger in a circle beside his head.

“No, you’re not,” I assured him. Because of my past, I often thought of myself as “screwed up” too. I assumed that Eddie was different, that, as usual, he was being overly dramatic.

“It’s because I was raped,” he said. I had just taken a drag of my cigarette. Shocked, I coughed up the smoke.

“Excuse me,” I wheezed. I composed myself. He flicked his stub into the street. I handed him a new cigarette, sensing he needed it. After a few puffs, he continued.

“I went to a Catholic school in Bogotá. This fucking priest raped me three times. He scared me into not telling, said my parents would say it was my fault. That diablo, I believed him,” he recounted. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

I finished my cigarette and lit another. I felt like divulging my own story. It wasn’t a priest who sexually abused me; it was Carlos, my stepfather, over the course of two years. Telling Eddie might make him feel less alone. Yet, I couldn’t. I didn’t want him looking at me with sadness and pity.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What he did really messed me up. It’s like some part of me thinks I deserve getting hurt,” he explained. He stared off into space. I realized he might be right. Perhaps all his problems could be traced back to that priest in Bogotá. Regardless, dwelling on it was pointless. I needed to shake him from his despondent state.

“Is that why you’re a slut too?” I asked teasingly. He turned to me, glaring.

“At least I’m not saving myself for some asshole bouncer who fucks everyone but me,” he snorted. Seeing my wounded expression, he laughed, which made me laugh.

“Bitch,” I muttered.

“Puta,” he huffed.

At that moment, a strange instinct came over me. I removed my iPod and headphones from my jacket pocket. I had never thought about him romantically before. Now, I saw him in a new light, as a kindred spirit.

We were alike in many ways. We were both gay. We were both twenty-five. We both had Latin blood. He was Colombian. I was half-Cuban, half-Irish. My first name was even his middle name, “Esteban,” though I went by Steve. We were both slim and attractive. I had fairer skin, lighter eyes and straighter hair. Still, we could pass for cousins.

All of that was superficial, of course. As sexual abuse survivors, we had been through a hell few could imagine. We empathized with each other, understood each other.

“Have you heard of Lily Rusch?” I asked.

“Who?” he said. I wasn’t surprised.

Lily Rusch was a huge artist in the UK, but she wasn’t nearly as popular in the US. I had all seven of her albums on my iPod, from 1978’s On the Inside to 1993’s Dancing Girl, as well as assorted B-sides, rarities and remixes. After Dancing Girl, a critical and commercial flop, she hadn’t released any new music. Now she lived in a remote area of Scotland, shunning all publicity.

I scrolled through her songs, selected one instinctively. I slipped the headphones onto his ears and hit play. If he liked Lily Rusch too, it would mean the connection I felt was real. It might even be love.

“Searching for magics, hidden in shadows,

I find only darkness, the kind I know too well.

Oh, woe is me. I tell you, friend,

It’s a dreary, empty world!

It crushes all our dreams!

Snuffs out every hope!

But I don’t give up, nope!”

The song was “Magics.” It was the opening track to The Land of Dreams, her most adventurous album, marked by strident vocals and carnivalesque arrangements. He listened intently, one brow raised. He was either blown away or totally bewildered. There was no in-between with Lily Rusch.

“Who is this chica loca?” He disgustedly yanked the headphones off. “She sounds like she’s either dying or orgasming.”

Crestfallen, I took back my headphones. I stuffed them and the iPod back into my jacket pocket. It was impossible to imagine loving anyone who didn’t love Lily Rusch.

“You are so weird,” he remarked.

I had a vision of Lily Rusch standing before us. She looked like she had at the height of her career, beautiful and slender, with porcelain skin and long, silky black hair. Her mouth pursed thoughtfully, she gazed upon me, then Eddie. Finally, she shook her head, no. Her face was compassionate but firm. He was not the kindred spirit I sought. I would have to keep searching.

“You know what, I am crazy, but there are much crazier people out there,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to Lily Rusch or me. Nonetheless, I smiled supportively.

“I’m going to find someone else, a guy who treats me right.” He took a drag of his cigarette, then threw it down and stomped on it. “I don’t want any more drama,” he declared, not for the first time. He said it at least once every Tuesday. He clearly viewed himself as an unwitting magnet for drama, not the source of it. He strode back in. I tossed my cigarette into the street and followed him.

At the door, Brendon gave me a nod which I knew I would spend all night analyzing. Eddie returned to his cocktail. He took a sip, then bobbed his head to an amusingly saucy version of “Don’t Cha.” Briefly, I believed I had succeeded in pacifying him.

“You were gone long. Were you recruited for an orgy or something?” Wayne asked peevishly. He was, hypocritically, possessive of Eddie.

“Please, Steve’s a saint, and the backroom at Python’s a mile uptown,” Leonard cracked, seemingly referring to an incident that I wasn’t aware of. Wayne laughed. Eddie glowered at them.

“So Wayne told you about that, huh? Did he also tell you what he told me after?” Eddie snapped.

“I was wasted.” Wayne glanced sheepishly at Leonard.

“Mentiroso!” Eddie shouted.

I slowly backed away. Usually, I would stick around, do my best to keep the fight from escalating, but I hadn’t seen Brendon in three weeks. I wondered if he had missed me too.

I crept over to him, tuning out Eddie’s furious accusations, Leonard’s smug retorts and Wayne’s desperate backpedaling. Brendon was by the propped open door. He was checking IDs for a young-looking group. He let them all in, even one who gave him a story about his wallet being stolen.

“Hey,” Brendon said, noticing me beside him.

“Hi. Were you sick?” I asked.

“Yeah, bronchitis,” he said. I let out a compassionate “aww,” thinking, if I were his boyfriend, I would have taken care of him, made him chicken soup and hot tea.

“That was two weeks ago. Last week, some guy invited me out to L.A., paid for my ticket and everything,” he continued. I gave an awkward “oh.” Brendon was beautiful, six-and-a-half feet tall and muscular, with blue eyes, high cheekbones and blond hair. He was basically a Norse god, minus the Viking helmet. Patrons bought him drinks, slipped him their numbers, and, apparently, took him on impromptu getaways.

In the two years since I had known him, he had dated dozens of men. He was thirty-four. Some of his romantic interests were much older than he was, some were younger. They were all different races, had different personalities. The one quality they shared was that they had no idea how intelligent he was, and they were gone before they figured it out.

“I finished Cloud Atlas on the plane. You were right. It’s a masterpiece. I should stop avoiding sci-fi,” he said. Both of us had gone to prestigious universities, but now worked at menial jobs. I had graduated from Cornell, Brendon from Columbia.

“If you want great sci-fi, you should read Never Let Me Go,” I suggested.

“I did. It was too sentimental for me, though, I’m still thinking about it, so I probably liked it more than I realized,” he mused. We were silent for a moment. I faintly made out Eddie’s bilingual tirade in the background. It reminded me of how Brendon, unlike Eddie, adored Lily Rusch.

“I was just listening to Dancing Girl on the subway. It’s so underrated,” I said.

“Oh, definitely. It was too cynical for the public, too fanciful for the critics, but the songs have so much depth,” he affirmed.

“‘Goodbye Dan’ still gets to me each time I hear it,” I remarked. As I spoke, I noticed he had turned away from me. I followed his line of sight. He stared at the boy he had just let in, who didn’t have an ID. The boy stared back.

Every Tuesday night, there was someone else who was interested in Brendon. Every Tuesday night, he picked someone else over me. I thought it was because I knew the real him, and that scared him. He would rather be seen as just a simpleminded, hunky bouncer.

I dejectedly gazed out into the street. Lily Rusch stood below a streetlamp, glowing ethereally. Upon making out her somber expression, I guessed what she had come to tell me. Brendon was a lost cause. It didn’t matter that he loved Lily Rusch. He couldn’t love me, not in the way that I needed.

“If he writhes free when you hold him close,

Tries to flee your arms,

You mustn’t squeeze or grab his coat.

You’ll only do him harm.

Let that soft, little rabbit go,

Into the green or frost.

Don’t you follow, no,

Or you’ll surely be lost.”

She sang, though only I could hear it. It was a ballad called “Little Rabbit” from On the Inside.

Suddenly, someone pushed past me. It was Eddie, storming out. He ran across the street on a red light. Cars beeped. A driver cursed at him. Wayne followed a moment later. As he waited on the curb for the light to change, he threw me an exasperated look. Once he hurried after Eddie, I returned to the bar. I walked over to Leonard, who calmly sipped his martini.

“I’m heading home,” I said. There was no telling when or if Eddie and Wayne would return.

“Sorry about that. I’m just waiting for Wayne to realize that Eddie’s more trouble than he’s worth,” Leonard said. I found myself agreeing with him, hoping Wayne came to his senses. I was tired of Eddie’s tantrums, of him ruining our good time.

“He will,” I asserted. I would come to regret that moment, to see it as a betrayal. The connection I felt with Eddie might not have been love, but it was still real. We had been hurt in the same, unspeakable way. I should have stood up for him.

*

That wasn’t the last time I saw Eddie. Next Tuesday at Fierce, Leonard wasn’t there. Wayne explained tersely that he was working late. Wayne and Eddie had clearly reconciled. They kissed and pawed at each other all night. When I left around 1:00 AM, they were grinding to an atrociously bad performance of “Toxic.”

The next Tuesday, Eddie had come with a friend, Patrick, a cute, slightly built blond. Wayne refused to address or even look at Patrick. After fifteen minutes, Eddie and Patrick left to meet a friend at Ramrod. Wayne spent the rest of the night sulking. Leonard, in contrast, was in a euphoric mood. He sang two The Pointer Sisters songs, “I’m So Excited” and “Jump.” I was happy for Eddie. It seemed as if he had finally escaped from an unhealthy situation. It seemed as if he would be okay.

The following Tuesday, neither Eddie, Wayne, nor Leonard showed up at Fierce. My texts to them went unanswered. I wasn’t worried. Eddie had moved on. There may have been drama. Of course, there was drama. Wayne and Leonard surely wanted to avoid running into Eddie. I left after one drink, talking briefly with Brendon before a brawny Asian in a tank top piqued his interest.

It was Sunday night when I heard the news. When Wayne’s name appeared on my phone, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him all week. He worked on the oncology floor. I went wherever I was needed. Still, we encountered each other almost daily, either when attending to the same patient or traversing through the hospital.

“Hello?” I said. I only heard heavy breathing. I thought Wayne might have called me by mistake.

“Uh, hi Steve, it’s, um, me,” he said finally.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, perceiving something was amiss.

“I’m calling to let you know that Eddie passed away.” His tone became even and neutral, his experience as a nurse kicking in.

“What?” I said, in disbelief.

“I hadn’t heard from him, so I went to his apartment in Queens. I had a copy of his key. I found him. He…” He paused, swallowed, then continued. “He hanged himself.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t say what I was thinking: “it’s your fault.”

“Leonard and I will handle the service. His family is in Colombia. They’ll have their own service there, after we send the body.” At the word “body” his voice cracked. Perhaps it was the idea that Eddie was only a body now, a thing. Perhaps he was remembering Eddie’s body, the intimate moments he and Eddie had shared.

I could feel his anguish. I wanted to comfort him. Yet, I also thought he deserved to suffer. I needed to get off the line, or I would say something cruel.

“I know this is a shock,” he said.

“Thank you for telling me.” I hung up.

I lay down on my couch and took deep breaths. I refused to cry. I hadn’t cried since my junior year at Cornell, when I determined that tears were useless.

Newly out, I was seduced by a male grad student at a house party. As I staggered home drunk, an immense feeling of shame came over me. Before then, I had repressed the memories of my abuse. Now, images inundated my mind, Carlos visiting my room at night, removing my clothes, making me promise to tell no one. When I arrived at my dorm, I threw up and cried.

The next morning, distraught, I called my mother and told her. She said I was just confused. She reiterated that being gay was a rough, lonely, sinful lifestyle. She said that she had been praying for me, and would now pray for God to take away these ludicrous notions about Carlos.

For weeks, I cried every day. I held in my tears until I was in the shower, so no one would see or hear me. I brooded over my past. Finally, it all made sense: the years of barely speaking, of flinching from anyone’s touch and of relentless nightmares. All through my childhood, horrors awaited me each time I fell asleep. Monsters chased me. Family members perished. Plagues befell the world.

One morning, as I stood in the shower, no tears came. I realized their futility. Crying wouldn’t bring back my childhood, or anything else that Carlos had stolen. I hadn’t shed a tear since. I was proud of that. I took it as proof that I was beyond feeling pain.

“I’m sorry,” I said aloud, to Eddie. I couldn’t cry now.

I grabbed my iPod and headphones from the table. I scrolled through Lily Rusch’s songs, stopped at “Goodbye Dan” and hit play. She had written it about her bassist, who had died from a heart attack.

“I see you, feel you, in all the places we’ve been.

How can I weep for you,

When you never really left?

You wouldn’t want me to, Dan.

Always the cheekiest man,

You’d say, ‘Come on, we’re in France,

Ooh la la, la romance!

Souviens-toi de moi et danse.’

Remember me and dance,”

I played the song on repeat for over an hour, though I knew Eddie was no fan of hers. “Sorry,” I told him again, as if he were there beside me. Everyone grieved in their own way, and this was mine.

*

It wasn’t hard to avoid Wayne at work. Oncology was the most sought-after floor for orderlies. Emergency Medicine was hectic and gruesome. Pediatrics was demoralizing. The Psychiatric Unit was the worst. Orderlies were regularly spit at, cursed at and grabbed. Each time I was assigned to Oncology, another orderly was happy to switch with me.

I was checking the vitals of Mr. Fung, a catatonic schizophrenic, when Wayne stepped into the room. It had been about a week since the call.

“I know what you think, why you’re avoiding me,” Wayne said. I didn’t respond. I resumed inflating Mr. Fung’s blood pressure cuff.

“I’m angry at myself too. I toyed with Eddie, made him think I’d leave Leonard for him. I didn’t want to lose him, but I didn’t want to lose Leonard. It was selfish. Now, I’ll probably lose them both,” he lamented. I continued my task impassively. I hadn’t cried for Eddie. I certainly wouldn’t cry for Wayne.

“But Eddie didn’t kill himself because of me. You don’t know the whole story,” he said. I turned to him. I noticed how terrible he looked. His eyes were red and swollen. His uniform was rumpled. He had lost weight.

“Do you remember that blond boy, Patrick?” he asked. I nodded.

“He was an escort. He recruited Eddie to his service. Eddie couldn’t make rent on his busboy wages. Without papers, he didn’t have many options. I tried to give him money, but he refused to take it,” he explained.

“Shit,” I said. I never knew Eddie’s situation was so desperate.

“One client didn’t wear a condom. Eddie was usually careful, but he was afraid to insist. He didn’t want to be fired. Afterwards, the guy told Eddie, ‘You should get yourself tested.’ He said he was positive. It was like he didn’t even see Eddie as human, like Eddie’s life was an afterthought,” he said plaintively.

I felt sick, thinking of how Eddie had been victimized again. I saw how his shame, coupled with the fear of facing a lifelong illness might drive him to suicide.

“I told him over and over, we don’t know for sure. You could take the test in three months and be negative. I told him, no matter what, I would still love him.” He gave a soft, despairing whimper. Despite his mistakes, I hated seeing him in such pain.

“It’s not your fault,” I assured him. He nodded and sniffed back tears.

“He wasn’t hearing me. There was no reaching him,” he reflected. His phone pinged in his pocket. He took it out and looked at it. “It’s the nurse’s station. I have to go,” he said.

“When’s the service?” I asked.

“Oh, uh, this Tuesday at six. It’s at a place called McFadden’s.” He hurried out.

I turned my attention back to Mr. Fung. He hadn’t moved since I had positioned him upright. He stared at an empty corner of the room. His mouth hung open. His hands lay palm up, twisted like claws. He was unreachable, like Eddie had been. So many times, I tried to get through to Eddie, to make him realize his own self-worth.

I puzzled over why I was still alive, why I never turned to prostitution, or became entangled in a toxic love triangle. I thought about what the difference might have been, if anyone had ever “reached” me. Only one person came to mind: Lily Rusch.

After the memories of the abuse resurfaced, I listened to my Discman constantly, at the library, in the cafeteria, and walking to and from class. It was my way to escape reality. One afternoon, as I returned to my dorm, a lyric from Lily Rusch struck me differently than it ever had before.

“Little girl with that great, big rip in your soul,

One day you’ll be old. You’ll be free. You’ll be me.

He can break us, but he can’t take what makes us special.

I’ll see you through the nightmares, to the land of dreams.”

From that lyric, I inferred that everything I was going through she had been through too. I had been a fan ever since catching the video for “Torch,” her one US hit. Now, my admiration turned into a kind of worship. I didn’t feel hopeless anymore. I didn’t feel alone, not when I heard her voice, or imagined her standing where I stood.

It occurred to me that if I had told Eddie about my own abuse, I might have been able to reach him. I might have been able to save him, the way Lily Rusch had saved me. I would never know, obviously. That didn’t mean I would ever stop wondering.

*

McFadden’s was a small funeral home taking up the first floor of a West Village townhouse. There weren’t nearly enough seats for the sixty or so in attendance. The men far outnumbered the women, and I suspected that Eddie had slept with about half of them.

Fittingly, the service was full of drama. Sheneida Huge’un arrived in full drag, explaining that she had a gig later. Upon seeing her in her skintight spandex and stiletto pumps, the priest made the sign of the cross. Patrick showed up, but he was swiftly escorted out by Wayne’s burly, corrections officer brother. Five eulogists broke down in tears. One said he always thought he and Eddie would grow old together. I remembered him only vaguely, and only because Eddie had mocked his missing testicle. At the end of the ceremony, Wayne lingered for several minutes over Eddie’s casket, gently caressing his face. Leonard looked on with a disgusted grimace.

Wayne, Leonard, myself and a dozen other attendees proceeded afterwards to Fierce, four blocks uptown. It seemed an appropriate way to honor him. Fierce was where he was happiest, dancing, drinking and hooking up with cute strangers. Brendon waved the group in. I walked in quickly, averting my eyes down. I was upset enough. I didn’t want to think about Brendon now. We settled in the back, where there were several open tables.

After leaving my jacket on a chair, I went to the bar and ordered a vodka cranberry. When I turned around, Brendon stood in front of me. I startled, splashing my drink onto my hand. He wasn’t supposed to leave the door, but Todd, the manager, didn’t seem to be around.

“I’m sorry,” Brendon said.

“It’s fine,” I said. I grabbed a napkin from the counter and wiped my hand.

“I mean about Eddie.” He gave a sympathetic frown.

“It’s okay.” My expression crumbled. Throughout the service, I had remained stoic. Now, tears welled in my eyes. I could still feel pain after all. My instinct was to flee, find somewhere to be alone, so at least no one would see me. Brendon blocked me. He extended his arms, offering his embrace.

I collapsed against his chest. He held me tightly. Warmth flowed between us. I felt the thump of his heart. I took in his sweet, musky scent. A few tears fell, but they were gone immediately, soothed away and soaked up by his t-shirt.

“I know, I know,” he whispered, revealing a tender side that I hadn’t seen before. Of course, I had never shown him my vulnerability.

“Do you think I could have saved him?” I asked, pulling away. I knew most people would have said no. Brendon wouldn’t lie to me. He knew I would see through it.

“Maybe, for a day, a week, a month. From what I saw, he made a lot of bad choices. It was never going to end well for him,” he noted.

“You’re probably right,” I said. As I inched back towards the table, he stared at me intensely. His eyes were saying, “stay with me.”

“I think I need a break from the funeral crowd,” I said.

“Lots of hysterics, I assume,” he said.

“Oh, yeah.” I smirked. “It’s like being trapped inside a Pedro Almodóvar film.”

“There’s even a drag queen,” he pointed out. Sheneida had come with us. Although her gig was at eight, she clarified that meant nine-thirty in drag time.

“Keep me company at the door,” he suggested. I nodded and followed him.

Our past conversations had revolved around books, music and pop culture. Now, I opened up to him about my life. I revealed my conflicted feelings about Wayne. He didn’t think Wayne deserved blame for Eddie’s death; Eddie made his own choices. I talked about being an orderly. While it was thankless, low-paying work, I enjoyed helping people. He said being a bouncer was also thankless and low-paying, but entertaining. We wondered who had to clean up more vomit. I mentioned I dreamt of being a writer, thinking up ideas for novels as I read. He admitted he had harbored that dream once. He had written a novella when he was twenty-four. I asked him what it was about; he wouldn’t say.

“Aw, come on,” I implored.

“Excuse me.” He abruptly headed to the back. I worried I had offended him. Perhaps he felt like a failure because he couldn’t get his work published. My heart sank. Tonight had seemed different. Now he was withdrawing, like he always did, when I got too close.

He returned a few minutes later holding a vodka cranberry.

“It was like Dune, but with a bi hero who sleeps with everyone,” he said.

“What?” I said, confused.

“My novella,” he reminded me.

“Don’t you avoid reading sci-fi?” I asked.

“Because I can’t help thinking that I can do better,” he explained. We laughed. He handed me the drink.

“Thanks,” I said. I considered asking to read his novella. I hesitated, worrying that he might be sensitive to criticism. If I pretended it was perfect and it wasn’t, he wouldn’t be fooled. As I silently debated it, the host called Brendon’s name.

“You’re singing?” I asked.

“Uh huh. You better cheer me on.” He made his way to the stage. Befuddled, I followed him. I squeezed up front, beside a squat, middle-aged man who gave me a too friendly smile.

“It started inside, where I couldn’t see.

A spark ignited when you touched me.

Now the flame burns out of control,

Sets my world ablaze, consumes my soul.

You carried a torch. I didn’t know.

You carried a torch. How brightly it glowed.

You carried a torch, and lit an inferno.”

It was Lily Rusch’s “Torch” off Risqué, her most sensual album. Though he was a decent singer, with a rich, raspy voice, the bar reacted with indifference. They preferred vapid, contemporary pop. I knew this performance was just for me. He sang in my direction, kept his eyes locked on me.

I was so taken with his gesture that I ignored the apparition lurking behind him. Lily Rusch stood on the platform, her arms crossed, her mouth twisted in dismay. For one thing, his voice was all wrong for “Torch.” Instead of ardent, it sounded overwrought, like a bad 80s power ballad. More to the point, she wasn’t impressed with his turnaround. She still didn’t trust him.

“Go away,” I thought. I reminded myself, she was the reason I decided I couldn’t love Eddie. Instead, I pulled away from him and now he was dead.

When Brendon finished, I, alone, cheered. He blushed, seeming oblivious to the rest of the bar. After stepping off the platform, he clasped my shoulders. We stared into each other’s eyes. He leaned in, as if to kiss me.

“Door!” Todd shouted.

“Damn it,” Brendon muttered. We hurried back to the entrance.

Three men were lined up outside, though nothing prevented them from entering. Sensing their disappointment when Brendon hastily ushered them in, I realized they had waited in the hopes of interacting with him. I wondered how many patrons came just to see him. He must have been great for business.

“You were amazing,” I said, once his little fan club had cleared out.

“Really? I wanted to do ‘Magics,’ but this was her only song in the book,” he replied bashfully.

“It was perfect,” I said. “Besides, I played ‘Magics’ for Eddie and he hated it,” I recalled, smirking. He scowled, as if personally offended.

“He was an idiot,” he remarked. He was protective of Lily Rusch, which I could certainly understand. Yet, I was protective of Eddie, who had been my friend and a worthwhile person, despite his pedestrian taste in music.

“He wasn’t,” I insisted.

“What’s more idiotic than killing yourself?” he argued.

“You don’t know the whole story,” I said.

“So, what’s the whole story?” he asked. I felt compelled to vindicate Eddie. I wanted Brendon, at least, to know the truth. I glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot.

“He needed money,” I recounted in a hushed tone. “He made a friend who got him into an escort service, and he was exposed to HIV…”

When I said those three letters, his skin blanched. His brow furrowed in distress. His mouth trembled, as if he might vomit. He looked terrified. I guessed why.

“It happened about three weeks ago,” I went on. He let out a sigh. He turned away to hide his relieved smile.

“So if you fucked him before that, you should be fine,” I spat. Wincing, he turned back to me.

“Come on, Steve. He was a slut,” he said calmly. I huffed, amused that he would see Eddie as a slut in this situation, but not himself.

I imagined how it might have played out. I was only ever there on Tuesdays, but Eddie used to come other nights and often stayed until closing. Eddie was surely wasted. He picked Brendon because he was the handsomest one around, or because he saw an opportunity to make Wayne jealous. Brendon was bored, up for a quick, meaningless diversion. It could have happened once or a handful of times.

Both knew how hurt I would be. There was a difference, however. Eddie would have felt ashamed afterwards. He would have regretted it always, every time he saw me. Brendon wouldn’t have spent a second feeling guilty.

“He was better than you,” I muttered.

“What?” he said.

“I should go,” I said. It made me nauseous to look at him, to think of him and Eddie together.

“Don’t.” He placed his hand on my shoulder.

I shrank away from him. I swallowed the rest of my drink, then returned to the table for my jacket. Wayne thanked me for coming, while glancing uneasily at Brendon, who stood at the bar glaring at us. I had to pass him to leave.

“Good night,” I said to Brendon, mustering a polite smile.

“Have another drink.” He turned to the bartender. “Vince, another vodka cranberry.”

“No thanks,” I told Vince. I tried to go around Brendon. He stepped in front of me.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he snapped. His rage surprised me. He was usually unflappable, even when customers picked fights with him.

“I didn’t say you did,” I said. It struck me how arrogant he was. After two years, he finally decided he wanted me. Now, he couldn’t even fathom me rejecting him. “Good night,” I repeated. He didn’t budge.

“Stop ruining this,” he grunted.

“Excuse me.” I managed to squeeze by him, jostling an old couple sitting at the counter. Suddenly, he grabbed my forearm. The couple got up and moved, snatching their drinks. He yanked me to him.

“Let go,” I demanded. He wrapped his arms around me. He pressed my body against his. I tried to squirm free, but I couldn’t. He held me tighter. I looked up into his eyes. He gazed at me softly. He thought he could calm me down. He wanted me to remember how good his embrace felt. It didn’t feel good now. It felt degrading.

“No!” I shouted. He let go. I shoved his chest. He stumbled back. I realized that the entire bar was staring at us.

“Drama queen,” I knew they were all thinking. Some rolled their eyes. Leonard cringed, embarrassed for me. Wayne put his hand to his forehead, looking utterly spent. I understood how Eddie must have felt. He always said he didn’t want any drama. Of course, no one believed him. He was the one creating it.

“I just wanted to leave,” I explained to everyone.

Brendon stepped back. He extended his arm, gesturing to the exit, as if to say, “Go right ahead.” Now, he looked like the sane one.

I darted out. As I hurried to the subway, I thought, I should have listened to Lily Rusch. She knew Brendon was no good. Others would find me crazy, putting my faith in a half-forgotten pop star. But Lily Rusch never disappointed me. She never betrayed me. She understood me; I didn’t care if anyone else did.

*

I didn’t return to Fierce. I dreaded seeing Brendon, or anyone who had witnessed our altercation. Wayne was an exception. When I ran into him at work, disheveled and morose, I realized he was too overcome with grief to care about my drama with Brendon. Two months after the viewing, I helped him move out of Leonard’s apartment into a Chelsea walkup. Eddie’s death had proven too traumatic for their relationship to endure. Or perhaps Eddie had been keeping it alive, distracting them from their growing contempt for each other.

Wayne frequented several bars in Chelsea. He often invited me to accompany him, but I always declined. I decided that bars had nothing to offer except casual hookups and heartache: both I could do without. It was Lily Rusch who finally convinced me to venture out into the gay nightlife again.

In the fall of 2005, after twelve years in seclusion, Lily Rusch released Celestial. I downloaded it on iTunes the morning it came out, then listened to it on the subway ride to work. I had no idea what to expect. Alas, it ended up being the least expected thing of all: boring.

The subjects of her songs included her idyllic marriage (“Matching Old Socks”), the joys of motherhood (“Quinton and Tess”) and finding fulfillment away from the public eye (“Hideaway”). On one song, she even described the gratification she felt from washing dishes (“Washy Wishy”). I wondered, where was the heartbreak, the rage, the anguish, the drama?

Despite my initial disappointment, Celestial grew on me. While it lacked angst, it had plenty of emotion. When she sang about her husband, “He crawls under the sheets, breathes me in, thinking I’m asleep,” it was apparent how different he was from her former lovers, who were incapable of appreciating her. When she referred to her joy at bathing her children, “Soap you up, rinse you down, squeeze your toes, bop your nose,” I sensed how empty her life was before their arrival.

The mystery of Lily Rusch’s disappearance was finally solved. She hadn’t gone mad. She hadn’t shunned the world. She had found love and contentment. Then, she had taken time off to enjoy her life. If happiness was possible for her, it was possible for me.

I went out alone on a Saturday night to a bar in Hell’s Kitchen called Fairyland. Eddie had mentioned it a few times. It sounded intriguing. He said it had a laid back, friendly vibe; it wasn’t stuck-up like Chelsea bars or seedy like East Village bars.

When I arrived, it was far bigger and more crowded than I had expected. There was a large, circular bar with five bartenders. Patrons sat at the counter and at surrounding tables. Chatter and laughter filled the room. The basement had a dance floor. It was a sea of sweaty bodies. Strobe lights flashed. Music blared. I saw many handsome faces, received some interested glances. Feeling overwhelmed, I stood frozen in the corner. After ten minutes, I slunk outside and lit a Camel.

My hands shook. My heart pounded. I thought smoking would calm me, but it didn’t. I decided that coming here had been a mistake. I wasn’t brave enough to approach anyone. I was too screwed up for love anyway.

I took a few steps towards the subway station, then stopped. I grabbed my iPod, put on my headphones and played the title track from Celestial.

“Once, I searched for heaven.

I thought it was a place,

Lost faith that it was real,

Then I saw your face.

You shone just like an angel.

And now life’s become celestial,

The hell I knew, inconsequential.

The past fades with each passing day.”

I glanced back at Fairyland. Lily Rusch stood by the entrance. She pointed inside, commanding me to return. She had noticed several boys who she thought had potential. Of course, she would have to observe them, decide if they were up to her standards. She became adamant, impatient with me, jabbing her finger emphatically.

“Flick away that cigarette, take off those headphones, go!” she seemed to say. I had to listen to her, even if it meant stopping her mid-song. She was Lily Rusch, my goddess, and she was always right.