Brad, the Beach, and True Love

Portrait of a man, becoming

After that time Luke yelled at me, I never forgot to use a condom. Not even one time! People like to blame us all for gettin sick. Like we was just askin for it. Like some kinda sluts who deserve it.

But that ain’t how it is.

You remember the first time you fell in love? Magic, right? That was me and Luke. Right up until …

Never mind.

Those first two years? Both of us workin at Uncle Charlie’s, fixin the apartment up nice with the money we made, just flat ass havin fun… When I close my eyes and see that again, it’s like a dream world.

Like the best thing that ever was.

I heard Luke’s feet pounding up the steps and just KNEW it was him. Nobody else flat-ass ran four flights like that.

“Pack your shit, girlfriend!” he shouted as he threw the door open. “We’re gonna PARTY this weekend. Ever been to the beach?”

My stomach did that thing it always did when I saw him smilin at me. He was so … I don’t wanna sound lame, but he was so fuckin adorable. With his red hair and white teeth, all happy.

I wanted to squeeze him and never let go.

I went, “You KNOW I never seen the ocean.”

“Problem solved!” he laughed. “We’re trading shifts and hittin the Grove. Tonight! Plus all day Saturday and Sunday.”

I might have jumped up and down a little. “Cherry Grove! Fire Island, for real?”

Then he musta got a good look at me. “Hey, sexy!” He did his wolf whistle thing. “Housework in nothing but your Calvins? You expecting company?”

He was jokin. We only had sex with each other then. It was the end of August, four months since he rescued me from them Hari Krishnas. And hot? Like 95 in the shade!

We had these huge factory windows and most of em opened, but the fans dint do such a great job. I wanted the place to look nice when he came home, so I’d been going nuts with rags and a mop, drippin with sweat.

Luke grabbed a CD case outta his bag and ran it over the stereo, slappin my ass and pullin his tee shirt over his head at the same time.

Aruba, Jamaica, oh I want to take ya Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don’t we go, Jamaica ¹

I heard the new Beach Boys tune start up as Brad went, “We gotta be at the ferry in three hours. Then he stepped in real close and squeezed me through my sweaty CK briefs.

Off the Florida Keys, there’s a place called Kokomo That’s where you want to go to get away from it all Bodies in the sand, tropical drink melting in your hand

“Mmmm,” he kinda moaned. “The place smells nice and clean, but you smell way better, even sweaty. Which — damn, girl, these briefs. You should wring em out!”

I shut him up with a kiss, and when we pulled apart, he went, “The Grove ain’t exactly Kokomo, but it’s cool, and if we hurry, we can get in a little private time first.”

My fingers were already workin the snap on those too-small OP shorts he loved to wear.

We fell back on the bed, Luke pinnin me down and kissin all up and down, me just happy as hell to be there with him, right then, but excited as hell too about seeing my first real beach.

I sucked an earlobe between my lips and said, “I love you so much!” even as I tried not to let go.

oh I want to take you down to Kokomo, we’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow That’s where we want to go, way down in Kokomo

Uncle Charlie’s was more about George Michael and Madonna than the Beach Boys.

But it was sure about the boys! Much as I loved that loft me and Luke fixed up in the Meatpacking District, much as it felt like home, that bar was home too. The bartenders, the busboys and dancers like me, the customers.

When I was with em, I was with my people. You know? We fought over tips sometimes, and screamed about who was stealin whose boyfriend, but …

When I walked in every day, I was walkin in to see my family. I dint need my drunk ass mom. I dint need to sneak around smelly dumpsters in Castleton. People liked me. They were nice to me. I still dint talk much, but I dint need to.

April 28, 1990. That’s the day it all changed.

I was about to turn 20, which was NOT what my ID said. Luke was 22. We used to talk about him bein 42 and me bein 40 one day. We made up stories about livin on Central Park West by Strawberry Fields. Bein rich and famous party promoters. Or sumthin fun.

But when that bomb went off, it just kept going off. Over and over. Forever.

I dint even get hurt. Not really. Luke neither. They dint write about us in the papers. Fuck, they barely wrote about the bomb. But they sure did write about what happened after!

Cops said it was probably just a buncha queens getting pissy with each other. Settin off firecrackers in a trash can, like stirrin up some ant hill to see all the faggots run and scream.

That’s what people said, but I dint hear the cops that night. I was too busy gettin my butt patched up at St. Vincent’s.

Luke pulled me outta the cab, his coat still wrapped around my naked chest. We was both shiverin. I guess I was scared. Not freaked out, more like “what the fuck” scared.

I dint see too much blood on the seat. I guess most of it was stuck to me. “What the hell just happened?” I said to Luke as we walked to the door, him sorta holdin me up under one arm.

I remember we was dancin together at the bar, just kinda havin fun, tryna stir up some extra tips. Then I heard these weird popping noises.

Luke yelled, “Run! Somebody has a gun!”

I think I laughed at him. Seriously, a gun? Who would bring a gun into a bar and just shoot people? That’s crazy. I remember thinkin one of them big ass amps blew a tube.

Then Luke was grabbin me and screaming, “You’re bleeding!” and draggin me out to the street where he jumped right out in front of a cab and made it stop.

The he was throwin his coat around me, yellin, “St. Vincent’s hospital as fast as you can!” And he was squeezin my hand really hard and tellin me I was gonna be OK.

And then I saw the blood on the seat.

“Help! My boyfriend needs help!” shouted Luke as we walked in. He looked so white I thought his face could be a piece of paper. Somebody put me in a wheelchair and asked Luke to please calm down.

I grabbed his hand and then we both answered a hundred questions.

Well, I answered some. Luke? He was too busy fainting. Yep! Knees buckled, eyes rolled back in his head, and down he went. I was tryna jump up and help him, but my nurse, he got there first.

I heard him pull in this really sharp breath. Like he was super surprised. “Why didn’t you say your friend was hurt too?”

Then they had Luke up on one of those wheeled beds they use, and they rolled him away. I dint see him again til morning.

Me? A different nurse got me into this cubicle and helped get my gold lycra shorts off, which hurt some. Then she got me to turn over so she could work on my ass.

“Honey,” she said. “I’ll get you a bandage for this in a minute. You’re pretty scratched up, but I don’t see anything serious. You feel OK? Anything else hurt?”

I just shook my head and asked the most important question. “Where’s Luke? The guy I came in with. He’s my boyfriend. Is he OK?”

She gave me a weird look, which I dint figure was because I said “boyfriend.” St. Vincent’s is in the heart of Greenwich Village. The nurse who checked us in was gay — going by all the rainbows on his scrubs.

Shit, half the waiting room was probably gay.

“Well, can I see him?” I asked.

This story is true, as told to me by Brad who was my friend and sometimes lover a very long time ago. The bombing at Uncle Charlie’s really happened. Brad and Luke were really treated at St. Vincent’s. The events that followed the bombing shook Greenwich Village and the LGBTQ world.

Next chapter →

← Or click the links below to go back and read about how Brad and Luke met

¹Kokomo as performed by the Beach Boys, lyrics by John Phillips, Scott McKenzie, Mike Love, and Terry Melcher

James Finn is a long-time HIV/LGBTQ activist, an alumnus of Act Up NYC, an essayist occasionally published in queer news outlets, and an “agented” novelist. Send questions, comments, and story ideas to [email protected].