Patty Fitz, who was not Patty Fitz at all, but merely someone who everyone, including himself, called Patty Fitz, was in a bad way. He was eighteen, Irish, Catholic, drunk, and hungover and, as if that wasn't enough, he now believed himself to be a homosexual. These first things never bothered him, aside from the physical nausea and accompanying depression that usually ensued, but this last, he was sure, would result in his death.

As he stumbled down the filthy city streets in the pre-dawn hours of a Sunday morning, he belched and tasted bile, and this seemed appropriate for what he had become, what this evening had made him. He- tried, in his own drunken way, to live up to the role that he now felt he was born to play. His drunken weaving took on a swishy many, and he began to mince as he careened back and forth along the sidewalk. He lisped as he talked stupidly to himself. Now that he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was a homosexual, he’d damn well act like one. 

Appearances were very important to Patty Fitz.

His real name John Hugh Fitzpatrick, but he was known in the neighborhood as Patty Fitz. And in a neighborhood peopled by creatures called Moosie, Beefy, and Frankie the Bear, a nickname was more of a necessity than a convenience. Patty liked his name because it conjured up visions of beer, fists, shamrocks, and priests. It had a decidedly ethnic ring to it and Patty savored this, figuring stereotypically that the worst most would call his race was "drunkards", and to Patty, as well as most of his friends, that was a compliment. Patty, and the people he associated with, liked to drink. They took a perverse pride in recounting the next day, the atrocities perpetrated by them on the drunken night before. Until tonight, Patty Fitz’s biggest disappointment was the all-too-obvious lack of a beer belly.

He felt strangely secure as he limp-wristedly searched his pockets for a cigarette. Now that he knew what he was, there would be no more pretense, no more awkward fumblings, no more heated hesitation, no more trying to prove, no more fear. He had begun the night as a man would up as, in his view something considerably less. Now, looking back with a sense of exalted dispassion brought about by the liquor that coursed through his bloodstream, he could see that his downfall had been imminent from the very beginning. Each little piece of the night, when carefully dissected, examined, and put back together again, composed a picture of a mission doomed to failure. It was pre-ordained.

"A little hindsight is a dangerous thing," said Patty Fitz, aloud.

His clothes, which were so carefully chosen earlier, now seemed ridiculous. His hair, which had been shampooed twice, conditioned, and painstakingly air-blown to artificial perfection, now seemed dirty and disarrayed, even though he had used half a can of hairspray on it. Hairspray! Of course, that was the first sign! No man that he knew used hairspray, not even the most effeminate ones. DiScala sure as hell never used hairspray, of that he was sure.

He finally located his crumpled pack of cigarettes and, pulling out a mangled one, jammed it between his lips. He burnt most of the peach fuzz off his chin

trying to light it, and after using his last six matches, let it hang there cold and dry. He thought this exceedingly funny and began to laugh out loud.

"Appropriateness in all things," said Patty Fitz, as he drunkenly stumbled on.

The ceremony had begun roughly five hours before at the Pub, and Patty, who had an ingrained sense of the proprieties of ceremony, felt it only right that he return there.

At ten o'clock the night before he had walked into the half-empty bar and taken a seat in the middle. Patty Fitz was an inveterate beer-drinker, but tonight he felt he should drink the hard stuff, both for the courage he hoped it would give him, and the all-important air of sophistication he hoped to create. He ordered bourbon and branch water, which nearly gave Curly, the bald-headed bartender, apoplexy. Not only could Curly not find branch water, he ultimately confessed that he had never even heard of it.

"Branch water? You'11drink tap water, it's good enough " said Curly in disgusted disbelief.

“Tap water is fine,” said Patty Fitz, who liked to stay on the good side of "Leave the stirrer in if it makes you feel better," said Curly, walking away.

Patty liked the bar at this hour. It was dark and quiet and cool and had an air of sanctity about it. Not just anyone could walk in here, you had to be a member of the fold. The flickering yellow candles on the red tabletops stirred something deep inside Patty, and he felt he belonged here more than anywhere else. He was a regular.

There was the familiar smell of stale beer and urine that he always associated with the notion of a good time, and he felt that he had to come here, to this familiar place, before setting out into the unknown.

Patty was on his second drink when Marianne arrived and, although this threw his carefully planned schedule off, he recovered quickly, asking her to sit down and signaling Curly at the same time. In his circle, action was all, and part of the bar ritual was the immediate invitation to drink. When Marianne ordered beer, Patty cringed inside and congratulated. himself on never having given in to her efforts to snare him. It was common knowledge in the neighborhood that Marianne had had her sights on Patty for some time, and although he had considered taking her up on her unspoken-but-obvious offer, he had never quite got around to it. He probably would have, had it not been for a new development in his life, the very reason that he was sitting there then.

Marianne was pretty in a seventeen-year-old-virtuous-sort-of-way. Patty had grown up with her, and now that he was eighteen, he felt she was too young for him. He saw himself at the portal of maturity and, being so close, did not wish to think of stepping back. Virtue was the last thing on his mind.

He had an opportunity to go where he had never been before, and he was damned if he would let Marianne’s feelings stand in his way. “She’s a nice kid but…” was the way he usually fended off inquiries about their relationship.

As they exchanged small talk, Patty surreptiously glanced at the clock. He didn’t want to be rude but time was running out. In an effort to show polite unintrest in Marianne’s childish conversation, he took to staring at the bar and nodding at everything she said.

He stared at the little circle of moisture his glass had made on the wooden bar top and as the bourbon took hold, he became fascinated with it. It was truly amazing how it reflected the soft light, he thought. It was perfectly round, complete, in and of itself. He probably would have stayed there, staring stupidly all night, if a large, hairy, leathery hand had not suddenly come down upon it, smashing it into miniature droplets, most of which shot into his eyes. He spun around quickly in alarm. Behind him, with an evil grin on his face, stood DiScala.

“What are you all dressed up for?” asked DiScala.

“Bastard,” replied Patty Fitz, rubbing his eyes, “you scared the hell out of me.

DiScala laughed and greeted Marianne, as Curly, unbidden, placed a glass before him. Marianne stood and excused herself, much to Patty’s relief, and he was grateful that the charade was finally over with. DiScala plopped into the stool next to Patty and said, “What’s what?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Patty Fitz.

If anyone was more a creature of the bar than Patty, it was John DiScala. Patty liked it here; John lived here. His was his domain and he ruled it with an iron fist. He tended bar part-time and often acted as a bouncer. Each night DiScala would walk in, put a twenty on the bar, drink his considerable limit, and, if there was no trouble, pick up his twenty and leave, usually with one of the neighborhood girls. He was short, stocky and muscular, and he personified his clan in a very clannish neighborhood. Everything had to be cleared through him. Whether it was permission to commit murder or minor larceny, everyone told DiScala first or faced his wrath.

He was a dictator and a father-confessor. "I was born standing up and talking back," he was fond of saying, and everyone knew it was true. He was something of a legend on the West Side, and everyone measured himself against DiScala.

"How come you're here so early?" asked John.

"I gotta meet someone," answered Patty.

"Who? Marianne? Don't tell me she finally caught you."

"No," said Patty in exasperation. “This girl.”

“What girl?" asked John suspiciously.

“This twenty-five-year-old-girl.”

“A twenty-five-year-old girl? You've got to meet her? For what?"

"A date, what do you think?"

"Wait a minute," said John, putting his hands up, "you've got a date

·with a twenty-five-year-old girl?"

"Yup," said Patty with pride.

"Tonight?"

"Yup.”

“I want to shake your hand! Curly give us another one. What time she getting here?”

“I’m not meeting her here,” confessed Patty, “I’m meeting her in the Village.”

"Uh-oh," said John, closing one eye, "what's wrong with her?”

“Nothing is wrong with her!” exclaimed Patty. “She asked me to meet her in the Village, that’s all.”

“ Where’d you meet her?”

"In the store. She’s a customer.”

"Aren't we all?" laughed Jo as shocked as you are. That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to you John.”

“No, really,” said Patty, “she comes in all the time. We kid around all the time, you know. Today she comes in and asks me if I’m busy tonight. I’m as shocked as you are. That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to you.”

"You're going out with a twenty-five-year-old girl and you want to talk to me?”

“You went out with Charlene.”

“Yeah, but she was only twenty-two.”

“It’s close enough. What did you do, I mean, how did you act? And for Christ’s sake, don’t tell me to be myself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said John wryly, “but this is any easy one. She’s a customer right? So treat her like a customer. Be nice and do anything she asks, and remember, the customer is always right.”

“That’s it?” asked Patty incredulously.

“That, and spend all your money and you’ll do okay. I guarantee it. That’s what I did with Charlene and you remember that time under the boardwalk…”

“Oh yeah” said Patty, his eyes glazing with bourbon and memory, “I wasn’t there, but I heard about that.”

“You didn’t hear the half of it,” winked DiScala. “What tie you meeting her?”

Patty looked up at the clock in amazement. “I’m late now. I better grab a cab.” He stood and finished his drink.

“Good, you got everything you need?”

“Everything but guts.”

“I mean cash. Got enough?”

“Yeah, I got enough. I think I got enough.”

“Good. Listen, if you get a chance, stop in after. I’ll be here.”

Patty laughed. “I’m half-bagged waiting for you to get here, and this is all I get? ‘The customer is always right’? I expected some fatherly advice.”

“Don’t become one," said DiScala, who seemed to know.

Patty scooped up his change, waved .goodbye to Marianne, and jogged toward the door. The first cab he hailed stopped for him, and he took this as a good omen. The bourbon had mellowed him, completely replacing his wet-palmed nervousness wit blurry confidence. He drummed his fingers on the seat and smiled to himself. “This is it,” he thought as he sped toward his fate.

She was waiting at the newsstand on Seventh Avenue, exactly where she said she would be.

“She’s precise,” said Patty to the driver as he paid his fare.

“You’re late,” she smiled, taking his arm.

“You’re punctual,” he said to her. “And impatient,” he thought to himself. Another good sign.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“I don’t care,” she answered.

He looked around, deciding he needed another drink, and the sooner he got it, the better. There was a sign about halfway down the street: “Jimmy Day’s” it said. He liked the name, and he steered her toward it and his downfall.

It was one of those dark but busy Village bars, where the waiters wore T-shirts and the bartender knew what branch water was. He and she spent most of the evening engrossed in what Patty normally called “deep” conversation and, although once or twice he felt out of his depth. He was convinced that, on the whole, he was holding his own. They talked of books and films, philosophy and music, and Patty was amazed to find that they have so much in common, even though he agreed with almost everything she said, as John had told him to do. When he broached the topic of age, the only thing that separated them in his mind, she waived it away with a flick of her wrist, and Patty’s heart soared. He ordered another drink.

About the only thing that they did disagree on was her favorite subject, and one to which she continually returned: Death.

“You think about it a lot, don’t you?” asked Patty irritably, as she began morbidly maneuvering the conversation again.

“I guess I do,” she nodded, "but it really intrigues me. I mean, I see it as an ultimate experience: It only happens once and then nothing is the same. You only die once."

"I don't believe that," said Patty, summing up all his drunken eloquence. "As a matter of fact, I belong to an offshoot of Roman Catholicism that preaches that you die often."

"Are you talking about reincarnation?"

"No, no," he said disgustedly, "that's a bunch of air. You see, we believe that a human being dies several times in one lifetime. Every day as a matter of fact.

I usually do it on the subway.”

"Are you serious?" she asked suspiciously.

“Of course I am,” he smiled. “As a matter of fact, I’m feeling a little terminal right now.”

“I don’t think that’s funny. Death is not funny to me.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s hysterical. I mean, you fall down, your tongue hangs out, you stare a lot. It’s so slapstick."

“I don’t think it’s so hysterical,” she said quietly, “my father died recently. Of gas. I didn’t laugh much.”

Patty felt as if he had been kicked in the chest. “Oh wow,” he said, “I’m sorry. Hey, listen, I didn’t know. I never would have...did you say gas?”

“That’s right.”

“How can you die of gas?” he asked, stupefied. “I mean, no offense but, nobody does of gas. Everybody gets gas but nobody ever dies from it.”

“He killed himself,” she said rising from the table. “Shall we go to my place?”

He took his time paying the bill, because he found it very difficult finding his money let alone count it.

He also wanted their last exchange to pass into oblivion with less circumstance than her father evidently had. He hoped that if he ignored it, it would go away. He prayed she wouldn’t mention it again.

He took it as a good sing that the bill was enormous, and was glad that she suggested they walk to her apartment, since he was not sure if he could afford the cab fare. He felt lucky that she lived nearby, and even luckier that she did not speak of her father again.

The night air hit him like a sledgehammer, and it was then that he began to totter slightly His head felt stuffy and he feared his eyes might close, but as she took his arm and led him down the winding Village, his sense of well-being returned. As he considered the night up to this point, and where they were headed, his confidence ballooned and, as his mind dwelt on what was to come, she asked the question that began his slide into degradation.

“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, slowing up.

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, no. What did you say?”

“I asked you when was your first time, or would you rather not talk about it?”

“I’ll talk about anything,” he smiled innocently. “What first time?”

“You know, your first time.”

“First…Oh! You mean my, uh, my first time.”

“Yeah, I’m curious. When was it?”

“Well, uh, I shouldn’t tell you this…”

“Then don’t.”

“I have to. I mean, I want to.”

“Well?”

“This is it,” he said with shame.

“Sure it is.” she said skeptically.

“I’ll prove it,” he said, confident that he would.

She lived in the basement apartment of a five floor walkup on Barrow Street. And when they finally got there, Patty Fitz was as drunk as he had ever been, and twice as scared. Yet, he felt, if he could just sit down and have maybe one more drink, he’d be fine. Not just fine, but terrific.

He leaned against the wall for support as she fumbled with her keys, and after she unlocked the door, he stumbled in behind her. The apartment was tiny and had a musty smell, and he was surprised that she didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, she lit three large candles and several sticks of incense.

“Ah,” said Patty Fitz, “nothing like a little atmosphere.”

She smiled and walked to the door and for the first time he noticed a large cast-iron bolt that she slid noisily into its slot.

“Or a little protection,” she countered.

“I always say,” said Patty, as his temples began to pound.

He managed to kill a half-hour with drinks and small talk, but the time was rapidly approaching. Finally, without saying a word, she rose and walked into a small room off the kitchenette. Patty leaned back into the pillows of the couch and shut his eyes. It was at this point, at the most important moment of his life, that he fell asleep.

He wasn’t asleep long, but his dream was very vivid. He was sitting at the bar in a pub, and he was all alone. It was very dark and he held a pistol in his right hand. There was an unbroken hissing sound in the background. He stared at the gun for a long time, and then, with a deep sigh, he put the barrel in his mouth. As he pulled the trigger, his eyes shot open and he was sure that he was dead. He could smell candlewax. Someone was calling his name and he stood and staggered to the doorway of the bedroom. He stuck his head inside and saw her lying there.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“Oh my God,” said Patty Fitz.

An hour later he stood at the door, staring down at his shoes.

“It’s not that bad,” she said, putting an arm around his shoulder, “take it easy.”

“Oh but it is,” he slurred softly. “It is that bad. It’s too bad.” He reached out and pulled the bolt from its slot. It groaned nosily.

“You won’t be back,” she told him. “You’re going to leave, and you’re not going to come back. And that is too bad.”

“I’ll be back. Definitely. I will definitely be back.” He said, stepping outside.

“No, you won’t,” she murmured quietly. But Patty didn’t hear her. He was on the way to the pub.

Patty Fitz slammed through the doors into the gloomy bar, squinting as he searched for DiScala. Although the bar was much more crowed now, John was exactly where he had been five hours earlier, sitting on a stool, a glass in front of him, his twenty intact. As Patty slumped into the stool next to him, Marianne, standing at the jukebox, turned and waived.

“Hey, Casanova!” greeted John. “Back so soon?”

“I’m back. And I wish to Christ I never left.”

“What’s the matter?” asked John, “how’d it go?”

“It went,” said Patty Fitz.

“Huh? What do you mean you died?”

“Exactly that.”

“I don’t believe it. You mean to tell me nothing happened?”

“Oh, something happened all right,” said Patty in alcoholic irony, “I found out that I’m a homosexual.”

“For Christ’s sake,” chided DiScala, “you are not.”

“Oh yes I am. It’s true. Remember I told you my favorite subject was Gym? I found out why tonight.”

“Knock it off, Patty. You rank too much and you had a bad night. We all do. Don’t take it so seriously.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” droned Patty, “you have no idea what it’s like. The pain, the humiliation, the degradation, the money I spent!”

“You stupid bastard,” said John, looking around. He leaned forward and, in a low voice said, “I do know what it’s like. What do you think, you’re unique or something? It happened to me too.”

Patty frowned in disbelief. “You? Get outta here. It never happened to you. Not this.”

DiScala looked around again and whispered, “you remember that time with Charlene? Under the boardwalk?”

“Of course I do,” said Patty impatiently, “but that was just the opposite…”

“No, it wasn’t,” interrupted John, “it was exactly the same.”

“Get outta here! Everybody heard about that night.”

“Patty, I’m telling you the truth. You know what happened that night? I’ll tell you what happened that night. Nothing happened that night.”

“Nothing?”

“I woke up with sand in my mouth. That’s it.”

“You mean…all this time…and nothing happened?”

“That’s right. So take it easy. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Yeah, but h ow did you get Charlene to keep quiet about it?”

“Oh, that was simple. I just told her that if she ever mentioned that night to anyone, I would kill her,” said DiScala.

Patty doubled over and laughed until tears came to his eyes. When he looked up again, Marianne was standing there. “What’s so funny?” she smiled. He smiled back. He reached into his pocket, pulled out what was left of his money, and dropped it into the circles of moisture that dotted the bar.

“Hey Curly, bring us two beers,” said Patty Fitz.

I would rather you remember me as a star

Worshiping me for sewing solar systems together

Blinding, searing, a white dwarf

One rotation away from exploding

Consuming even black holes in all of their might

I would rather remember you as a lightning storm

Striking, lighting me aflame, electrocuting

Brightening up my world for only seconds,

Giving me just enough to stick around

Teasing, taunting, tormenting

Blackening my flesh, you ate away like acid

You burnt out my stitches then blamed me

For falling apart

But instead I'll remember you for your waters

Feeding, rejuvenating, growing me stronger

And you'll remember me for my willingness and understanding

For drinking your rainstorm even when we both knew it was polluted