Manhattan - 1969
John is a Vietnam veteran who has been dishonorably discharged for homosexual misconduct. His father has disowned him on the grounds he won't renounce an integral part of who he is. The citizenry isn't kind to returning vets and without work, he quickly finds himself homeless. But he meets up with an unlikely person at the Stonewall Inn, who he immediately defends and finds himself inexplicably attracted to - Dr. Rodney McKay, Phd Phd, technology and physics professor at City College.
âHey, you! Tramp!â An angry cop stared down at John, hand on his sidearm, pulling him out of his thoughts, âThis ainât a motel, Shithole! You some kind of fag or somethinâ? Move along!â
John nodded, without uttering a word. He slowly stood up, backing away, not daring to breathe again until he was out of the officerâs line of sight. Around the corner, he let out a shaky breath, his hands clammy, his nerves a wreck.
Heâd had run-ins with cops before for loitering (or sleeping on park benches when there was nowhere else to go) and had learned his lesson the hard way. His instincts told him to fight but his common sense said otherwise. They had guns and he didnât. It was that simple and life was different here. He was sorely outmanned and outgunned, unlike overseas.
John glanced at his surroundings. This area wasnât completely new to him. Heâd been boarding in Greenwich village for the past few weeks. But sleeping on a park bench wasnât going to work out much longer. It had been three long cold nights and he wasnât any closer to finding a decent apartment or even a dingy one. No one around here seemed to be hiring and try as he might, he could only pick up the odd job for a meal but nothing more permanent.
Heâd been boarding with the Morrisons on Hudson Street. Mr. Morrison owned a print shop and agreed to pay John a few dollars a day for odd jobs and room and board. It wasnât much but at least he was off the street. His wife, Mrs. Morrison, was a kindly woman, early fifties perhaps, plump and used to a hard life but without children of her own. She had enjoyed having John around.
It wasnât until a few days before, Mrs. Morrison had discovered the last shred of evidence that John had any connection to the U.S. Air Force in his pants pocket during laundry day. It was a silver pair of Air Force aviator wings Holland had given to him. Theyâd exchanged them as a token of their affections for each other. John couldnât bear to part with it after leaving the service.
Unfortunately, Mr. Morrison came up behind her to see about lunch before she had a chance to hide it again. He called John to the top of the stairs to confront him. She was mortified when her husband threw the wings out the open window of their upstairs apartment while screaming at John.
âGet out of here, you fucking baby killer!â Mr. Morrison was enraged as he chased John down the stairs and out the front door. âYou deliberately hid it from us! You piece of shit!â
Mr. Morrison took a swing at John. He was short but stocky and still spry for a man of almost sixty. John dodged him and was nearly in tears, thinking heâd lost Hollandâs wings and a place to stay. Heâd felt comfort in Mrs. Morrison, who took him in, even though he hadnât said much.
âPlease, Mr. MorrisonâŚFrankâŚI ââ
âDonât âFrankâ me, Asshole! I never want to see you in this neighborhood again! If I ever catch you here IâllâŚâ He shook his fist at John and slammed the door, locking it soundly.
John frantically looked under the window for the wings, finding them under a bush near the wall a few minutes later. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was a small thing but it was all he had left of Lyle.
Mrs. Morrison stood at the upstairs window staring down at him sadly. A few minutes later, she snuck out the door, her husband had gone below to his printing press, and handed John his extra clothes in a sack and brown paper bag filled with sandwiches for the road.
âIâm sorry about this, Johnny. I donât think youâre a baby killer or any of those awful things Frank said but he gets this way when he feels strongly about politics. If things get too bad for you, come to the back door and throw some pebbles up at my window. Iâll have a meal for you to take with you at least.â She hugged him and he nearly broke down right there but held off.
âWonât that make Frank mad at you?â John didnât want things to go badly for her on his account.
She shrugged and smiled sadly, âItâs Frank. Heâs always mad.â
