Spinning the Record: Stories

By Robert Hyers

Spinning The Record documents the search of its impoverished queer white and Latino protagonists for individuality inside the spectrum of the gay identity. Within the primary settings of gay clubs and raves in Manhattan and urban areas of New Jersey, these protagonists search for meaning and identity through illicit drugs, sex, pop culture, Greek mythology, and Christian iconography.

"Robert Hyers shows us the magical side of the familiar in these enchanting stories. He unveils the numinous and terrible possibilities of bars, boutiques and ordinary apartments; things we know, but too often fail to see in all of their complexity. These tales trace the seams where body and soul, the mythic and the mundane meet; even better, they point out the ways in which those fissures both separate us and create space to reach out to one another." -Peter Dubé, author of Subtle Bodies and Beginning with the Mirror

"Never before has the question, 'What was your first bar, seemed so urgent. Robert Hyers's stories not only recognize their importance, but they capitalize on them - evoking their full range of fear, thrill and dramatic action." - Jonathan Harper, author of Daydreamers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lethe Press
• Release date: Jul 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370198207

Robert Hyers

Robert Hyers grew up in New Jersey and earned his M.F.A. from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Along with the work reprinted for this collection, he’s also been published in Swell Zine, Locust Magazine, and Khimairal Ink. He teaches freshman and sophomore college writing in New Jersey and is a regular visiting writer at River Pretty Writers Retreat in Missouri.

Book preview

SPINNING THE RECORD

Copyright © 2016 Robert Hyers. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in 2016 by Lethe Press, Inc. at Smashwords.com

www.lethepressbooks.com / [e-mail]

ISBN: 978-1-59021-479-4 / 1-59021-479-X

Most of these stories were previously published as follows:

Haunts was a finalist in Saints and Sinners Short Fiction Contest 2012; published in the corresponding anthology / constant twilight published as twilight in 3:AM Magazine / Stuart and His Mannequin published in Q Review / It’s the Boots published in Shine... The Journal / Bosom Buddies published in Jonathan 09 / Eleusis was a finalist in Saints and Sinners Short Fiction Contest 2014; published in the corresponding anthology / Drama published in Ignavia Press / Spinning the Record published in The Battered Suitcase; reprinted in The Summerset Review

Lyrics quoted in the story Drama from Club 69’s DRAMA, © 1997, used with the kind permission of Peter Rauhofer

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover and ebook design: Inkspiral Design.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Hyers, Robert, author.

Title: Spinning the record / Robert Hyers.

Description: Maple Shade, New Jersey : Lethe Press, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016007935 | ISBN 9781590215227 (pbk. : alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Gay men--Fiction. | Disc jockeys--Fiction. | Psychological

fiction. | GSAFD: Love stories.

Classification: LCC PS3608.Y47 A6 2016 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016007935

Most came to Limelight, the infamous church turned night club and one of our haunts, for drugs and sex, but I came for Robbie. I waited at the entrance of the tiny DJ booth which stood directly across the nave turned dance floor and one floor up; it let Robbie be far enough to see most of the dancers, and close enough to tell if they were enjoying the music. I watched his thin body hunched over the lights and dials. When he was naked I could see his spine run like a mountain range from his shoulder blades to his waist. Two records spun on either side. Robbie wore his right headphone and the other pressed flat the bleach-blond hair behind his left ear. He was moving one song into the next. From my angle I couldn’t see which dials he turned, but it sounded like he was turning down the bass in the last song, and at the same time turning it up in the new song. He had told me once that he liked this effect; it gave the music a certainty divinity, helped the dancing become a religious experience.

He stood up and looked out onto a landscape of dancing lasers and shadows, his landscape. He was so accomplished at twenty-three and here I was only seventeen, finishing high school, unsure of what I wanted to do with my life. He pulled the slim needle from the record and lifted it off the revolving metal platter.

Guess who? I said.

I can’t imagine, he said flatly. He turned. He looked me up and down: his eyes widened with appreciation. I wore a tight purple shirt and even tighter jeans; I knew he would like it.

How’s it goin’? he asked, as if talking to a stranger.

Good.

I didn’t want to stop there. I wanted to tell him I missed being with him. When we were alone together in his studio apartment I felt free, in control of the entire world, like I felt when, on a clear day, I could see almost all of Puerto Rico atop Cerro de Punta, during the summers Mami could afford to fly us over to visit my abuelos. But those moments alone with Robbie were becoming scarce. I still felt the same intensity for Robbie as I did when we’d met but it seemed to be fading for Robbie, like the vapor rising from the steam grates carved into the dirty downtown streets outside.

Robbie studied me again. I like the shirt.

Thank you.

And let’s see if those jeans show off the goods, he said, circling his finger, his signal for me to turn and show him my ass.

Very nice, I heard him say. My ass was a little large in proportion to the rest of my body and I never thought anything of it; growing up in the mostly Puerto Rican and Dominican section of Washington Heights, almost everyone I came into contact with had an ass like mine. I didn’t start thinking about it until I had started clubbing with Amarii and getting attention from the white boys. Sometimes I enjoyed the attention; sometimes I found it annoying. But I always enjoyed it from Robbie. I faced him again.

You comin’ home with me?

We’ll see, I said coyly, tilting my head. Are you gonna play a record by my girl sometime tonight?

We’ll see.

We both knew my girl was Madonna. Robbie liked her too. Amarii couldn’t stand her, always said she didn’t have an original thought in that rich, self-centered, white head of hers. Amarii had an older brother who was gay too and told Amarii stories of frequenting the Manhattan clubs, including Limelight, in the late eighties, when young gay minorities had created houses, or small groups of dancers, who would vogue in dance contests. Next thing you knew it was Madonna’s new track and fifteen-year-old-white suburban kids were vogueing at their high school dances. But I liked that about Madonna, the fact that she could marry two unalike things, make an underground minority subculture palatable to straight-laced white kids.

Robbie’s eyes turned to the turntables, then back to me. Not all of us can lounge around here, dear, he said. Some of us have to work. I couldn’t tell if he was being playful or serious.

I’ll let you get back to it then.

Instead of turning away I pulled him in for an embrace. He wrenched himself away; beneath layers of T-shirt and skin I felt his ribcage slip past my fingertips. I really need to get back to this, he said, annoyed. Embarrassed, I left the booth and climbed the metal stairs to the bubble room to find Amarii.

It was called the bubble room because, from the dance floor, one wall resembled a large bubble. Kept unusually cold and built to muffle the outside music, it was the perfect place to take a breather from hours of dancing. Amarii was splayed out on one of the blue vinyl couches, his shoulder bag crumpled in his lap and his long legs encased in skintight jeans stretched wide apart. His tie was already loosened and his one arm extended across the back of the couch. Even in the cold of the bubble room he had already rolled up the sleeves of his striped button-down shirt to the elbows, exposing his Dominican skin which was slightly darker than mine. Our skin was another thing that seemed to drive the white boys crazy; not just the color but its flawlessness; Mami used to joke in Spanish that we had such clear skin because the islands were pure.

Are you upset? Amarii asked. He sat up and patted the now empty seat next to him, signaling me to sit.

A little.

You wanna smoke?

I thought you’d never ask.

Finally, that maricón got what he deserved and we can do our drugs in here in peace again, Amarii said, smiling his devil’s smile that cut dimples into his cheeks. He was referring, of course, to the fact that Michael Alig, who had fallen in six short years from club kid darling and the national face of Limelight in 1990 to drug dealer and murderer, was now in prison and no longer in the news. This meant the cops were no longer hounding Limelight’s owner, and consequently, Limelight’s security no longer hounded us, stepping out of the Gothic shadows at inopportune times to confiscate our drugs.

I remembered last year when that story first broke; Mami and her friend from across the hall were chatting on the couch and the murder victim appeared on television, his face covered in a thin layer of snow like everything else we watched because I could never get the bunny ears to stay in the right position. His name was Angel too and he wore a form-fitting black leather outfit with white angel wings. I cringed because he looked so gay. I had already realized I was gay and hoped that Mami and her friend didn’t realize it too from looking at this other Angel.

It’s a shame that boy’s dead, Mami said.

Sí the neighbor said. But they’re patos, he continued, his meaty hands waving with authority. Running around all hours of the night, doing drugs, sleeping around. Something bad was gonna happen.

Sí, Mami responded. But no one deserves that. I knew why she was so forgiving; my favorite tío, her youngest brother, had been gay.

Amarii pulled the dime bag and bowl from his shoulder bag. He pinched a good amount of pot from his dime bag, pushed it down into his bowl, carefully lit it with a disposable lighter, and inhaled.

You know Mami doesn’t want to see you in the apartment when she gets home tomorrow morning, Amarii said as he passed me the bowl and lighter.

I took a hit. The burn traveled down my throat and into my chest. I returned the bowl and lighter to Amarii. I know. I overheard her talking to you. I figured this would have to happen; I had been staying with Amarii for a few days now. My mami and Amarii’s had been friends for years and both just wanted what was best for me. And to be honest, I was kind of relieved. I didn’t like leaving but felt I had no choice. Mami and I were always close, ever since my father died in a construction accident when I was still a toddler. She put herself through night school for nursing and I was thrown a lot of responsibility at a young age. I kept the apartment straightened up and made sure my homework was done and ready to review when she returned home well after dark. She taught me how to cook, first side dishes like plátanos and rice, then more complicated main dishes like arroz con gandules. When I was a little older I prepared dinner when she worked the day shift and had breakfast, usually a Spanish omelet, waiting for her when she worked nights. Most kids would’ve resented this, especially as teenagers, but I didn’t. Mami and I were a team. Angel, I don’t know how I’d survive without you here, she told me on several occasions. We depended on each other. Until she found Robbie and me together.

Once we finished smoking, Amarii put the dime bag and bowl back in his bag. I felt hollow as we stared ahead at the bubble.

Do you feel better? Amarii asked.

I feel like a ghost.

You always say that when we smoke.

I always feel that way.

I heard a cluster of footsteps climb the metal stairs. Michael and his fag hag, Gabrielle appeared. I didn’t mind them but Amarii couldn’t stand them. The two were in some sort of hospital motif. Michael, wearing a long white overcoat with a patch above the breast pocket that read Orgasm Donor and a toy stethoscope hugging his neck, stood with one hand on his bent hip and held a toy syringe in the other as if poised to inject. Gabrielle wore the skimpy nurse’s uniform, complete with short skirt, red medical crosses over the breast pockets, and that little folded hat, which sat atop a shoulder length wig of poker straight black hair parted in the middle. The uniform top was almost three quarters of the way undone, and a tight-fitting black lace bra pushed her large breasts together.

Gabrielle waved her hand back and forth in the air. My God, did someone smoke up without us? More importantly, where’s our share?

All out now, Amarii said. So sorry.

I’m sure you are, Gabrielle responded suspiciously.

So what’s with the outfits? Amarii asked. They’re kinda weird, even for you two.

We’re celebrating, Gabrielle said. Late Friday—or early this morning, I can’t remember—Michael had his first overdose! She let out a trickle of excited applause.

Congratulations! Amarii said and took Michael’s small hand. The white plastic bandage from the IV was still attached to Michael’s wrist. Maybe next time it will take.

Children! I said, using a weak attempt at humor to diffuse the tension. Don’t make me separate the three of you.

Amarii rolled his eyes; he’d heard this line before. Gabrielle smiled faintly and Michael followed suit.

Mami had gotten off work early that afternoon. She screamed when she stumbled on Robbie and me. I had tensed with fear when I heard the slide and click of the bulky lock behind me and the apartment door swing open. My teeth scraped against Robbie’s