CHAPTER 43

In Retrospect

Baby, It’s Cold Outside. —Retrospect Band, USA

In retrospect is defined as “in consideration of the past or past events.” There are many past events in life we want to forget. When reading my story, you will find gaps, and in some years, little is mentioned. I just wanted to forget some events.

The year was 1977, the year I almost lost Michael. Just like in 1967, very similar when Michael disappeared. It was in January of 1967 that “The Beat Goes On” hit number 6 on the billboard charts. It was now 1977, and I knew where Michael was and his challenge was “Stayin’ Alive.” Thank you, Bee Gees, for the disco music. Michael was in New York City. The month was June. It was the last weekend of the month. The celebration was Stonewall and gay pride.

I was too busy with the hotel construction, which was right on schedule. We were gearing up for the grand opening in August. There was too much to be done. I declined the trip to NYC to celebrate gay pride on the anniversary of the Stonewall riot. Remember, Michael was there when history was made in 1969.

Michael will tell you his story once more. Or at least up to a point.

June 23, 1977 - I arrived in Manhattan and will stay in Greenwich Village, near the landmark of the old Stonewall Inn, the gay historic site of the revolutionary 1969 Stonewall rebellion. Not much has changed since I was here in 1969. The neighborhood has improved though.

“Drinks are on me!” I yelled over the din of the music. I handed the bartender $500 and told him to serve free drinks until he had used $400. The last $100 was for his tip. I had two bottles of Southern Comfort in my hand, refilling glass after glass as they emptied. I took gulps from the bottles between refills.

June 24, 1977 - A few of us from the bar last night decided to go to Fire Island for the day. Of course, I was naked as long as I could get away with it. The beach was patrolled, so eventually I had to put something on, or else I would have been arrested when we caught sight of the beach patrol. To torment the local officials, I wore the smallest swimsuit that barely covered me front and back. At thirty-seven I still looked damn good. And of course, the younger guys flocked around me as I was harassed by the beach police patrol for indecent exposure. When one is so graciously endowed and wearing just a patch of cloth, being indecent is debatable. The crowd that gathered shouted loudly until the beach patrol went away.

Five of us from the beach decided to go see Saturday Night Fever, a new movie that had just come out, right after dinner. We ended up at the bar again in Greenwich Village. The hotel was just a block away, so drinks flowed again. This was a celebration weekend, and I remained in a drunken stupor most of the time.

June 25, 1977 - It’s Saturday morning as I write this quickly before I leave the hotel after several cups of coffee. The theme this year is “Stonewall 8,” and the target is the anti-homophobe, orange juice queen Anita “Paper Roses” Bryant out of orangey Florida! What a hateful witch she is, spelled with a capital B! That probably explains why the gathering for this Gay Pride Parade is the biggest by far since the Stonewall riot in June of 1969. Last night the bars were filled to capacity, thanks once again to my generosity.

No one, and I mean no one, had come close to unifying the gay community like this hatemonger Anita the Bee. She stung everyone when she spouted her evangelical tirades of hate against gay people. Trust me, I am no saint, but I do respect other people’s opinions and freedom of religious expression, except when it turns into hate.

I thought God is a god of love and a respecter of no one, not hateful. What a hypocrite this queen bitch is, a Christian hater.

June 25, 1977, continued later. I’m going to the new Studio 54 club over on West Fifty-Fourth Street later. The day was fun parading down the street, wearing only my Speedo and tennis shoes. The address, believe it or not, is 254. The club just opened, and I hear there are many famous people who show up there. I’m going on my own.

*     *     *

It was early Sunday morning when I got the phone call. Michael was in the hospital. It was highly suggested I come to New York City immediately. Michael was on life support in the intensive care unit.

I called the Eagleton airport and had them ready the corporate jet. I left immediately. The flight to NYC was excruciating. I had no idea the condition Michael was in. The caller would not elaborate.

A car was waiting for me when I arrived at the airport. We, the driver and I, made it to the hospital in record time. I had been informed Michael was in the ICU, so the information desk directed me to where I needed to go.

I met the doctor at the nurse’s station, and he informed me Michael had a concussion and was in a coma. He had scrapes and bruises, several broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. Michael had also been raped. My immediate thought was, Again?

Then I asked myself, How could this have happened? Michael is a fighter. And he was raped again? What the hell! That thought would not go away.

The police interviewed me. They said someone had called when they found Michael lying unconscious in an alley as they took their morning walk with their dog. In fact, it was the dog who pulled their master into the alley.

They said he was lying there unconscious, bleeding, mangled, with his pants around his ankles, naked. His T-shirt, bloodied, lay to the side.

The doctor further explained that they noticed, upon examination, that Michael’s rectum overflowed with semen, more than what one man could deposit. The doctor’s assumption was that Michael had been raped by more than one guy. Also, Michael was bleeding from the rectum. This told the doctors that the rape was violent and intrusive. There was no evidence of a foreign object penetration.

Michael lay there with tubes down his throat. His head was bandaged. One side of his face, I assumed, was rubbed raw against the asphalt along with his shoulders. More scars would remain. His lips were swollen and cracked, his eyes blackened with the right eye swollen shut. His nose had been broken also.

An IV was in his arm, which was dotted with bruises like he was forcibly grabbed, leaving finger marks. His ribs were wrapped tightly in bandages. His knees were also rubbed raw.

I thanked God that Michael’s head had not been bashed in and there weren’t any stab wounds located on his body. His assailants’ intent, the police assumed, was to beat Michael and rape him, and if he died, so be it. How many there were, we’ll never know. All I know is, to take down Michael, there had to be many and he had to have been taken by surprise.

It was a tense weekend for all. There must have been many hate-mongers demonstrating, waiting for the right opportunity to plead their views against gay pride gatherers. Just like in San Francisco, it could have been a bunch of young men from the suburbs coming into the city to do harm.

 Michael was a victim of that hate. Damn you, Anita Bryant!