Finally, I get to write about Stanley. Nearly two weeks ago, I started to think about writing a story poking into my time at the ’64 World’s Fair, followed by my cross country adventure with the only queen I ever slept with, sort of. How’s that for a tease?
I have loads of stories and I don’t want to continually write about the state of things, from Dallas to Baton Rouge to Baghdad. Blind anger is being driven by poverty and helplessness against a global game of poker with a marked deck, the obscenely rich and powerful dealing from the bottom. Inequality is the cancer that kills off hope, guaranteeing endless fodder for my forays into a seriously fucked up world, but it is Stanley Time now.
I have really been looking forward to sitting down and planned on getting started today, on a Sunday afternoon, following my ride with the Sons of Kauai, my weekly motorcycle ritual. After perfect rides like today, I am incredibly energized and at the same time, very relaxed and enriched. The only challenge regarding this perfect scenario is thumb wrestling with a chest cold. By the time you read this, I won’t be contagious, so there is nothing to worry about.
Sorry for the long introduction, but that is how I tell my stories sometimes.
Travel back in time with me to the summer of 1964, the first year of the World’s Fair at Shea Stadium in NYC. These monstrosities were like a Disneyland for countries and large corporations, a massive public relations effort. People would come from all over the world to visit.
I was finishing my sophomore year at Queens College and as a kid who started seriously working in the sixth grade, the idea of working at the World’s Fair was unbelievably exciting and the pay was good. Myself and some of the guys got jobs with Greyhound, who was responsible for transportation within the Fair. I ended up driving something called an Escorter, a golf cart with a couch in the front. I chauffeured people all over the grounds, a little open air limousine for those who could afford the $9 per hour meter charge. They were mechanical nightmares, continually breaking down and every now and then, bursting into flames. I was nineteen and had the time of my life. Attendance started slowing down toward the end of summer and I was laid off with a bunch of others.
Neil and I wanted to transport a car to the West Coast and get back in time for the start of college. The idea of driving cross country has been a part of American mythology since the Model T and I was all of nineteen with romantic tendencies. He was a year older and had this weird fixation about acting like a Marine. He had a crew cut and he would go Marine without any provocation, but it felt like a toothless effort.
You needed to be at least twenty-five in order to sign for the car. We put an ad in the Daily News, looking for someone who would make our trip possible. Stanley was the only person who responded and we arranged to meet with him in his uptown walk up, near Columbia University. Neil and I walked the creaky steps in a dimly lit hallway. We got to the fourth floor and knocked on Stanley’s door.
During our one earlier phone call, we could easily hear an over the top gay man on the other end. We were not let down when Stanley opened the door. He was around 6’5”, pants up high over his waist, a dark t shirt and pair of sneakers that he pattered around in. His walk was classic, left hand on hip, swaying back and forth in silky strides, but it was the right hand that left no doubt. He held his hand like he was balancing a small tray with four champagne glasses, resting on his open palm, defying gravity by not spilling a sip.
Neil and I wanted to do this ride. We made good money at the Fair and set aside enough for this trip, leaving the balance for survival at school during the coming year. Having no idea what we were getting ourselves into, we agreed to partner with Stanley on this adventure. We picked up a new model, Mercury station wagon somewhere in Westchester. The week long trip was mapped out, taking us right through the middle of the country. In 1964, a 6’5” showy, gay man was not an every day occurrence. Think about how many times you would get in and out of a car on a trip like this and each time, Stanley was your flag bearer.
At a Kansas City diner, we had a full blown Five Easy Pieces Chicken Salad Episode and instead of a snotty, spoiled Jack Nicholson, we have Stanley wanting to know the full details of how his tuna salad sandwich was going to be prepared. With each new question, his tray hand moved in unison with his exaggerated exasperation over not being clear whether butter or oil was used in the tuna.
We had a wonderful silent movie experience when the three of us walked out of our cabin at the Grand Canyon. We were greeted by silent stares that I remember fifty years later. Every motel we stayed in always had two beds and the very first night we had to choose who got the single bed. Neil and I created the 2-2-1-2 format and somehow Stanley always got the bed to himself.
Stanley was on this trip to meet with friends, who lived in the Hollywood Hills, a stylish enclave back then and now. We dropped off the car, then Neil and I went to the Y, where would luxuriate during our LA stay. We cleaned up and took a cab to the party. I remember opening the door and seeing a roomful of animated, well dressed men, positive I wasn’t in Kansas. I did the only thing I could think of in such a confusing environment, I drank too many Bloody Mary’s and the room went on spin cycle. The host of the party, whose name I forget and I apologize, said I should go to sleep in his bedroom, which I did.
I stumbled into the bedroom and passed out on the bed. I woke up hours later with the host sitting on top of me and kissing me. No, I did not punch him in the mouth and then bust an ashtray over his head. I cried and told him to stop, which he did.
During the days that followed, we would talk about a choice he felt I had to make. Back then, I had no idea what was going on, other than feeling I was more interested in girls and had barely begun that adventure. He told me he was buying a bar in Honolulu and I could work there if I agreed to be with him. I had a terrific time during my brief stay in LA. He was incredibly respectful and I have stayed on this side ever since, but don’t consider it a major triumph. I still haven’t figured women out after all these years and here I stand.
The adventure with Stanley was one of my best because of what it gave me and I carry it with me today. Sexuality is a wonderful balancing act, swaying like Stanley’s outstretched palm. It was a great road trip and it changed me.