Plastic Jesus Page 4

  “You didn't. Some random piece of shit did."

  “But I knew ... I knew...” Seth couldn't go on for a minute. Then he said, “I knew he used to pick up rough trade. I knew it was dangerous. But I let him go back to it."

  “What could you do, Seth? You couldn't stay with him out of pity. You didn't love him."

  “I did love him. Just not the way he wished I did."

  “I know,” said Peyton. “I know."

  They were silent for a while. Seth's next whisper was so soft that Peyton missed its meaning. “What?"

  “I love you that way,” Seth said.

  Peyton was glad of the room's darkness then; it hid the blood that rose to his cheeks. “You don't,” he said.

  “I do. You came here ... only you came here ... and I thought ... oh, Christ...” Seth punched a pillow in frustration as he began to sob again.

  “Shhh. Shhh, Seth. You thought what?"

  “I thought: I can get through this. I can get through it with Harold. But if it was you..."

  “Well, it wouldn't be me, would it?” Peyton said reasonably. “I don't do the things Harold did."

  “Not any of them?"

  “What d'you—"

  Seth stopped Peyton's mouth with a kiss.

  Peyton's heart began to hammer in his chest. He pulled back, looked closely at Seth, whose face was full of naked hope. Peyton ran though his immediate reactions and found no revulsion, some curiosity, but most of all a sense that he could do this if it needed to be done. That was what he'd always done for Seth, really—whatever needed to be done for him. An irresistible hook for a song that was a little too raw. A lyric for a wordless riff. A fiver, a word of diplomacy with the suits at the record company, a lift home back in Leyborough when Seth was too drunk to stand. Whatever Seth needed, that was what Peyton did, and if the reason was because Seth was the only person with whom he could write great music—well, that was a kind of love as true as any.

  He put his other hand to Seth's face, brushed hair out of Seth's swollen eyes. He stretched out on the bed and gathered Seth closer to him. Not until they kissed a second time, with open mouths like lovers, did Peyton understand that this act was irrevocable.

  * * * *

  This would change everything between them, and Seth was afraid. But he'd been afraid for a long time and he was sick of it, sick of this new peaceful acid-tamed version of himself, and he suddenly wanted this as much as he had ever wanted anything. It was funny; he'd never once thought of Peyton that way, not even after he realized he liked boys as well as girls. Of course he knew Peyton was a good-looking bastard, anybody could see that. But he was Peyton, little Peyton Masters who'd astonished him in Leyborough by being able to play the guitar as well as Seth despite looking like a posh choirboy, Peyton with whom he'd shared a thousand squalid hotel rooms, train cars, toilets down the corridor. Just Peyton.

  He touched his friend warily, certain that at any moment he would be stopped. Peyton was as straight as a ruler; he'd certainly made that clear enough to Harold early on. But Peyton did not stop him.

  He wondered if Harold's ghost might be somewhere nearby, hovering in a corner of the room perhaps, pleased at least that his death had brought his boys to this room, this moment.

  * * * *

  It was all so slow, so easy. Languid; the word came lazily into Peyton's mind as they held each other, barely moving. He'd thought everything that happened between two men would be as hard and urgent as the cocks that drove them, but this was something else, something like moving into another, previously unknown level of friendship. He felt light-headed, not quite serious—this was, after all, Seth—but also very aroused, much more so than he had expected. He'd expected it to be a comfort for Seth, maybe a blowjob for himself—a man's mouth couldn't feel much different from a woman's. Nothing more.

  Instead it was like a brand-new passion finally given voice, a thing with no urgency and no awkwardness, just a need they both knew how to fill. Sometimes they laughed at the incredibility of it. Sometimes they cried. Toward dawn they fell into a long healing sleep, and woke hours later still intertwined, feeling reborn.

  Neither of them had previously been quick to commit to anything that might be called love, despite the number of women who'd been anxious to bag them—increasingly so as the fame and the money got bigger. Yet somehow, from that night on, Peyton and Seth knew they were together. It wasn't so different from before, really; for a long time theirs had been a marriage of sorts.

  * * * *

  At first, it was astonishing how little their lives changed. Already there was no need to manage money; it turned out that Harold had taken a bit more than his share of their early contracts, but he had willed that share, along with all his other worldly goods, to Seth. So they kept both houses, but usually stayed at Seth's because it was closer to the center of London. The house became a cocoon for them, a fantasy castle from which they emerged occasionally to buy food or fill social obligations. Those first few months were like nothing so much as a reprise of when they'd first met, their new intoxication with each other similar to that time, though it came from a different source.

  Mark and Dennis knew. There was no way anyone who had much contact with Peyton and Seth could fail to know. They didn't seem to mind, and what if they had? The fans, the press, and most of all the four musicians knew that Peyton and Seth were the heart and brain of the Kydds:

  Mark and Dennis weren't about to walk out on a gold mine just because their bandmates were sucking each other's cocks.

  But the news of their relationship hadn't hit the media yet. It was the first time in his career that Peyton was uncertain of his ability to charm his way through a potential mess. It was 1967, homosexuality had just been decriminalized in Britain, and gay relationships were better accepted than they had ever been before, but that still wasn't saying much. Certainly Harold Loomis had received little sympathy from any quarter. There had been no real police effort to catch the murderer, despite a 50,000 British pound sterling reward offered by the band. The public consensus seemed to be that Harold was a vile predator who had somehow taken advantage of the loveable Kydds, and in being beaten to death by a fellow pervert, he'd only gotten what he deserved.

  If the press got hold of this other thing, Peyton wasn't sure he and Seth would still have careers. But Seth would never keep quiet; Seth was all about not keeping quiet. In fact, Seth wanted to call a press conference.

  “This is who we are, Peyt. This is us. Does it feel like something that ought to be hidden?"

  “No, but—"

  “Fuck it then. If people hate queers so much, let them hate us. We've made our money. Let the fame go."

  That wasn't so easy for Peyton to think about. He liked the fame much more than Seth ever had, and Seth knew it. “I don't want to sit on my ass and count the money we've made. I want to keep making music."

  “We will make music—with or without Dennis and Mark. People can decide for themselves whether it's as good as before."

  They'll say it isn't, Peyton thought. Even if it's the best music we've ever made, you know they'll say it isn't. He wondered if he was right or just afraid.

  * * * *

  Harold's funeral was private, but of course the press got in. When you were big enough, the press always got in. Seth knew that was one thing he wouldn't miss about fame if it left him.

  At the graveside, he reached over and took Peyton's hand. Flashbulbs went off in the distance. Seth wondered how much even the London paparazzi could make of two friends holding hands at a third friend's funeral.

  Well, he promised himself, if they try to make anything of it, I'll give them more than they bargained for.

  * * * *

  But nothing came of those photos. So Peyton worried, and Seth watched television. In this paleolithic era of technology, he had managed to purchase a device that would change the channels at the press of a button, so that he could sit cross-legged and naked in bed flipping through them for hours.
From the cathode torrent he gleaned song lyrics and bits of obscure knowledge.

  Peyton always made sure there were plenty of good drugs around: acid, weed of stratospheric quality, occasional downers. Sometimes Seth thought Peyton was trying to keep him quiet by keeping him stoned. Sometimes he thought it was working. The drugs made him feel cozy and contented. The pain of Harold's death began to fade, and Seth wondered why he had ever wanted to throw away such a perfect life for the sake of a principle. He'd never considered his romantic relationships public business before; why should that change now? He was happy with Peyton. The loving was great, the music was great, and everyone was nice to them everywhere they went. If he told, how much of that would change?

  So when somebody offered him a line of heroin at a party, Seth snorted it with no hesitation. He liked it a lot, and soon managed to get some more. As long as he didn't inject it, he couldn't get a habit; he kept telling himself that like a mantra. Heroin was the final step in the warm-safe-Mummy equation he'd been trying to solve for years. Seth felt as if he would never need to worry about anything again.

  Peyton didn't approve of heroin, which didn't stop him from trying it once. They lay curled together on their bed, swathed in cashmere blankets, floating on the warm narcotic sea. “It is awfully nice,” Peyton admitted. “Too nice. No wonder you never get anything done anymore."

  “I've written two songs this month."

  “You used to write ten a month."

  “Fuck you, Peyt. Can't you just enjoy a thing?"

  “I can,” Peyton said. “For now, I can.” He propped himself on one elbow and began to kiss Seth deeply. For a few hours the problems went away.

  In this manner, two years passed. The Kydds released two new albums, each marking a major growth not just in their music but in the concept of rock music itself. Or so the critics said. The Kydds themselves never quite stopped feeling like four ne'er-do-wells from Leyborough, and in their weaker moments they supposed the world would see through them eventually, but in the meantime they intended to have fun. Mark and Dennis had their money, their girls. Seth had his happy home and his little low-grade habit. And Peyton, as he'd wished for long ago, had everything.

  viii

  By 1969, Peyton didn't worry as much as he used to, but Seth still watched a great deal of TV. He watched commercials, cartoon shows, body counts from the war in Vietnam all with equal absorption. That summer he saw something that would change both their lives.

  Seth had become something of a recluse in these past two years. If the Kydds weren't in the studio, Seth was usually in bed. He had a never-ending stack of books, a bunch of daily newspapers from all over the world, his cigar box full of drugs, his mirror and razor blades and rolling papers. And, of course, the TV. If Peyton was in the house, Seth was always yelling at him to come here right now, Peyt, you've gotta see this. But it was usually something interesting. This time it was more interesting than usual.

  The BBC was showing a news clip of a riot in New York. At first Peyton thought it was a race riot. Then he saw that the rioters were of all different races, and that many of the men were in drag. They were jeering at policemen, throwing rocks and bottles. As Seth and Peyton watched, a policeman jumped back into his patrol car and peered out at the crowd, looking almost comically terrified.

  Seth filled in the blanks. A gay bar in Greenwich Village, the Stonewall Inn, had been raided by the police. In America, gay bars weren't illegal in theory, but in practice they could be raided at any time and the patrons arrested on morals charges. Usually those who weren't arrested slunk away, hoping to escape the notice of the police. This time, apparently, they hadn't.

  For the first time in he wasn't sure how long, Peyton thought of Harold. How many places had he been forced to slink away from in his short life?

  Some of the young men in front of the Stonewall Inn were shirtless. They draped themselves over one another and kissed for the cameras. They were reckless and gorgeous. They looked the way Peyton had felt when the Kydds first started up, when he hadn't cared about anything but playing loud American rock and roll.

  “We have to go there!” Seth said.

  With an effort, Peyton dragged his eyes away from the screen and looked at his partner. Seth was thinner than he'd been in years. His eyes glittered hectically. God only knew how many things he was high on right now. But he was also excited, excited about doing something that involved leaving the house, excited in a way Peyton hadn't seen him get lately.

  He knew that he hadn't discouraged Seth's heroin habit as he should have. Seth mightn't be writing as much as he used to, but the songs he did write were among the best he'd ever done. With Seth on smack, Peyton could have his partner, his lover, his band, and his peace all rolled into one. Seth hadn't felt like giving interviews, let alone holding press conferences, for quite some time now. Peyton handled most of the publicity. If pressed about his personal life, he said he was seeing an actress.

  He looked back at the TV and felt a deep stab of shame.

  “We have to go,” Seth said again.

  Peyton sat on the edge of the bed, slid his arm around Seth's waist, leaned his head against Seth's. “Yeah,” he said finally, “I suppose we do."

  * * * *

  They were only there a little while before the glut of fans and media got so thick that they had to leave for their own safety. But in this case, a little while was enough.

  They'd left London that very night, arrived in New York the next morning, slept all afternoon at the St. Regis, then gone down to the Village. The rioting was over, the bar closed for the moment, but people were still congregating in front of the Stonewall Inn. The summer evening was clear and blue, the smell of sweat intoxicating. This had become a pilgrimage spot, no less to Seth and Peyton than any of the others.

  They stood on the sidewalk talking to people, their arms slung casually round each other like so many other pairs of young men on this hot summer evening. “Aren't you Seth Grealy and Peyton Masters?” someone finally asked, half-embarrassed—New Yorkers were supposed to be so cool about celebrities—and they said yes.

  Someone else asked the question that would become a cliché: “Are you two, uh, together?"

  Everyone laughed—perhaps it was already a cliché—and they could have dodged the question that time. But they just said yes again, and the love that engulfed them from this crowd seemed much more genuine than anything they'd ever felt on a stage.

  What would become, arguably, their most famous interview was captured on tape by a reporter who'd been drinking down the street at the Lion's Head. Someone in the crowd filmed them with a small movie camera as they spoke. The reporter and the cameraman would later pair up, sell their footage for a small fortune, and spend the next decade traveling through Asia.

  REPORTER: So what brings the Kydds to the Village?

  SETH: It's just us two. We came because of Stonewall. We saw it on TV and thought, you know, we have to come. Because of our relationship.

  REPORTER: What relationship?

  SETH (unable to resist batting his eyes a bit): He's my boyfriend.

  REPORTER: Peyton?

  PEYTON: “Boyfriend” isn't the word I would choose, but yes, we've been together for two years, and it's only our own prejudices that have caused us to lie about it. What's happened here gave us courage we should have had sooner.

  (He is nearly drowned out by raucous cheering from the crowd.)

  REPORTER: What will your fans think? Aren't you afraid of the effect this will have on your career?

  SETH: Personally I don't give a fuck. Anyway we've got less to lose than most of the people who rioted here.

  PEYTON: You can't live your whole life being afraid of the effect things will have...

  SETH: You bleedin’ well can! Most people do! Our manager did, you know, and they killed him for it. But not us. Not any more. Peyton's always been my musical partner. Now he's my life partner. Your country's at war—call this our contribution to peace.
>
  (More noise from the crowd.)

  REPORTER: Are the Kydds still a band?

  PEYTON: We'll find out when we get home, won't we?

  * * * *

  But they did not go home yet. Their New York visit stretched out to days, then weeks. Occasionally someone would say something nasty to them on the streets, but this happened less often than they had expected. More frequently they got grins, thumbs-up, power salutes. They could not believe that their mere presence had changed the tenor of feelings about Stonewall, but given the public reaction, they could not discount that possibility either.

  Their first interview as a couple had been impromptu. After that, they chose their outlets carefully. They were not afraid to argue their case, but they knew from experience how words and even film clips could be twisted to fit an agenda.

  Seth was still taking a lot of drugs, but he was also getting out, exploring the city, talking to people. Maybe it was just freedom from the burden of a secret, but the New York Seth seemed more fully alive than the man Peyton had known in London. He wondered if politics might be a galvanizing force for Seth, a less destructive catalyst than heroin.

  At the end of their first month in New York they accepted an invitation to appear on the cover of Newsweek. The accompanying story was favorable, if a bit mystified in tone: the female reporter who interviewed them could not imagine how two rich and famous musicians who had women practically crawling through their windows could choose to be with each other instead. Seth's explanation that it was not so much choice as destiny seemed to have gone right over her head. But, the article went on, if two such beloved public figures had decided to go public with their homosexuality in the wake of the Stonewall riots, then perhaps it was time to consider homosexuality in a different light.