Scott Sherman: First You Fall

“Are you happy now?” I asked him.

“The happiest I’ve been,” Al en said. “I have wonderful friends.” He raised his glass to me, “I have wonderful sex, and I am involved in so many exciting things.” I knew that Al en was on the board of directors of some major gay nonprofit groups, and that his dinner parties, some of which I had been invited to, were legendary. “I have final y found my place in this world, and I wake up excited to start each day. How many men in their sixties can you say that about?”

Al en loved to mentor me. He taught me about fine wines, good clothing, gourmet food, and even opera.

He also taught me about myself. One night, we were talking about how I always hated school. I told him about my restlessness, my forgetfulness, and how quickly I’d get bored with whatever the teacher was saying.

Al en told me to hold on and got a book from his shelf. I couldn’t see the cover, but Al en started reading me a quiz from it. Did I have trouble reading things unless they were very interesting or very easy? Did I have difficulty planning and organizing my work? Did I sometimes speak impulsively, only to regret it later? Did my thoughts ever bounce around like a bal in a pinbal machine? Did I have a chronic sense of underachievement?

I felt like he was reading the story of my life.

Al en told me that more than five “yes” answers to the fifteen questions indicated I was a likely sufferer of Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. I had fourteen.

The next day, Al en got me an appointment with a psychiatrist friend of his. Two days later, I took my first Adderal, a long-lasting form of Ritalin. Adderal helps people with AADD function better. It helps us organize our thoughts and focus more acutely.

Immediately, I felt as if a fog in my mind had lifted.

I started getting more organized, accomplishing more. I sent away for information on some master’s programs and was seriously thinking of returning to school.

That’s just one of the many ways Al en changed my life. Now, I was on my way to return his copy of Gore Vidal’s The City and the Pillar, a classic book I couldn’t have gotten through before meeting Al en.

But first, I had to figure out how to get there.

Although Al en’s apartment was only a few subway stops from where I was, I made it a general rule not to take the trains. Three years ago, I was the victim of a pretty horrific mugging/gay

bashing on the IRT.

As a result, I took a course in self defense using Krav Maga, the Israeli fighting technique, at The Gay and Lesbian Community Center. But the best defense was not to put yourself into a compromising position.

While being little and cute is a valuable asset for a hustler, it isn’t helpful on public transit.

So, the question was, do I walk in the stifling heat, or do I grab a cab?

Hey, I just got a hundred dol ar tip.

“Taxi!”

Pul ing up to Al en’s apartment building, I saw right away that something was wrong. A crowd was gathered on the street, and strobe lights from police cruisers and an ambulance made everything stop-motion.

“You can let me off here,” I said to the driver, half a block from where everyone was gathered. As curious as the next guy, I walked over to see what the fuss was about. In New York, people stop and watch any street drama for as long as they can. Accidents, murders, messy public break-ups, people slipping on ice: they’re al part of the city’s free entertainment.

Which was good because who could afford Broadway anymore?

As I approached the cluster of onlookers, I overheard their remarks. “Oh, how terrible,” an elderly man who lived in Al en’s building said to his wife. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the emergency or the sight of his miserable-looking spouse in her nightgown.

“He was such a nice man,” a middle-aged woman in shorts and a tank top said to a young girl who looked like her daughter. “I mean, I never met him or anything, but he seemed so nice.”

“That dude is, like, pancake city,” a teenager with four rings in his right eyebrow, and, strangely, no other visible piercings said to his friend.

“What happened,” I asked him.

“Some old guy did a Spiderman off his balcony,” the teenager said. “Only, I guess he ran out of web fluid.”

His friend snorted.

Suddenly, I got an uneasy feeling. Pushing my way to the front of the crowd, I saw something that broke my heart. A body lay on the ground covered by a dark green blanket with NYPD stamped across it.

Only the top of the head was visible, but it was enough for me to recognize familiar gray hair with a kidney-shaped bald spot.

“Al en!” I cried, not even aware that I said it out loud.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but I ran over to the body to embrace it. I heard the crowd give a col ective gasp and I knew I just added considerably to their evening’s entertainment.

“Whoa there, son,” said a middle-aged African-American police officer who ran over to grab me.

“Now, calm down. You know this guy?

“Yes, I think he’s a friend of mine,” I told the officer, whose badge read “Blake.” “His name is Al en Harrington. He lives, lived, in apartment 10K.”

“That’s right,” Officer Blake said. “I’m sorry to say there’s been an accident. Your friend fel from the balcony.”

Tears wel ed up in my eyes. I blinked them back.

Lights from a police car flickered over the officer’s face as I looked at him in disbelief. “What do you mean ‘fel?’ What happened?”

“Wel, do you know if he’s been upset about anything lately? Or depressed?”

“No, I, God, what are you saying? You think he kil ed himself.” Despite the heat, I felt myself shaking.

“We don’t know anything yet, sir. I’m just asking, is al.”

“No, he was like the happiest guy in the world. He had nothing to, I mean, he would never…” I wanted to tel the officer how strong Al en was, how happy. But thinking of those things made the sadness of his death hit me like, wel, like a body hitting the ground.

That thought was enough to do it. I started crying uncontrol ably. Giant hiccupping sobs that made me sound like a seal.

“Awww, Jeez,” Officer Blake said, embarrassed.

A plump, fiftyish woman standing at the periphery of the crowd ran over with a tissue. She put her arms around me and pul ed me close to her fleshy bosom.

“Poor baby,” she cooed. “Was that your daddy, honey?”

That’s the great thing about street theater. The audience can join the cast at anytime.

“No, he was my friend,” I cried as she hugged me.

It was actual y kind of comforting to be held like that, but then I looked down and saw that she wasn’t wearing any shoes and that her toes were black with dirt. She didn’t smel too good, either.

I disentangled myself from the probably homeless woman’s embrace. “Um, thanks for the tissues. I’m fine now.”

I turned back to Officer Blake. “Listen, you have to find his kil er. There’s no way this guy would hurt himself.”

“Tel you what,” he said, anxious to avoid another scene. “How about you give my partner a statement, and we get this al on the record, OK?”

“OK,” I said, stil feeling shaky. I kind of wanted to go over to Al en and touch him one last time, but I didn’t want to know what lay beneath that police blanket.

I could feel the crowd’s attention divided between watching the body and watching me. I knew that my red-eyed, red-cheeked snotty face was probably quite the sight.

“Hey, Tony,” Office Blake shouted. “Can you come here?”

“Just wait here and he’l be right over,” Officer Blake said. “You can tel everything you know to Officer Rinaldi.”