Mark Gilleo - Sweat

Peter Winthrop, Jr. and Peter Winthrop, Sr. had their last conversation as estranged father and son while strolling down the main drag of Columbia, South Carolina, a few blocks from what later became known as the entertainment district referred to as “Five Points.” Peter Winthrop, Sr. offered no apology and no explanation. The father looked at this son, recalled the brief glimpse he had gotten at the inside of the house, and left his son with a singular piece of what he considered useful advice.

“Son, don’t you dare grow up to be queer.”

It was the only advice the son could remember receiving from his father, and he took it to heart. The possibility that growing up with a bunch of women could, in fact, make him queer was something he hadn’t considered. People weren’t coming out of the closet on a regular basis in the fifties, and to spot a real queer, in person, was quite a novelty.

Peter Winthrop, Jr. wasn’t taking any chances. With his father’s warning fresh on his mind, Peter Winthrop, Jr. walked into the football coach’s office at Joyce Kilmer High School on Monday morning and told him he was ready to play.

“Have you ever played before?” Coach Dietz, an overweight former high school star, asked with suspicion.

“No, sir,” replied the future CEO of Winthrop Enterprises.

“What position are you interested in playing?”

“I don’t care. I just want to hit people,” Peter answered. It sounded like the manliest thing he could think of. And proving he was a man was the only reason he was there. He was sure there were no queers on the football team. And if there were, the straight players were sure to beat any less-than-manly tendencies right out of them.

The coach looked over the fifteen-year-old and made some mental calculations. Six foot, maybe six=one, one hundred and eighty pounds, give or take a nickel.

“Are you fast?”

“Fast enough, I guess.”

“Practice is at four this afternoon. Let’s suit you up and see what you can do. That’s four sharp. Don’t be late.”

Peter, decked out in a Kilmer High School white practice uniform, took the field to the type of taunts reserved for new inmates at the state penitentiary in Charleston. The ridicule lasted exactly one play. Peter, much to his own surprise, could hit like a runaway freight train. When Tucker McGee, all-state tailback two years running, came around the corner on the first play of practice, Peter laid him out cold. Smelling salts eventually brought him around, but ol’ “lightning feet McGee” watched the rest of practice from the sidelines.

While the players ran after-practice laps around the field, the coaches smiled and huddled on the sideline. When Peter finished his second lap, the coaches called him over and told him that he was their new starting outside linebacker. Peter didn’t know the names of all the positions or where he was supposed to line up on any given play, but Coach Dietz didn’t care.

The coach’s advice was simple. “Cover a player when we tell you to. If we don’t specifically tell you to cover someone, you are free to knock the snot out of anyone wearing the opposing team’s jersey.”

For the four-month football season, Peter Winthrop did exactly as he was told. With every hit, he made it clear that if you came near his side of the field you were going to go home bruised, battered, or broken. He led the team in tackles, sacks and interceptions. And more importantly, he ended the season believing that he had knocked any hiding refuge of queer right out of his body. To make sure, he fucked his way through half the cheerleading squad.

Jake listened to his father and felt sorry for him. While he couldn’t condone his father’s behavior, the explanation of his own childhood certainly helped Jake understand where he was coming from. But times change, and Jake couldn’t help but get the feeling his father was still trying to prove something. He was still the football player who ruled through intimidation. He was still trying to fuck his way through the cheerleading squad. He was still fifteen, and at that age, Jake had nearly ten years on him.

Jake had one more question to ask, but wasn’t sure if he had the energy to hear either a lie or the truth. He also knew there would never be a better time. “Dad, can I ask a tough question?”

“Sure, son,” Peter answered, his mind still reliving his youth.

“I found a fax at work about a girl named Wei Ling. I was wondering if you know her.”

“Aaaah, the fax. Yes, son, I know her. We dated in the past, and I guess she felt like she could turn to me for help. She got herself into a bit of trouble it seems.”

“And the baby?”

“I don’t know if she is even really pregnant, son. And at any rate, the child wasn’t mine. I don’t know, maybe she thought if she applied pressure, the baby would be her ticket to a better life. It’s hard to say. It’s hard to figure out how some people think.”

“Where is she now?

“She’s home in China. Don’t worry. I’ve done my best to make sure she is properly cared for.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I know.”

Jake picked up a cookie off the plate that Camille had placed on the table and chewed slowly. He wasn’t hungry, but the cookie put an end to the conversation.

The evening concluded uneventfully. Jake was wired from three cups of the strongest coffee he had consumed in recent memory, compliments of the Latin American kitchen miracle worker. His father was still going strong, well into double digits on the drink scale. Not a slur, not a stumble. The father said goodbye to his son on the front steps of the house, and for a moment, Jake thought he was about to hear a long overdue apology. But instead of an ‘I’m-sorry-for-being-a-shitty-father’ response, Peter offered him what he could. “Let me know if you want to take the Porsche for a spin sometime.”

Jake looked him in the eyes and said “Goodnight”. For the first time since he was old enough to rationalize, Jake realized he was a better man for not having had his father in his life. His mother had made the right decision by evicting him. He wasn’t really fit to be a father or a role model. Some people are and some people aren’t. And sometimes life is just that simple.

As Jake made his way back to his car his father had the last word. “Think about what I said about someday taking over my company. I think it would be great.”

Jake rolled the old Subaru station wagon down the driveway in neutral and dropped the clutch as he hit the street. The car bucked once and let out another backfire that woke every sleeping neighbor on the street.

Chapter 13

China Air Flight 43 touched down at JFK International Airport with a screech, the jumbo jet’s tires leaving a streak of rubber on the heavily scarred blacktop of Runway 13. Chow Ying followed the herd to immigration and customs, a process measured at JFK in lunar movement, not minutes or hours. He endured the scrutinizing stare of the immigration officer and answered precisely one question—that he was here on business—before America’s first line of defense against undesirable foreign elements turned him loose on the Big Apple.

The taxi turned left onto Grand Street from Broadway, past a stretch of pavement marked by narrow sidewalks made even narrower by hawkers selling their fake Gucci bags and Tag Heuer watches. From Grand Street the taxi turned right down Mott, cutting through the Northern end of Little Italy and the ever-expanding Chinatown. New York’s Chinatown, home to the largest Chinese population outside of the mainland, was a microcosm of east meets west, in the biggest melting pot on the face of the earth. Chow Ying stepped from the taxi and looked down the block in both directions. The sounds and smells wafting through the air were as familiar as the worn shoes on his feet.