Prettyboy

22: His Scene

The following letter was sent to Robert, addressed to me, sometime in February of '69. It was, what he called, anonymous hateful mail. Of course, I knew exactly who it was from and its justifiable hate. 

To elucidate you, dear reader, my fourth marriage was validated and chewed over by the press in the heydays of my carrier. It reached other ears, despite myself.

I do not remember why I had felt the urge to bother Gerard again. Our relationship left in ruins was like an itch behind my ear; I had never forgotten about it but merely neglected it in hope that it would disappear. Had that been the case, things would have wound up differently. Instead, when I wrote to him vis-à-vis a reunion, for which I expressed a light yearning, word had already gotten to him. His response was not what you would describe as most congenial.

***

(Address not legible)

January 21st, 1969

Dear Frank,

with all sincerity, fuck off.

I believe that is all I have to say while I genuinely hope you are relishing each and every moment of your happy (married, once more) life. 

I do believe people like you are incorrigible.

Sincerely, 

PB

***

Let me explain the mishaps and blessings that summed up the two years of my inexplicable, vast success, that, in the end, initiated this subtly hateful letter.

You must remember my dear colleague Paul L. Ferro and his insatiable artistic nature that dragged me into the phantasmagorical realm that was film. After that, I considered it impossible to get away from the genius of it. So, if Warhol had attempted to emulate me once, we were now even. I won an award for a short experimental film I did in May '68 and since, my name began to emerge on magazines once again—while Warhol's name was everywhere because of an attempted murder in the summer of '68.

Paul grew critically acclaimed and went from having just enough money to get his narcotic doses, to earning more than he expected; unused to the feeling of having too much money in his pocket, he spent a king's ransom on a few things. One of those things was the entire building of The Studio. Thus, The Studio became, more or less, the entire building and with time, it became a beacon and a generally known headquarters for certain parties—after an attempt to murder Warhol, the crowd shifted from his renowned 'Factory' to our 'Studio'. I myself felt a bit old for such parties, and not wanting to enmesh myself with the crimes that were being committed there, I stepped out of the apartment and made it available to the social gatherings. I relocated, a bit later, one block away. Robert moved further off and went to live in Brooklyn. But merely because I was absent at the parties did not mean I stayed home all night, sipping whiskey by myself. 

In the course of two months, I acquainted myself with every queer bar in the vicinity. I do not claim, now, to be able to name every single one in Manhattan, but I can assure you I can name eighty-percent of them. And that raised a problem. 

You see, I never again lowered my fedora when walking in. Thereon, I stopped looking around me, in case I was being followed. I often revealed my real name. I brought people home. And those are all the reasons I was brought to a predicament. Because it was something more than an inconvenience when Robert found out. What I was, characterized by what I had been doing.