(Note: Low-case use is intended.)
C H I C K E N ’ S D I A R Y
saturday. last night i made more money than i ever did before. 235 bucks! got two 50s right off. then some guy gave me 100 for the night but he changed his mind cause he told me to beat it after about an hour.
sunday. got myself a room in a house on 55th street. the rent lady says long as i pay on time she won’t hassle me. i got a window that looks out over some nice back yards. the bath down the hall is a drag. i share it with some old guy who lives in the front. he looks pretty out of it to me. there’s a bed and a table and a hot plate on the fridge. sure beats a bench in the port authority.
monday. panda sent one of the boys from the loft out on the street to find me. i told him to tell panda i wasn’t coming back until i was ready. the hell with all those plastic people hanging out and chit chatting. chitchatchitchatchitchat- shitshat. and he must take a million pictures. snapsnapsnapsnapcrap!
wednesday. this john wanted to buy my pants. said he’d give me 10 bucks for them. i thought he was putting me on but the dude was serious. now why in the hell did he want my dirty torn-up blue jeans. guess he was going to smell them or wear them himself. he really wanted them bad. then he offered me 20. i told him if i had another pair handy i’d sure let him buy them. he offered to drive me to his house in queens to pick up a pair of his to wear. he seemed real disappointed when i told him we’d have to do it some other time.
friday. the night was almost a complete bummer till i bumped into this dude snicker i see around once in awhile. he’s always got a snort of something good. we went back to his place and got off. he says he can get more. enough so we can deal some. pretty good cat. never tries to come on like some of the others. Playsit nice and cool. he told me his father used to hit on him all the time when he was a kid. weird.
sunday. called ma she was about the same. wish pa wasn’t uptight all the time. he started yelling cause i called collect. ma was crying. she said she wasn’t but i could tell. what a bummer.
monday. boy am i glad i found this old notebook. writing things down is going to help me keep track. otherwise the days just pass and i don’t know where the hell they go.
wednesday. snicker came around. we did up all our bread on some dynamite dope and now i can’t pay the rent. out on the street again. hung out in the port authority most of the night. then he took me around to this storefront in the village where the gays hang out. the dudes around there are all right. there’s one real nice older guy. some of the others hassle me about marching with them but i’m keeping cool. any way we can stay at the storefront all day. its warm and there’s coffee and we all chipped in to get some pizza and ice cream.
saturday. marlowe, this old building super that snicker knows is letting us sleep at his place. he’s got this really great cat that likes to sleep up between my legs.
sunday. snicker and i were both on the street last night. he scored with one john and i turned three. that gave us enough for a hotel room and some dope. turns out snicker used to be one of cookie’s boys too. what a laugh.
tuesday. snicker’s in the hospital with hepatitis. the doctor checked me out and i’m okay. he gave me a shot of something. just to be on the safe side. boy I’d sure hate to be laid up in a hospital. poor snicker. he’s not too happy.
thursday. spent the whole day in the museum on fifth avenue. never thought there were so many different artists. and painting’s sure not easy. one covered a whole wall. there must’ve been a hundred people in it. and some of the statues were so real i thought they were people just covered with plaster. some kid shared his lunch with me in the park. i was going to walk through the zoo but it was too late.
tuesday. snicker’ s out of the hospital. he says they released him but i think he just split when nobody was looking. marlowe’s letting him sleep back by the furnace cause he thinks snicker’s going to give him hep. but the old man’s sure is nice to me. lets me drink all the beer i want.
saturday. i went out wednesday to try and make some money but ended up walking in a park uptown. this guy in a long black cape starts talking to me and he turns out to be a bishop. he lives in a real mansion with a big garden and servants. i thought it was some kind of a dream like when i was a kid and i wanted to be rich. anyway we hung out for a couple of days and he really got off dressing me up in his fancy robes and parading up and down the stairs. but it was starting to get too heavy for me. i had to split. he gave me a gold ring. i wonder how much its worth.
sunday. I ran into silkie on the street this morning and he sure did bring back memories. haven’t seen him since san francisco days when we lived in that commune on Divisadero. what a freak! said he got busted for shoplifting and was in the city trying to hook up with people looking for good pot cause he had a big connection on the coast and he figured he could make some bread dealing. silkie doesn’t know where most of the people we lived with are. a lot of them moved to oregon and a lot more just disappeared. he said he got off speed when he was in jail which is a good laugh because i remember old silkie when he used to zoom up and down haight street speeding his brains out. sure hope i get to see SF again. that sure was a good winter.
wednesday. went by the loft to see panda and the gang. he took some more pictures, gave me some bread and then turned me on to some really good smoke. just wish he didn’t come on so heavy.
friday. this john in a T-bird let me drive for a while before we went back to his place. it handled real nice.
sunday. i passed out and i don’t know for how long. i did up a hit of incredible stuff. will definitely get some more.
monday. i almost got busted. i knew there was something funny about the guy. he kept asking questions trying to get me to say things. the minute i caught on i got the hell out of there.
tuesday. tequila is such a scream. she tells people i’m her dresser. tonight we went into the club and the whole back room applauded her outfit. they must’ve seen that write-up in the paper. she loved it. took a bow at every table. the owner sent a bottle of champagne over. some chick from new jersey asked me to sign her napkin. she said i looked like a rock star. weird.
thursday. snicker’ s got his own place in a hotel over on the west side. he’s making money running for some big dealer on the east side. he says i can stay there when i want.
saturday. it was raining hard and i had to spend most of my time in doorways and around grand central station. not too many johns cruising around. i scrounged up carfare down to marlowe’s. and we’re just sitting around talking.
tuesday. my birthday. this lawyer took me out to the beach for a couple of days. it was pretty but real cold at night. i stayed in the sun mostly. he didn’t hassle me too much and gave me 50 besides. he says maybe he’ll take me out with him again.
CHAPTER ONE
The boy's body was stuffed into a rusty oil drum discarded in a storeroom on the abandoned pier. Later that night two leather-clad lovers rolled the barrel against the door to keep out intruders and delivered the corpse from its slimy womb. Oblivious to death’s presence, the two men made violent love. When their passions subsided, one partner noticed the form sprawled near-by. He reached over and casually touched the body. His fingertips grazed the rigor mortised flesh and pulled back in revulsion.
When the police emergency switchboard received the anonymous tip, two patrol cars from the Sixth Precinct station house were dispatched to investigate. Pier 48 at the foot of West 11th Street was a well-known rendezvous for homosexuals, one of the most notorious in an area dubbed “the gay ghetto”—an irregular slice of Manhattan roughly bounded by the Hudson River, West 14th, Greenwich Avenue, and Christopher Street.
The patrol cars arrived to find the area unusually quiet for a clear June night. Late traffic hummed by on the elevated highway that ribbons the waterfront. While two officers waited outside, the other pair, wielding enormous flashlights, slipped under the vandalized loading door that gave access to the derelict pier. On the opposite curb curious passersby began to cluster.
The officers cautiously explored the gutted loading docks and storage sheds on the main floor and found nothing. They gingerly made their way up rotting stairs to the second level, where they discovered a series of deteriorating offices and storerooms. It was eerily quiet; only distant harbor sounds and the occasional honk of a car horn broke the stillness. After methodically scanning each successive cubicle with dazzling beams of light, they came to a door that was slightly ajar.
The first officer gave the door a push. It resisted. He stuck his flashlight through the opening and passed the light over the dingy interior. He threw his full weight against the door which gave just enough for him to better maneuver the light around. Directly behind the door was a crimson oil barrel. Wedged under it was what at first appeared to be a cast-off cowboy boot. Then the light froze on the remains of a young Caucasian male lying askew on the splintered planking.
By the time the wagon from the Medical Examiner’s arrived, it was well past midnight. Word of police activity had spread to nearby bars and the crowd swelled. Some of the men crossed the street to get a better look, carefully maintaining a distinct perimeter between themselves and the police. Other patrol cars and several unmarked vehicles converged on the area. Suddenly the precinct captain’s car pulled up. Several plainclothes detectives rushed over to greet him.
A ruddy-faced rookie in police blues chauffeured the spotless patrol car. He jumped out to open the rear door. The captain, a graying, evenly featured man, leaned out to confer briefly with several detectives and then left as abruptly as he had arrived. As the vehicle made a smooth U-turn beneath the highway, two white-suited attendants wheeled a shrouded stretcher from the pier out into the yellowish glare of streetlights and lifted it into the wagon. Excited whispers of speculations erupted among the spectators. Several patrolmen moved toward the gays.
One cop clapped his hands. “Show’s over, ladies,” he smirked. “Let’s keep moving.”
They were mostly youngish men in tight-fitting clothes that ranged from bleached denims with bright tops to leather to billowy beach styles. A few timid ones quickly moved on, while most held their ground. Among those leaving were the two men who had discovered the body. The shorter gave the taller a nod and they departed.
“The streets belong to the people!” someone shouted. It was a wild-eyed youth with flaxen hair who made the challenge. He folded his arms defiantly, and the night was filled with “All right!” and “Right on!”
The blond boy ate it up.
In the old days this smart-ass would have gotten the taste of a nightstick and a ride in a police car, but relations between the so-called “gay community” and the local precinct had grown sensitive. And there had been unfavorable press coverage. The officer made no visible response and eased off.
“What happened?” demanded a small redheaded latecomer to no one in particular. The question helped break the tension.
“A body found on the pier,” somebody offered.
“A-ha!” chirped the interrogator knowingly. “If you don’t let them pick your pockets—they kill you!”
Few missed this reference to a ghoulish spate of brutal muggings that had been all the talk lately.
“Some sissies just love violence,” the redhead added with a certain relish.
Gradually the crowd dispersed, and news of the fatal mugging spread through the neighborhood. By “last call,” bar patrons were being duly warned to “stay away from the piers!” All along Christopher Street casual acquaintances stopped each other to talk about “the murder.”
“Pretty soon the only safe place is going to be my apartment,” purred one rouged and powdered youth loitering in the doorway of a tea store. His equally painted companion indicated agreement with pursed lips, raised eyebrows, and a sharp nod of his head.
By dawn an assorted gang of all-night stragglers congregated in Sheridan Square opposite the site of the Stonewall Inn, the seamy dance-bar whose closing by the police a few years earlier had spawned the modern gay rights movement. Among them were the talkative latecomer and the young blond political activist, the latter urging them all to put their words into deeds by turning out for meetings of the Gay Liberation Party. “We’ve got to fight back!” he exhorted.
Sometime around 7 a.m., after spending the night in cooler drawer No. 78 in the basement of the City Medical Examiner’s building, the boy’s body, draped with a white plastic sheet, is wheeled into the main autopsy room, a fluorescent-lit laboratory with yellow-tiled walls and a row of eight gleaming stainless steel autopsy tables. The attendant removes the cadaver’s clothes and drops them into a tagged plastic bag. A police technician photographed front and side views of the head and torso, and then takes a complete set of fingerprints.
A deputy medical examiner, gowned and gloved, enters the laboratory. Nodding graciously to his colleagues, he takes his place at the glistening station. Scanning the police report, the doctor activates the Dictaphone. In a low monotone he recites the case number and describes the condition of the subject. He notes several tracks, or needle scars, on the calves of both legs and along the inside fold of either arm. On the right forearm is the most recent and apparently fatal puncture encrusted with dried blood. He also indicates as he reports, “There’s a crudely cut tattoo on the left bicep, most likely self-inflicted, which reads ‘Chicken,’ probably a nickname.”
He studies the tray of surgical tools and selects a scalpel. Making a straight incision from the pubic hairs to the top of the stomach, he then cuts a fork to either armpit, thereby inscribing a long-tailed Y over the chest and abdomen. Satisfied with the proportions of his handiwork, he runs the blade back over the imprint, cutting deeper this time and peeling the skin back as he works. The flaps of skin peel easily to expose the rib cage and related skeletal structures. There is very little bleeding because much of the blood has settled into the backside giving the buttocks a purplish tinge.
The attendant hands the doctor the “branch cutters,” an electrical surgical saw. When switched on, the round blade moves back and forth from left to right in steady strokes. The doctor uses it to remove several ribs that are obstructing vital organs. After access is gained, he removes each organ, weighs it, and slices off tissue samples. Some tests he runs immediately; others will be made later. The remainder of each organ is deposited in a chrome receptacle lined with a white plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the attendant has propped up the cadaver’s head and shoulders with an oblong block of hardwood. He uses a scalpel to make an incision along the hairline at the base of the neck and after cutting from ear to ear peels the scalp back to expose the skull and sutures of the cranium. The attendant steps aside and the doctor takes the branch cutter, carves a notch to one side of the crown, and cuts out a circle in the bone around the top of the head. There are audible tearing sounds as he chisels away the connective tissue holding the disc; and when the disc is free, the brain tissue dangles out. With the scalpel the examiner severs the remaining connections and the jelly-like mass plops out into his gloved hand. It is weighed, and its abnormal heaviness confirmed the diagnosis that was obvious from the beginning: narcotic overdose.
The doctor lops off a sample from the brain and tosses the remainder in with the other organs. The bag is secured, removed from the receptacle, and arranged in the stomach cavity. The surgeon realigns the flaps of skin and sutures the Y incision close. He gives the attendant a friendly nod to indicate he’s through and steps out into the corridor to smoke a cigarette.
The attendant uses surgical toweling to replace the brain mass, slips the cranium bone into place, pulls the scalp back, and sews it shut. He hoses down the bloodstained flesh and absently watches the red fluid dilute as it dissolves into the water flowing beneath the grate. He sponges the corpse with a mild detergent solution, and when he sees no one is looking carefully arranges the tangled ringlets of golden hair. He swings the body onto a waiting gurney and wheels it back to cooler drawer No. 78. The spring lock’s click punctuates the dull whirr of the refrigeration motors.
