Dramatization of Shower Break at Reid Smith's

Sunday was absolutely dead at City Hall. Nobody came or went. I sat on the mattress flying on speed and time passed quickly.

"I haven't eaten for thirty hours," I told Simon when he arrived at six that evening, "Or slept for thirty-six."

"Are you on speed?" he asked, matter-of-factly.

"You guessed it. But it's wearing off and I'm starving."

"Good. Let's get out of this place." I looked out cautiously. No jailer lurking in the bushes waiting to lock me out, so the two of us took off in the direction of campus.

“Your friends from Chicago are a bit strange,” said Simon after we had walked a few blocks.

I was embarrassed by their behavior. “They’re afraid you’re a police agent.”

Simon laughed. “That explains the third degree…Although if I was, now you’ve tipped your hat.”

I wondered if I would have been as forthcoming without the speed and I questioned whether I should be more embarrassed by my comrades or my big mouth.

Simon lived in Illini Tower, a private student housing high-rise in Champaign. When we got on the elevator we were joined by a co-ed. She wrinkled her nose and made an expression of disgust. It was mortifying. I knew that I stunk, looked like a homeless person and had acne that was starting to get infected. The only person who wasn't offended was Simon. I found that both curious and suspect, especially since Simon seemed anxious to hop into the sack. I wondered again if I should have said what I did.

When we got inside his apartment, I tore off my clothes and ran into the shower, letting the blessed hot water run through my hair, down my chest, down my body and into the drain carrying with it two weeks worth of muck. For five minutes I just basked in the stream and then applied soap. When the lather was washed away, I felt clean, refreshed, and reborn.

"You can keep the tee-shirt, underwear and socks," said Simon as he laid out a new set of clothes on the bed. "The shirt and pants, I'll need back."

I looked down at my own filthy underwear and socks. "Let's just throw these away. Get me a stick. I don't even want to touch them."

"Why so prissy? I thought you were the rugged type." Simon actually looked disappointed.

"You think I went to city hall for the fun of it?"

"Most silly queens,” he opined, “would leave at the first sign their make-up was running."

I laughed, finished dressing and then picked up the dirty underwear, socks and tee-shirt and put them in a paper bag and dropped it down the chute in the hallway. Prissy or not, I washed my hands thoroughly with soap and water.

We dined Italian, saw One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest and returned to Simon's apartment for lovemaking.

Afterwards, in my fresh underwear, I lit a cigarette. "I thought the movie was great—a most appropriate choice, considering."

"I wish Dog Day Afternoon was playing in town,” commented Simon. “That would be far more appropriate."

"I heard about that movie. My friend Zach Doubleday, in New York, knew the actual guy from the Gay Activist Alliance. It’s based on a true story."

Simon changed the subject. "You want to spend the night?"

"Thanks, but you know I have to get back. It’s been far too long, already. Any excuse at all and they’ll lock me out."

I got out of bed and held up the pants Simon had loaned me. They were too long. There was mud and heel prints on the back of each pant leg. “You’re ruining them,” he scolded. “For now, you better go back to the jeans you came in.”

I didn’t protest, just put on the filthy jeans and actually felt the stench seep into my clean underwear and shuddered. Simon just laughed.

“You know,” I said. “We should have put these in the wash.”

“Next time,” he said, winking.

Together, we walked back to the Urbana City Building. Everything was exactly as I left it four hours earlier; the mattress, bedding, bags of food, pile of papers.