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According to the CDC, the number of kids nationally between 13 and 19 with full-blown AIDS cases has more than doubled in the last two years.Įveryone on the docks has a pocketful of condoms. But in a sense all of this is overkill, because if you stack it up together and pile on things like polyaddiction and double pneumonia, the sum total will not finish off as many of the kids I spoke to as their numb indifference to AIDS. The most desperate of them eventually land with a thud on the docks, where not even the salt in the air can preserve them.įor the past several months, these kids have talked to me about certain johns who heal them up as a sort of postsex purgative about the perils of sleeping amongst the crazies at the shelters about the crackheads and dealers who ride herd on the scene, picking kids off on the fly. No, the chances are you are what they call a “dead boy” down here - a throwaway between the ages of 16 and 20, homeless and hungry and, like as not, in ill-health.Īccording to Covenant House, the experts by default, there are between 10,000 and 20,000 adolescents on the streets of this city: the kids from the Koch pest-houses like the Martinique, the Prince George the kids off the Greyhounds, fleeing predaceous families and the kids shot out of the foster care system, New York’s sprawling pathology factory.
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Chances are even better that you aren’t one of the buttoned-down 20-year-olds hustling a place like Rounds on 53rd Street, presenting your business card - Professional Escort - to the Aquascutum crowd. IF YOU ARE SITTING on that wall at two in the morning, the cold and damp on you like a molestation, chances are you aren’t one of the sleek-skinned kids who turns up here on weekends for the party off of Christopher Street. I laugh if he come back here with a knife in his chest.” “I told him, ‘Stay in the loop till you know the game.’ Instead, he’s gonna bust right outta here with a stone-cold freak.
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It is impossible to tell whether his is the voice of experience or envy. “That’s a fuckin’ yo-yo right there,” sneers Georgie, who at 18 looks spent, his face cinched up like an old canvas bag. Pookie is across the seat and in the Pink Man’s embrace. In the eight or 10 seconds it takes the Town Car to hit the exit. The Pink Man frowns and looks away awhile, performing his moral arithmetic. The Pink Man’s eyes play up and down the boy. “And might not see me out here again, so best pick up while the iron is hot.
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“I don’t recall seeing you out here before.” “Aren’t you hot in that big thing?” says Pookie, popping his head in. “Aren’t you freezing in that little thing?” he inquires. A broad, pink man with a polished skull peers out, composed as a corpse in his Chesterfield topcoat. The Town Car pulls up its passenger window whirs down. At the back of the pack, the guy in the blue Town Car leans on his horn. A black Saab swings by, a silver Volvo hard behind him, slowing to get a load of the short, plump kid with the sort of epicene beauty peculiar to boys of a certain age.
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“Fsssssssss,” he goes, flashing his frog-eyed crack grin, “I’m hot like a full-time motherfuck.” On the instant, all the pretty cars come courting, making the hairpin turn at the north end of the dock. THIS BILIOUS TUESDAY, Pookie hops off the low wall of the pier and fastens a moistened forefinger to his ass. Dead Boys: Fast Sex and Slow Suicide on the West Side DocksĪT TWO A.M.