‘MINGLING AMONG THE THRONGS’

Michael Raqim Mira is a photographer and writer based in Texas. He began practicing film photography in 2004 and later moved on to digital format. He is currently working on a photo book called "Dreaming in Monochrome."

MINGLING AMONG THE THRONGS

When Neil walked into the bar on 10th Avenue, though it had been years since I’d seen his face, I  recognized him immediately. I estimate that he and I are about the same age. We are what I term  as the “last of a certain breed.” Possibly fascinating but not to be envied. We are single, gay men  of an “advanced” age, out on the prowl. At least that’s how I presume we are judged by those  watching from the sidelines.  

In an historically short amount of time, things have progressed for the better, particularly if you  are young, gay and don’t struggle with what came before, if even aware of the shoulders on  which you stand. And though there is a thriving business in gay bars, places to see and be seen,  most are not patronized for the purpose of finding men of my years. Unless they are  establishments that invite briefcase carrying Sugar Daddies in loafers and suits, where money is  exchanged for companionship and services rendered, in the short or long term.  

Neil and I are dinosaurs that can be found mingling among the throngs of young men drinking  garnish clad cocktails and domestic beer from a tap. Nothing exceptional and not all that rare, at  least here in this city of millions. Years of experience can lead to good conversation, as long as  we initiate, and the younger man is either cornered and polite, or willing to listen. There are  places more accepting of our kind but I don’t find stimulation there, nor persons I might want to  date or fuck. It’s not that I’m adverse to meeting a handsome man near to my age, but almost all  of those bachelors are trolling for youth. Or they aren’t bachelors at all.  

The domino effect that applies, travels back many decades to a time when a personally  complicated AIDS-related destruction altered all that would follow for me. Though I moved on  long ago, something or things subconscious became road blocks to what might have been healthy  pairings (that’s when I probably should have returned to therapy). Finding or choosing the safety  of considering myself a father figure or repairman doesn’t open up opportunities for an equal  relationship. Wounded masculinity is very attractive to me, since the focus tends to be on the  other one. A deflection I have mastered.  

Though not at another man’s request, after almost 40 years, I put away the photograph of  Stephen — the one person from my past where dreamlike memories still affect my mood. If he  were alive, he would not be anything like the picture I looked at everyday. It was taken before we  met, when he was in his early twenties. As my imagination took flight visualizing what I  

decided he might currently look like, I no longer wanted to see him as he had been in a  photograph shot when he wasn’t yet 25. He would now be close to 70. Around the age his  parents were when I met them. 

I don’t spend my life comparing others to my memory of him. Though I’d be lying if I said that  what happened doesn’t influence my present day behavior. Being unsuccessful in my finding  committed love is not blamed upon the similarities to or differences from who came before. I  know of a good many people, straight and gay, who survived unhappy endings to bravely pick  themselves up and embark on subsequent pairings. As for people who decide to remain in  damaged relationships, I guarantee there are those who settle in order not to be alone. 

I know almost nothing about Neil. I don’t remember why I know his name. I have no idea  where he lives or what he does for a living. I don’t even think we’ve ever had a conversation. 

My obsessive fascination with Neil lies on my wondering how we both ended up in this state.  He may not think about it like that, if he thinks about it at all. He represents something to me that  probably has nothing to with who he is as a human being.  

Whether I live an additional 25 years or leave Earth tonight, I don’t want to end my days with  unaddressed regrets. One of the great privileges of my life is knowing that nothing was left  

unsaid between my mother and I before she passed away. The only guilt I feel is the convenient  distraction of wishing I had been at her side on the day she went to sleep forever.  

One thing Neil and I arguably share is that we have both aged well. But that’s not necessarily a  reflection of anything more significant than misdirected vanity. What I mean by that is, from a  distance, you might mistake us for being 20 years younger than we actually are. Come close and  you will uncover the truth. In my case you may discover the love handles I strategically keep  hidden, or the noticeable sagging beneath my chin that cannot be camouflaged well, or the loss  of youth in my facial expression. I have managed to deflect lines on my face usually associated  with age. But I chalk that up to genetic fortunes. 

Other than dropping dead, there is no escaping getting older. When I see someone who is 60 and  has had a facelift, I think of the sentiments my friend Margie once said. I’m paraphrasing. “Yes,  she’s had a facelift but she still looks like she’s 60 — with a facelift.” That may seem like a  hypocritical comparison coming from a man who still works out with weights religiously. It  helps in my fight, but the shape of the body as I get older, unequivocally changes. So much for  defying gravity. For Neil and myself, I wonder how long we will go on in this delusion of  unrealistic denial. I shouldn’t put Neil and I in the same category, since I know almost nothing  about him.  

When I was 39, I had a year long relationship with an incredibly handsome man who was  married to a woman and had two teenage daughters. We met in the bleachered seats of a concert  at Madison Square Garden. He was sitting in the row in front of mine and kept turning around to  stare at me. And though it couldn’t last, most of my friends made up scenarios of what was going  on in my private life. Since I didn’t talk about it, no one really knew anything. I still fight the  urge to contact him, as if there could be some seductively desperate future we might share. I  haven’t spoken with him in years, yet I still miss what we never had.  

What is it that Neil has? A lover no one knows about? A choice he made not to opt for anything  serious? Searching for something he can’t seem to find? I haven’t a clue. And though I write  about him, it’s none of my business. 

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 75 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

‘Dodge Ball’

Kathryn McDanel is a photographer whose photographs demonstrate a zest for life by capturing secret little moments that comprise humanity.

Dodge Ball

I am fascinated by the sensitivity of human fingers. When reading a book, I am able to tell if I have accidentally turned two pages, instead of one.

Dodge ball has been described as “modern day stoning.” That’s the definition stated in 2012, by the character of “Kurt” played by Chris Colfer on Glee. The thought process makes me laugh. I am by no means some pain enduring, butch boy. I have only been punched once in my life, when I was a pre-teen. Ironically, the person who knocked the wind out of me was the same guy who defended me a decade later in high school by punching someone else (coincidentally named Kurt) in the stomach. This was my cousin, Glenn. I don’t consider us to have been close in our youth. But by the time he and I were in the same high school, we built a relationship that stands strong to this day.

Glenn’s daughter, Sarah (that makes her my first cousin once removed, or maybe my second cousin...I can never figure these titles out), lived a few blocks from me for a short while. I felt very protective of her, though she sure didn’t need my protection. She ended up leaving New York City and moving to a southern state with a warmer climate.

We played dodge ball at Montrose Elementary School in South Orange, NJ, in front of a wall at the rear of the building, next to the stairs leading to the gymnasium. Maybe it was banned sometime later, though I don’t think there was any political correctness uproar back then. I loved playing the game, both as the pitcher and a target. To play it correctly, throwing the big, rubber ball took power but not a whole lot of skill. I don’t even remember how the game was scored. It could be an accurate explanation as to why I am able to toss mooring lines with great strength for the motor yacht on which I work. After I graduated from my three years at Columbia High School, located in the sister town of Maplewood, the system of grades was rearranged. Starting a year earlier at grade six, junior high became middle school before sending students on to high school to complete the final four years.

The elementary school I attended closed its doors due to a decline in the childhood population. The building sits vacant. When I used to travel from Penn Station in New York City, to see my parents in New Jersey each week, the train passed the empty school building ahead of pulling into the trestled South Orange Station.

At the end of my time at elementary school, where I had been popular with my fellow students, there were rumblings of my soon being alienated. I didn’t know, let alone notice. Entering junior high was like walking into a field of landmines I had not been warned I would be expected to navigate. I was verbally attacked every day, from day one. I’m not sure this will make sense but that became my accepted norm. I never saw any of the kids with whom I went to elementary school once we moved on to junior high school, so I didn’t consider that they too might have begun treating me differently.

40 years later, my friend Jim, a neighbor from my days growing up, reconnected with me. He explained by way of apologizing for his part in something I was not even aware had been mapped out. The winds of change were set before we all graduated to the new, pink brick building. I had been under the delusion that my elementary school friends would have been allies. Jim’s confession confirmed that this was not the case, though part of me wishes he hadn’t said anything about it. Since none of the kids from my elementary school were in my junior high school “cycle,” I didn’t know anything about their turncoat discussions. (Cycles were how our school system grouped students of similar aptitude in junior high. You stayed together, attending different classes throughout the day.)

This isn’t the first time I’ve written about my experience at school before moving to the city to go to university. It’s become repetitious therapy. After six years, I had gotten so used to being a target that it hadn’t occurred to me that it would end once I left the suburbs for college. There were times growing up when it was unbearable — particularly my first year in high school. It was also something I began to believe was how it was always going to be. Oddly, if I recall correctly, the verbal abuse didn’t color my everyday moods. What I mean by that is not that I grew used to it. It often was brutal. But knowing it was coming became part of my adolescent reality. I was called a faggot while walking the halls at school and sometimes even when in an active class if a teacher turned his or her back, or wasn’t paying attention. Even now, though it happens very rarely, if someone yells a derogatory comment at me, I internally shake. I may flip them the bird or not give any evidence of a reaction, but inside I have a PTSD response. Having nothing to do with the taunts and what I now view as accusatory insults, I did not allow myself to be with a boy sexually until my second year at college, after I fell in love. I believe the verbal attacks during my pre-college school days were a result of my being flamboyant and feminine. I don’t think that the majority of the abuse had much to do with assuming there was any literal boy-on-boy sexual behavior. Whatever the case, I definitely stood out just by being who I am. Friends, adversaries, defenders and bullies: everyone in school seemed to know me. There were times I wished I had been invisible. I ignorantly imagine it might have been like being the one student of color in a sea of white kids.

With the exception of a woman named Darryl, I haven’t maintained any friendships from my college experience. She and I also attended high school together. During our senior year at Columbia High, we were in a few of the same electives, which is where our lifelong friendship took root. I have maintained a selection of friends that knew me from those volatile days. I look back and wonder how much peer pressure had to have been part of their existence. It was easier for girls, but for the boys who were in my life, they may have been ridiculed for associating with me. To my knowledge, all these guys were straight. This was the 1970’s. They most likely had to defend themselves. I don’t know if any of them thought that by being my friend meant that you had guts, but I do. In particular, one boy named Doug, a jock, who was a year older than I. Our introduction by his girlfriend, Anne, helped in forging our friendship during the roughest era. Anne and I had been in each other’s lives before the high school years. I don’t know how long it took, but I remember with clarity the first time Doug invited me to hang out with him at his house. Anne was there when the invitation was offered on a street corner, a few blocks from his home. It was a casual gesture that meant Doug had begun thinking of us as friends. For me, it represented something very significant.

It may seem unnecessary to my life as it is now to focus on events from a lifetime ago. My mother would be annoyed at the emotional stall. She used to spout how much she couldn’t stand it when people seemed stuck living in their memories. She felt it was easier to walk away from certain pieces of her past. That’s what I think. Mom once told me she never wanted to return to the shores of Chappaquiddick, on Martha’s Vineyard, where our family vacationed when I was a child. It was a time that could not be replicated. A photographic reminder was as much as she was willing to inhale. The sunsets and ocean waves; the sea glass and sand beaches. And the peace she found in the silence of watching a rising sun by herself, before the children all awoke.

Enduring words that cut invisible wounds or accepting the physical pain of being hit by a blood red ball thrown hard with intent, have both found a permanent place in my psyche. Private and significant.

For years, I would go to a gay bar in Chelsea. I would order my drinks from a straight bartender named Brian. When I stepped up to his station, without fail, he would cuff me in the left shoulder. It was his way of showing affection. To be clear, after the first time, it was at my invitation. It hurt and sometimes left a black and blue bruise, but I loved it. So I suppose that means I have been punched more than once. Just not in the stomach. On the day my dad died, Brian bought shots for anyone hanging at his bar. He then asked everyone to raise their glass, as he toasted the memory of my father.

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 75 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

‘MALORY, TWO BLOCKS AWAY’

Joy Curtis

MALORY, TWO BLOCKS AWAY

Walking like a crippled ghost, I only saw her from behind. I wanted to write “angel,” not
“ghost,” because it sounds prettier. But this was not pretty.

Her dyed blond hair was in a short, disheveled pony tail, tied by a colorless twine. Her dress, if you can call it that, I think may have been a hospital gown. And she was wearing slippers meant for walking on carpets. Thank heavens it wasn’t cold outside. I couldn’t see her face, but she behaved lost as she passed the multi-storied buildings. Peeking into entrances — including mine — at each apartment house. It seemed like she was trying to find something she recognized.

I pulled my keys out from my jean’s pocket, turned into my building’s lobby at an automatic
pace, as I’ve done for decades now. Once inside I climbed the marble stairs to my one bedroom home on the second floor.

I don’t think that this walking invalid was my good friend Malory. Mae was now confined to a convalescent home on a busy corner two blocks from my house. My broken heart was for a memory awakened by this wandering stranger, seemingly lost and searching the city streets.

Malory has four sons. I am more than casually acquainted with two of them. If I lived in Los
Angeles, I’d call them friends, since it seems that anyone you have an actual conversation with is labeled, friend. Maybe it’s just semantics. But here in New York City, unless I’ve shared a few meals with someone, by my definition, they are an acquaintance. One of Malory’s sons, her youngest, is a writer and someone I would spend more time with, if our worlds were aligned differently. The second son who knows me, is a “celebrity.” He would hate my using that word.

Mostly known as a movie star, he also directs, writes and is a film maker. Being five years
younger than I, I’m not sure that my mother would recognize his name, but all of my
contemporaries know who he is, whether they’ve seen his work or not.

Malory grew up in Brooklyn, though I don’t remember which section of the borough. She was the daughter to cold, unkind parents, and heir to a family company that built pianos. She married a wealthy and successful man. They raised their four sons in an affluent town in New Jersey.

Later in time, her husband absconded with the majority of their funds, relocating to the
Hamptons on Long Island, in a midlife attempt to find himself. She managed to keep the house by selling real estate, before eventually leaving the suburbs and moving to a small apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, once her children were grown. Sometime after that, she and I met. She interviewed with the owner of the gallery for whom I
was employed. Pretending my opinion had any weight in his decision making, at a Soho
restaurant, he introduced Malory to me before he hired her. She and I immediately hit it off.
I have never known her age, though I would guess Malory is closer in years to my parents’ than to mine. Though politically and socially conservative, she had an unorthodox style all her own.

Including her lipstick and liner, applied to create a pronounced upper lip. She was elegant to the point of being arrogant, yet nurturing and hilarious. And she loved me. Though I wouldn’t say she was the most talented art sales person I’ve ever worked with, Malory
was almost always at the top of the numbers board each month. I have many theories but one I stand by was her stage in life. She’d be angry at that but I defiantly believe it to be true. Most of us who worked at the gallery were in our 20s and 30s. Being older — or let’s say more mature — gave her the ambiance of honestly. Especially to younger, professional men whom I think may have unconsciously seen a trusting mother figure in her. My boss at the New York space (a woman, by the way) couldn’t understand her method of presentation and I believe didn’t like her very much. And though I didn’t necessarily understand her sales style either, I didn’t really care as long as Mae brought in the bucks each month. Utterly adoring her, I asked that she be scheduled on my shifts. Until I left the company, she and I worked together five days a week.

In disagreements, Malory displayed a great deal of stubbornness. I think it may be how she
survived relatively well, from her affectionless childhood to her success in real estate, art sales and the unwavering parental armor she wore as a struggling single mother. After I left the art business, Malory and I saw each other about twice a year, usually sharing a meal and catching up. Eventually, even that ritual faded. She moved to a small studio apartment
near the United Nations. She had a grand piano in her limited space, taking up what seemed to be half the room. I don’t remember if it was a family labeled instrument or not. I don’t believe so. One time while visiting her, she cooked dinner for me in her tiny kitchen. Salmon and rice.

As always, our conversation was easy and affectionate. I sincerely intended to stay in her life. But like many things affected by time and excuses, we no longer stayed in touch. Her youngest son contacts me every once in a while. Odd as this may sound, he feels like a
family member to me, though we know very little about each other.

He recently texted to let me know that his mom was in a retirement home, close to where I live. He would walk by my apartment when he’d visit with Malory. If I wanted, he could pick me up one day and we could see her together. I told him I’d love that, but I never arranged for it to happen. I wanted to see her, but I was unforgivingly frightened, particularly after learning that she may not have her memories in tact. Without specific explanations, her son told me that Mae’s mind was fractured. I didn’t know if that meant she was suffering from severe dementia or facing the predictable loss of pieces from her past, due to the aging process.

I’d like to paint this as romantic and say it’s because I want to remember Malory as she was, in her full capacity. And that may be part of the reason. I spent over a decade visiting my aging and infirm parents once a week in West Orange, New Jersey, until their respective deaths. It’s more multifaceted than having to witness Mae’s fragility and impending passing. I defensively compare my reaction to PTSD. It’s the uncomfortable event of revisiting the medicinal smells and fluorescent ceilings and rooms filled with humans who once had lives filled with hopes and expectations. It is a glaring reminder that in the not too distant future, this could be me.

Andrew Sarewitz has published several short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

‘TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT

With a retinue of eight knights lifting his body, Lord Galehaut, a Knight of the Round Table, was carried to his grave.  Ferried behind two white stallions from Tintagel Castle, King Arthur’s fortress on the sea, Lord Galehaut was brought to Joyous Gard, to be buried. And when the time comes, I shall lay next to him.  

====

You don’t need to open literature to know of me.  The fables and stories of lords and maidens, of magic and sorcerers, of King Arthur and Guinevere, of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table.  I am Sir Lancelot. 

In truth, only the wealthy and powerful earned idolization in Sixth Century writing.  With tedium and boredom stretching the days of the royal and rich, it is understandable that love often became obsession, with little else to do when not training for war or warring.  Most women had no voice or rights.  Only beauty was prized, when not seen by protective family as a detriment, fearing expected abuse by men’s base desires.  From Cleopatra to Helen of Troy, beauty was, for the most part, the primary pedestal on which a woman was valued.   

I loved Guinevere.  She was exquisite; beauty beyond description.  Forbidden as she may have been, I often could think of nothing else.  The love for King Arthur, my chosen brother now and in Heaven, should have made it impossible for me.  And when he discovered she and I had bedded, he never spoke to me again.  I should be grateful he didn’t have me put to death.

But this isn’t the story I mean to tell.  The days of Camelot are recited with varied dramatic plots and interpretations over many centuries.  But during those years of battle sieges and knightly protection, there was a figure, believed to be the son of a giant — part God if you ask me — that came to Camelot.

=====

In the Sixth Century of our Lord, there had been no one I met that stood taller than I.  At more than 195 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 5 inches), Lord Galehaut was the first and only man from Rome’s Empire to the realm of Logres to put me in his shadow.  No woman or man, enemy or friend could deny his physical dominance. 

In battle or tournament, I dressed with a face-shield for protection and anonymity, which was not unusual.  Fighting for King Arthur and Briton against the Saxon devils, I began as one of the youngest men knighted to be at Camelot’s Round Table.  Barely 16, I’d been brought to Castle Tintagel by the woman I called my mother, Viviene, the Lady of the Lake. I was put to test by King Arthur, jousting in five tournaments against formidable knights, winning all my competitions.

(My father who was himself royalty, died when I was a young child, leaving my birth mother abandoned and destitute. Finding me wandering alone, the Lady of the Lake took me to her magic realm and raised me as her own.  I knew none of this until I was a grown man).

My battle artistry, though practiced against burlap sacks and other lifeless targets, was either inherited from birth or gifted by my upbringing beneath the enchanted lake.  On the battle field, I was known as the Black Knight.  In those first years, I never fell in tournament or war.  To hear Galehaut tell it, that is what gained his attention.

====

The earliest Camelot accounts don’t mention me.  My presence was erased for nearly 700 years.  Not for my pairing with Elaine de Corbenic, who gave birth to my bastard son, Sir Galahad.  Nor for my unbearable longing for Guinevere, breaking King Arthur’s heart.  But for indictments of an intimate nature between Lord Galehaut and myself.  During war’s despair and aloneness, no one questions Man’s shared desires.  In cases when the perfumes of a woman are not within reach, men will do what they must.  But loving another man this way?  No. It is rumored that Greek and Roman soldiers took young slave boys with them into battle to use as you might a woman.  As for allegations of love between Galehaut and myself, there is no proof.  But it is true.  I care not if that is the cause for my being deleted from early manuscripts.  I would have done anything for my Lord, Galehaut.  And with the exception of a brief period of the Round Table writings, Galehaut was rendered insignificant or banished from the stories of Camelot altogether. 

====

We met on the battle field. 

A difficult charge.  Defending the King’s realm, I didn’t have the heart to tell my Lord, King Arthur, that our army was outnumbered and out fought by Saxon invaders led by an exceptional warrior.  As the battle day was nearing its end, there was no denying the exhaustion of my remaining men.  Yet, within sling range, I saw the Saxon giant, known as Lord of Distant Isles, rein his horse to a full stop mid-field, his shield barely marked and his lance, unbroken.  His flanks fell back, as he stood alone.  In the quiet, the giant brought his mount to a canter and rode without his lance lowered for battle.  He dismounted before Arthur.  He took a knee, bowing before my King. 

Head lowered, the Lord of Distant Isles said, “I have never seen man, noble or soldier, fight with the majesty of your Black Knight.  I yield to you, my Lord.  I will not take your land and castle.  This soldier, whoever he may be, is Godlike and worthy of the day’s victory, unchallenged.”

“Stand, Sir,” said King Arthur.  “If I am not to battle or yield to your armies, send them on.  You fight with dignity and power.  Join my Knights of the Round Table and you may stand side by side with the Black Knight and the other worthy knights protecting the lands of Logres.” 

Cerdic of Wessex, enemy to King Arthur, ruled the Saxon lands.   While Lord Galehaut had fought loyally, he abandoned his allegiances and joined the Round Table, knighted with the sword, Excalibur, by King Arthur himself.  But it was not for love of Briton and the Logres realm.  Sir Galehaut did this for me. 

It was a fast and equal friendship.  He and I rode in battle together.  We often slept side by side when traveling or in camps; and when accessible, bathed together in springs.  There was no one I trusted or loved more.  Our conversations, complex and easy, never went dry.  I did not talk with women this way; not even Guinevere. 

====

I have loved two people in my life.  Queen Guinevere and Lord Galehaut.  Both had my heart and devotion. How the passion between Guinevere and I played out has been written over and over.  It killed my brother-ship with Arthur and was eventually the cause for Guinevere’s exile to a secluded convent where she would die of starvation. 

==== 

Patrolling the realm as a Knight of the Round Table and protector of the Briton lands, I was ambushed near Saxon Rock, where I alone fought 20 soldiers.  I left the 20 men bloodied or dead.  But l barely escaped.  My horse, who stayed as brave an ally as I have ever known, died from battle wounds after carrying me through the assault.  I walked until I could walk no more.  Four of my brothers found and carried me back to safety.  My wounds were numerous and painful.  Sir Gawain, a fellow Knight and a true friend, brought a surgeon to tend to me.  The doctor performed what he could, sewing my torn shoulder and other open wounds.  I would not be able to access the magic from witches at Lady Viviene’s secret realm beneath the lake. I was on mortal fields of war.

With little evidence of improvement, my men lowered me into a pool of warm spring water believed to have healing minerals, hidden by rock caves some distance from our camp.  Submerged to my chin, I ordered my men to leave me be.  I closed my eyes and lay neck deep until I drifted into either dream or fantasy.  I lost all sense of time. 

While in a dreamlike state, I heard a voice.  “You shall not die here. I will not allow it.” 

I did not open my eyes.  I felt hands caring and with purpose, run tender fingers through my blood-knotted beard, washing the clots free, as a nurse might remove mud from a child’s hair after play.  I reached my injured hand up to find his, and we threaded our fingers together.  “I will not die as long as you do not leave me.” 

“I will never leave you.” 

Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, no longer dressed in chain mail armor, disrobed what remained of his clothing and slid into the mineral pool beside me.  We sat naked, side by side, hand in hand, beneath the warm water.  Turning me cautiously onto my side away from his face, he wrapped his giant arms around my bruised and broken body, pulling me with impossible gentleness into his chest.  Not since I was a boy cradled by the Lady of the Lake had I felt this secure.  Myself being 183 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 1), there had been no one larger than I from the time I turned 10.  Galehaut, pressed against my back, fitted to my frame, his arms enveloping me as I fell into his body.  “I am here, Lancelot.  I am your servant, my knight.  I am here.”

I have loved Arthur, my friend and King.  But this total and utter adoration was nothing I have known with another man.  I pulled away only enough to turn and face my companion.  Without pause, I pressed my lips to his and kissed him deeply, and said,  “I will not die.  Not here, not now.” 

Men are not by nature, gentle creatures.  Sex can be violent.  When with Guinevere, which at this date in time had only been once, the passion that took over was heated and frantic from our extended and secret longing.  When finally we were alone in her bed chamber, I clumsily spread her legs and with untamed desperation, thrust myself inside her over and over as she moaned, digging her fingernails so deep into my skin, blood was let.  At first I did not know if she was in pain or rapture when she arched her back and screamed as I unleashed what felt like decades of imprisoned energy.  It was violent ecstasy.

With Galehaut, this was unexplainable passion of a different breed, as our mouths opened upon each other.  I was in physical pain, but not from him.  He could break me easily in this state.  Instead, an action of uncommon trust came over me.  An experience neither of us questioned, I said, “I am yours, my Lord.”  This stimulation, arousal man to man, was unexplored desire in love.  I had seen him naked many times before but now I looked on his beauty with awe and longing.  He was a perfect specimen, whether giant or human by definition.  I had not considered that this coupling meant something different for Galehaut.  He never mounted or enslaved any women of conquered villages as spoils of war, which soldiers tend to do.  He had not a woman he longed for or was promised to for betrothal.  He was completely mine. 

There had always been ties between Galehaut and I.  On the day he knelt before Arthur and took his place with the Knights of the Round Table, he told me in private he would never be anywhere but beside me.  For myself, we had been linked by valor and battle and that was the clear bond.  But for Galehaut, he had seen the destiny of our love from the moment he saw the Black Knight defend a losing Kingdom. 

Galehaut helped me back to a bed set for me at the camp.  He would be riding back to Castle Tintagel and the Knights of the Round Table come daylight.  He slept beside me.  In the morning, when I awoke, he had gone. 

The travel home was uncomfortable and took longer than expected.  But I did recover and took my place among the other exceptional knights once more.   

==== 

There is a great deal of Medieval history that has been scribed.  Disputed or not, I will leave that to the curious to research for themselves.  As for Galehaut and I, we rode together many times over the years and just as often, were sent to separate fields to defend or conquer.  And when together alone, we had passion and love.  

====

Toward the Northern Territory, traveling alone, I was surprised by a band of robbers.  Without armor for bodily protection, I still was able to fight them off but suffered life threatening wounds.  Once they retreated, I walked toward a wide stream, removing my blood-soaked garments, thinking I would find some relief.  Before I reached the river, I fell to my knees and lost consciousness.  My bloody clothing was discovered at the water’s edge, but not I.  It was reported back to Camelot that I had drowned.  

When the news of my death reached the Knights of the Round Table, Sir Galehaut stood and walked to his sleeping chamber, bolting the door.  He refused all company, food or drink.  He would not even accept a royal visit from Guinevere, who herself was privately mourning.  After days of Galehaut refusing anyone’s service, Gawain came to his chamber.  With no response to his demand for entry, Sir Gawain brought two men and, employing a wooden ram, knocked open Galehaut’s door.  The Lord of Distant Isles lay on the floor, no breath left in his body.  Sir Gawain knelt beside him, tears running down his face. 

I had not drowned.  I’d been rescued by a hermit who found me unconscious by the water.  With a cart and mule, he towed me to his hut, hidden in the forest where he tended me back to health.  When strong enough, I traveled back to Castle Tintagel.     

As I approached, the draw bridge was lowered.  Two knights on stallions rode to meet me, which I thought unusual.  Sirs Yvain and Percival.  With what at first appeared to be great concern for my health and safety, they rode with me flanked in-between them as we crossed over the moat.  I did not ask for Guinevere nor Arthur, who even in his denial of me, I held hope would again embrace me.  Still weak, I dismounted.  My two comrades escorted me to a quarters reserved for members of the Round Table.  Agravain and Tristan joined Yvain and Percival, but not Galehaut.  Sir Gawain came in last, kneeling before me. 

“My Lord and friend.  We believed you to be dead.  We thought...” said Gawain.  

I interrupted, “I was not able to send a message.  I was rescued by a kind hermit who nursed my wounds.  But my hands were injured and he could neither read nor write.”

“The Queen will be very relieved, my Lord.  She has been beside herself in sorrow,” said Percival. 

“I will visit with her shortly.  I should like to first bathe and dress appropriately.  And I should like to see Sir Galehaut.”

Gawain began speaking: “Lord Galehaut, he is...  not here, my Lord.”

“He is dead,” said Agravain plainly.  “He is dead.”  

Absolute silence.  Then, “where is he?!” I screamed.

Sir Gawain stood, saying “My Lord, his body is —“

“Take me to him!” 

That is the last I remember of the day. 

Galehaut was lain out on a table, not meant for death.  In secrecy, Sir Gawain took me aside and told me Galehaut had died of a broken heart.  Believing I had been killed, Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, did not want to live anymore.

The Knights of the Round Table were permitted the honor of burial on the grounds of Castle Tintagel.  But I wanted to bring Galehaut to my home.  And though King Arthur would not travel there, white horses carried Galehaut, Knight of the Round Table, to be buried at Joyous Gard. 

I did not speak of my great love to anyone.  It was simply assumed that my closest friend had died.  And that’s not incorrect. 

I would return to Guinevere’s bed a number of times before she was publicly shamed and exiled by Arthur.  I walked away from the Knights of the Round Table and returned to my home at Joyous Gard.  I would outlive King Arthur, Guinevere and of course, Galehaut. 

====

Honoring my wishes, I was buried next to Sir Galehaut, so we may lie together for eternity.  And though my love for Guinevere would be scribed and rewritten over the centuries, my love for and time with Galehaut vanished from the tales of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table, like fallen leaves in an autumn wind. 

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 70 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

AXL, THE DOG

Photographer - Tobi Brun

AXL, THE DOG

In one of my previous careers, I worked at an art gallery. Back then, there was a celebrity with whom almost everyone in the neighborhood was familiar. Named after the lead singer for Guns and Roses, Axl was an English bulldog. For whatever reason, he never developed beyond the
size of a large puppy, which kept him adorable, even when fully grown. Though owned by the woman I worked for, he was also the mascot for her business, Mimi Ferzt Gallery, which represented post-Stalinist, nonconformist Russian and Baltic States art.

There is no Mimi Ferzt. In between occupants for the gallery space, an independent movie production filmed at the location and put the name Mimi Ferzt on the doors. The name is a play on words: “Me Me First.” In the film, Mimi was a gallery owner. With the name still prominently displayed, it was decided that keeping the name Mimi Ferzt added an allure and mystery to the gallery’s biography. We got a kick out of artists who told us that Mimi had said she promised to give them an exhibition. The gallery was a spacious, square room with a ceiling that reached a height equaling three stories. Other perks included stark white walls, polished wood floors, a century-old decorative tin ceiling and a large, custom built reception desk that had been left by the previous tenant, a museum that relocated to Connecticut. Having been a non-profit venue subleased to Mimi Ferzt, the monthly rent remained well below market value. It was located in the very desirable neighborhood of SoHo.

When I first met Axl, it was love at first sight...at least for me. Still a puppy, he would sit between my legs under the reception desk, and gently chew and lick my fingers. Within about 30 seconds, tiny red spots spread up my arm. I soon faced the realization that I was allergic to
Axl, as I am to most cats and some long haired dogs, such as Shelties, who have a double layer of dog fur that produces a dander similar to that of cats.

But I was not allergic to Axl’s coat... just his saliva. I was able to scratch his belly and pet him, but I had to stop him from kissing or cleaning me with his tongue. Sometimes I couldn’t resist allowing the affectionate bonding he offered. After a few moments of being licked, I would have to excuse myself to one of the gallery bathrooms and flood my arm with cool water and soap. In time, the rash would vanish.

Thanks to the size of the room, Axl and I were able to run around inside the gallery. Sometimes I would gallop or skip. I’m sure I looked ridiculous. On or off his leather leash, Axl began to prance next to me, like a miniature, short-legged thoroughbred. With all four paws off the
ground, he would arch his back, extend his front legs forward and hind legs behind him in what practically appeared to be a graceful ballet jump, which I’m sure looked even more hilarious next to my animated movements. I believed I was a genius, having taught Axl to show off
these skills. At some point I was informed that English bulldogs had been trained to “prance” for centuries. It was part of his inherited lineage. In the European tradition, bulldogs had been sent out into bull-fighting rings prior to the battle between the matador and bull. I’m guessing
it had something to do with the small dogs taunting and angering the bull.

English bulldogs, an invented breed, are thought to have originally been a mix of Asiatic mastiff and pug. Now registered as purebred, they are expensive to acquire. Whatever the origins, they are not able to copulate naturally. That means someone has to extract the semen from a
male and insert it into a female English bulldog. Don’t ask me how all of this is performed. A turkey baster comes to mind.

English bulldogs aren’t known for their intelligence. They are fairly low on the totem pole for canine smarts. But they are usually very sweet. Axl was no exception. He was affectionate and cuddly and easy to love. When taking Axl for a walk on the streets of SoHo, inevitably we would be stopped multiple times by strangers who wanted to pet him. Axl’s master was generous in allowing me to take him out. Maybe walking a dog can become a chore day after day. His owner was happy to have others take him around the neighborhood during work hours. One of the funniest experiences I remember having was being stopped by Drew Barrymore. She asked his name and leaned down to pet him. I said, “Axl, you’re such a celebrity.” Immediately, Drew stiffened, stood erect and walked away. Even though I had said Axl’s name, she heard what I said as being about her.

A year down the line, I was offered a job at a competing gallery and accepted the position as Assistant Director. A few years later, I learned that the owner of Mimi Ferzt had gone to Russia to look for artwork to add to the gallery’s inventory. Apparently while there, she had also adopted a puppy and brought him back to New York. I don’t know what kind of dog it was, but something considered rare and exotic in America. He looked like a small, short haired grey wolf.

I hadn’t visited Mimi Ferzt Gallery in a long while. I stopped in to say hello to some of my former colleagues. One of these employees told me that the new dog was hostile and didn’t belong in a city apartment. He had constantly gone after Axl. Axl was now quarantined in the
basement of the gallery, cordoned off in a small space next to the staircase. He had one of those plastic cones around his head, which always looks funny to me. As if the dog was wearing a lamp shade or a large collar that belonged to Queen Victoria. But this was not amusing at all. Axl had been attacked by the Russian dog, and now had stitches in his ears and the back of his head. The cone was to protect Axl from disturbing the sutures while his wounds heeled.

I went down to the gallery basement to see Axl. He was sitting quietly in his little cubby hole, blocked from getting out by a wooden board. I leaned over and said, “Hello, Axl.”

He looked at me for a moment. Then he started growling and barking incessantly. Nonstop and angry. I believe he recognized me and was barking in fury. Why did I let this happen? Where had I been? Why didn’t I protect him? I walked upstairs, shaken and heartbroken. Then I found out that his owner wanted to give him away. Apparently, his novelty had worn off. I offered to take him. But it was not to be. He was
given to strangers. And from what I was told, Axl died within the year. I don’t hold the secondary owners responsible. But I do blame the gallerist for not letting me take him.

Bulldogs aren’t known for living long lives, but at the very least, Axl could have spent his final days safe and with someone who loved him and whom he had known since puppyhood.

Around that time, I became friendly with an artist from Rome, living and working in New York City. When applying for a financial grant to subsidize an artist’s studio, he asked me to write him a testimonial for the Approval Board. As a thank you, he gave me one of his paintings, which hangs outside of my bedroom. It’s of an English bulldog.

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 60 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com) along with several scripts. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe, garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA.