Goldenrod

Introduction

Walking home one day last summer on 65th Street and Broadway I noticed a young man (earring in ear, crissclashing potpourri of pop art, jock and punk rock garb) selling books. Now this street is always crammed to bursting with peddlers hawking their wares: jewelry, sunglasses, old books, cutlery, watches, sneakers, African masks and mini-sculptures; one can purchase near anything. But a writer selling his own book!? This was a first! And so, drawn half by curiosity and half by empathy, I bought his book. So began my friendship with Peter Gault.

And now, hardly one year later, his publisher has asked me to write an introduction to Peter’s novel: Goldenrod.

With pleasure.

Coming to the end of the eighties Peter Gault strikes me as something of an aberration, an anomaly, someone skewed way off the standard deviation of the bell-shaped probability curve. So many young people today seem to be afflicted by a contemporary malaise which attacks to the core and leaves its victims so exhausted and racked with pain that they only have strength enough left to become one thing: whether planning careers or planning marriages, whether entering the law or entering the bedroom, making debate or making babies, in one way or another: They’re All Accountants! Not so Peter Gault. By word and deed, and writing a novel is a great deal of each, Peter Gault most assuredly comes from another age. Admittedly a simpler and less confused age, but for those very reasons, an age more vital, elemental, bountiful and bounteous. In a word: Abundant.

And his novel, Goldenrod, like Peter himself, is so filled with this abundance, this fecundity of youth (or what heretofore I have always associated with youth) that it veritably sweeps the reader along on an orgiastic joyride through this Gaultian timewarp. A time when Accountants knew their place and dared not trespass where not wanted (or needed). Yes: Miracle of miracles, Goldenrod carried me all the way back to my own youth whence my ego was rocklike certain, the point of it all clear, the good guys ‘good,’ the bad guys ‘bad,’ and the comic tragic hunt for you know what: Everything. Where indeed people, especially young people, still believed that everything was possible. In short and in sum, where the letter ‘s,’ whether it be placed before the words sex, self, or significance (as in human significance) was always written with a capital ‘S.’ And that is precisely what is special about Peter Gault’s novel. It makes its readers young again. And if already young, younger still. It allows them to frolic gay and carefree. To partake in a journey where no reductionism debases and makes mockery of our human size, and no accountants and accountants’ practices are permitted to muddy the waters and foul the holy land. Where Ken Harrison, Goldenrod himself, is not merely given youth’s innate privilege and right to dream, but is a dream himself.

Now other intelligences might speak of literature and art, and the many ways to write a novel, post-modern and classical, stylistic and au naturel, but for me Peter Gault’s way is as good and honest as any. For if you read his story, your hearts (as well as your lower parts) like mine, will swell with an appreciation of what it is to be young and whole and innocent and full-blooded. And if Goldenrod can do that for you, as it did for me, Peter Gault will have given you what he has to give. Not merely his art and his craft but all his love. HIS LOVE OF LIFE! And perhaps that is a first step, the shot in the arm our accountants’ age needs, and what I sensed immediately and all at once when reading that young man’s book which I purchased on that fortuitous day a summer ago on 65th Street and Broadway.

Richard Kalich, February 1988

1. Think Golden

I never tire of looking at myself. I can stare for hours, without a minute of boredom. I take off my clothes and stand naked in front of one of those full-length mirrors and simply contemplate my body. It’s a narcissistic ritual—I don’t deny that—but it is more than mere narcissism. It’s like a religious ceremony. It expands my consciousness. It’s a form of transcendentalism. If my confidence is low, and there in fact have been brief moments in my life when my confidence was low, I just have to look in the mirror, and I experience an overwhelming flood of inspiration. I feel I can do anything, comprehend anything, create anything.

I start by contemplating my feet and work up. Generally, I’m not enthusiastic about feet; there’s nothing particularly profound about feet, but, as far as feet go, I have rather interesting ones. They’re interesting because they resemble my hands and my genital area. My feet, hands, and sex organs have a similar look about them, a look which is distinct from the rest of my anatomy.

I include my tongue as a sex organ, I say to myself earnestly, tickling the air with licks.

It’s these three sets of dangling artifacts—feet, hands, and sex organs—that give me away, that expose the truth of my personality, that belie my reputation as a superficial, happy-go-lucky, all-star jock hockey player. The rest of my body is stereotypically, or perhaps I should say classically, male. A visible web of muscle is stretched upon a sturdy frame. I’m not tall, about average height for a hockey player, but I have a lean, hard, powerful build. I’m a sexual being. My body was created for sexual acrobatics. But my body is misleading because of the jealous myth propagated by anemic academics and sickly intellectuals that anyone who looks athletic is stupid. A deep understanding of life doesn’t cause physical degeneration. I’m living proof.

Feet, hands, and sex organs express the enigma of Ken Harrison, I say to myself, tickling the air with my tongue again.

I shall refrain from giving minute descriptions of my physiology, not because it’s irrelevant or extraneous to the story—it’s very relevant indeed—but because minute descriptions of any kind are often tedious. It’s the story that’s important. I want nothing to cloud the story. Before I delve into those three years of my life, those three years of bizarre change and discord, I should transgress briefly with one more description. I must give you a picture of my face.

For the sake of objectivity, I throw aside all modesty. I have a handsome face. My square brick jaw, delicate features, and curious expressions are somehow contradictory, masculine and feminine, emotional and intelligent, vulnerable and confident. It’s a face that’s difficult to understand, always in some stage of metamorphosis, yet never unpleasant to look at.

My face is like a breath of fresh air, I announce magically, studying my reflection in the mirror.

Mirrors have had a special place in my life. They remind me of when I was a hockey player because in the team dressing room, spanning the full length of the wall from the floor to the ceiling was a huge mirror. It was the last year of my hockey career. The mirror reflected a room cluttered with sports gear and gawky male adolescents in the final stages of puberty. The room was small, but the mirror produced an illusion of expansiveness. It made life seem larger, like art. Red was everywhere. Red was the color of the team sweaters. Since it was nearly time to go on the ice, most people had their sweaters on. Mine was still on the hanger. I secretly competed to be the last person dressed. I sat directly in the center of the mirror, still naked, quietly taping my hockey stock. The door opened wide enough for Mr. Winfield’s unusually large head to fit through. Humpty-dumpty, I muttered under my breath. Mr Winfield’s enormous forehead was swarming with veins, like purple maggots feeding on his brain.

When the buzzer goes, everyone better be dressed and ready to go on the ice. If you’re not ready, you’ll … there’ll be trouble, said Winfield, unable to think of an appropriate threat. The door slammed shut. Coach Winfield didn’t have to work at being obnoxious; he was that way by nature. This time his obnoxiousness was directed specifically at me, part of our private vendetta. What Winfield was bashing brains out to get, I got by smiling. I made life look enjoyable and free. This was what Winfield hated. He insisted that life wasn’t that way, that life was bleak and serious and that only through suffering and drudgery could one obtain the things that are worthwhile in life. Winfield was obnoxiously Presbyterian. Meanwhile, I hadn’t bothered to arrive at the game until the third period—due to some sexual escapade—and still managed to score three goals. Tonight I would be there for the whole game.

Winfield didn’t know that I had a special technique for getting dressed extra fast. My garter belt, hockey socks, and knee pads were attached together. I slipped them on in one motion. When Vein Brain returned, I was dressed and lacing up my skates. I ignored Winfield. I didn’t want to encourage him by acknowledging his existence.

Shut up, shouted Winfield, even though no one was talking. Winfield looked like Punch Imlach with rabies. He began to pace, which made him feel important and tough. He suddenly started adjusting his tie so frantically it looked like he was beating himself off. I expected his nose to ejaculate sperm.

We have to move together, work together, reciprocate as a team, said Winfield, ignorant of the sexual connotations of his words and actions. I don’t want to see any friction on the bench. No friction! Friction is wasted energy and we have to save our energy for the real thing. Do you know what causes friction? When the puck is in our end zone, and one of our men is out of the play, dancing around the center ice line like a faggot, teasing the opposition’s goalie. Winfield was referring, not so subtly, to me. I’m the cock teaser at the red line. Dancing at the red line was my trade mark, and I scored a lot of goals from that position. Winfield had nerve calling into question—even covertly—my sexual integrity, while he was masturbating with his tie and foaming over Bruno. Bruno was a defenseman and Winfield’s favorite player.

I felt that a hockey team was like a homosexual club. A bunch of men got together three or four times a week, took off their clothes, played games, and had showers with each other. Everyone had a favorite, a buddy, a lover. There were breakups and hurt feelings and jealousies. It was a physical environment.

I want you to grab that puck, continued Winfield, and hold on to it. Start moving it around slowly, but keep possession. Don’t rush it, look for the hole. When the time is right, split the defense and go for it.

Winfield was still fondling his tie. The veins on his forehead were starting to bulge. He carried on in a frenzied voice, We can’t stop, not now that we’re on top of things. We’ve worked up to this moment. All the planning and practicing and friction leads to where we are now. Win the next two games, two measly games, and we got the big gold cup. I’ve coached the Dixie Queens for thirteen years, thirteen years of my life, and all to win that golden cup. I’ve never been closer than I am tonight. We have to hold back a little longer on the shooting and start skating, start moving our asses. I can feel it inside me. I can feel it coming. Let’s give it all we got.

Winfield rallied a crowd better than Adolf Hitler. It was like a strip show. The energy level was high, people either standing or sitting erect in their seats. Bruno, the coach’s pet, was making foul grunting noises. His hand was pumping up and down on the shaft of his hockey stick. I was struck by a hideous image of Winfield doing rhythmic pelvis thrusts in a G-string. I shuddered and chased the image out of my head.

I can feel it coming too, Coach, whispered Bruno pervertedly, emphasizing the word Coach. Winfield loved being called Coach—it’s such a sentimental epithet. Even his wife and kids called him Coach.

I want you to prove that the Dixie Queens are the best junior B team in the league, said Winfield. I’ve got one question to ask you. Who’s going to win?

WE ARE, exploded the whole team passionately, Bruno’s voice ringing the loudest.

THEY ARE, exploded Phuc Wildfong and myself in the silence that followed. Phuc and I feigned bewilderment. It was our joke. It was a way of giving Winfield’s inspiring harangue an anticlimactic effect. We did it all the time.

Phuc Wildfong was nothing like the name implies. He was not the least bit aggressive. On or off the ice, he was a gentle, unassuming person. I was the one that instigated this rebellious streak in him. Although Phuc was Oriental and had an Oriental name, there was not a hint of foreign accent in his conversation.

I believed that Phuc had some kind of complex because of his name. It’s difficult to trust someone with a name like Phuc Wildfong. He bore the brunt of a lot of ridicule. Roll call at school must have been terrible. With a name like that he was centered out all the time, and kids are so cruel. At a young age, Phuc was simplified to Fuck, of course, which is a degrading thing to be called. Winfield would say at practice, Get the fuck over here, and everyone would grab Phuc and act out a gang bang on him. It was meant in fun, but I could tell Phuc didn’t enjoy it. I was self-righteous about pronouncing his name correctly.

I pretended to be fixing a strap until the players stampeded out, and I was alone in the room. The mirror was mine. I didn’t like to hide myself in a helmet, so I carried it under my arm. Feet, hands, and sex organs were disguised. I was invulnerable. The red team sweater gave a flattering hue to my complexion and the big black C stood boldly on my heart. I was the Captain. At the beginning of the season, I was the coach’s pet, not Bruno. The loss of love between Winfield and me had nothing to do with my performance on the ice—I was leading the league in scoring—but with the fact that Winfield didn’t understand my sense of humor. He thought I was being flipppant, but it was really just my way of dealing with pressure.

I dismissed myself from the mirror. Confidence flowed through my veins like an hallucinogenic drug. The loud speaker was listing the members of the home team, the Dixie Queens. Bruno was organizing the warm-up with the enthusiasm of a lunatic. His mouth worked harder than any other part of his body, shouting at almost everyone in the rink, incluing his old Italian mother who was dressed in black and sat behind the penalty box. Bruno was Assistant Captain, and this gave his tongue license. He always climaxed prematurely, during the warm-up, and seemed to fall asleep by the time the game started. Bruno was trying to kill our goalie by blasting slap shots around his ears from five feet away.

Number fourteen, Ken Harrison, said the loud speaker, catching my attention. I was standing by the bench, avoiding Bruno’s warm-up, pretending that my straps needed more adjustment.

There was a modest uproar at the mention of my name. My cheering section consisted of a multitudinous array of family and a couple of friends. My father was the loudest. He was there with his common-law wife and her four daughters. My mother was the most zealous. She was there with my seven sisters. My girlfriend was the most mysterious. She was sitting beside my friend Phil. It was a predominantly female congregation of fifteen.

I inherited my mother’s good looks and strong mindedness. She was a determined lady. My older sisters harbored a little resentment toward my mother, blaming her for the divorce. My mother wanted a boy, and when mother wanted something, there was no earthly means of discouraging her. She would wait for my father to get home from work, pounce on him the second he got in the door, and drag him into the bedroom, fifteen years of pouncing, getting pregnant, bearing female children.

Number twenty-one, Phuc Wildfong, said the loud speaker rudely, followed by a ripple of laughter. The only names that caught my attention were Phuc’s and my own.

Father started doing disappearing acts. He was scared to come home at night. He had married the prettiest virgin in his high school class, and she had become transformed into an erotic monster, an insatiable sexual vampire in a perpetual state of arousal. I was the long-awaited boy. My birth was to be his salvation, like the second coming of Christ. He was mistaken. The pouncing didn’t stop. It got worse. But I don’t blame the divorce on my mother. She was only being herself.

Phuc and I were in the starting line-up. The referee blew the whistle and put his arm up, indicating that he was ready to drop the puck and start the game. I played the paragon of positions, center, and Phuc was my right wing. The center is a freedom lover, roaming the whole surface of the ice, expressing his creativity and leadership through the act of scoring. Defensemen are not as charismatic. They’re the conservative sector of the team, concerned with preventing goals and protecting the status quo. The goaltender is the dullard. He stands there like a tree.

I let everyone wait as I circled around, strapping on my helmet and rearranging my balls. I would never win a face-off. I actually helped the opposing center draw the puck back and had my wings rush the defense. The opposition, the St. Charles Darlings, were in baby blue. Phuc moved at full speed from the moment the puck was dropped, indiscriminately pouncing on every Darling he could get a hold of with an inexhaustible passion that only my mother could equal. What Phuc lacked in size he compensated for in mobility. He was a bundle of energy. Despite his efforts, the Darlings kept control and shot the puck into our end zone. It was followed by a quiet invasion, like parachutists descending into enemy territory. Everyone floated into their positions, subdued and evenly spaced—everyone but Phuc. Phuc was a bullet, ricocheting off the ice, off boards, off players.

I acted as the foil. While Phuc was going hysterical in our corner, I relaxed at center ice. I hadn’t budged since the puck was dropped, worrying their defense and cock-teasing their goalie. Phuc had one thing on his mind, get the puck to Ken, and he didn’t need to look to know where I was standing. He was conscious of my presence.

Faggot, shouted Winfield from the bench, the veins in his forehead ready to pop.

I used the blade of my stick to nudge the defenseman where I imagined the crack of his ass was and stood back. He swung his stick at me, but missed. Just looking for the hole, I whispered to him, and started my dance. The dance involved bouncing on my skates, an action akin to the pawing of a bull as it prepares to charge. I had a knack for bursting out of a static position, for springing forward and shifting speed with a swiftness that would catch my opposition off guard. The dance inspired my cheering section and intimidated the Darlings’ defense, but it was a false alarm. Phuc was boxed in. He held the puck against the boards for a whistle.

Phuc’s leg bounced nervously as he sat beside me on the bench. Hockey affected him like an amphetamine. Once it was in his system he couldn’t stop moving. His performance on the ice was an expression of his personality, of not only an attitude toward life, but of a bloodline. Generations of Wildfongs were expressing themselves through Phuc’s movements. I consider hockey to be an art form, a mode of self-expression. We were a team of dancers and choreographers. Someone like Bruno, barrelling up and down the wing with blinders on, devoid of imagination, had the technical skill, but lacked the artistic flair. He didn’t have the delicate vitality of a creator. He was made for slavery.

Goal scored by number fifteen, Steve Lawson, echoed the voice of the loud speaker, like a mechanical god. Lawson, captain of the St. Charles Darlings, had instigated and capitalized on a textbook passing play. The Darlings led one to nothing.

Near the end of