With or Without You Read Online Free PDF Page A

Haring’s trademark. It’s how people know him and his work.”
    “Okay, if you say so.”
    I rally. He will appreciate this. “I love it because it’s so simple. It could be any baby. It’s universal. But the radiance makes this child an individual. Community and individuality all at once. Perfect synthesis. With this one little image, Haring instantly made people think of him. I mean, no artist can be summed up by their work, but this comes pretty close.”
    Davis scoffs, puffing out his chest. “Not me. I’m complicated. You need more than a radioactive baby to sum me up.”
    “Radiant Baby ,” I growl. When will I learn it’s useless to explain my artist obsessions to anyone?
    Except Erik. He gets it.
    We arrive at the Rainbow Youth Center and find Malaika Achebe sorting mail at the front desk. She’s a beautiful, dark-skinned woman, wearing intricate purple and brown robes from her native Nigeria. The RYC is her radiant baby. She moved to Madison seven years ago with her partner, Alyssa Holt, a poet who teaches at the UW. Malaika became very vocal when she found that the city had no place for gay youth. She and Alyssa wasted no time ingratiating themselves into Madison society and raising money for a youth center. She’s what Davis calls “a power lesbian.”
    As always, she smiles when we sign in.
    “Good evening, gentlemen,” she says warmly, then spots the crumpled flyer in Davis’s hand. “I see you’re here for Mr. Sable’s meeting. Let me know how it goes.”
    We nod, no clue who Mr. Sable is. Davis peers just past Malaika. On the wall is a small row of mailboxes, one for each of the shelter’s bedrooms upstairs. Next to each mailbox is a hook where the keys are kept. Only one of the six sets of keys hangs there: Room Three. Malaika follows Davis’s gaze.
    “Reserved in your name,” she says reassuringly. “We’ll be seeing you next week?”
    “Yeah.” Davis frowns. “Tuesday.”
    Malaika smiles at us again. “Mr. Sable is in Room Four. Have a good time.” She turns back to sorting mail.
    We walk through the pool hall and up the creaky stairs. Room Four is halfway down the hall, door propped open, muted chatter just beyond. Davis raps on the door-frame. The room is sparse, like a nun’s cell. A twin bed on a rusty frame, a small trunk at the foot, a lamp and a bedside table.
    Half a dozen mismatched folding chairs form a semicircle in front of the bed. Each chair is filled. I recognize most of the guys from seeing them around the RYC, but there’s no one we know by name. Everyone’s our age, more or less.
    On the bed is a guy sitting cross-legged, swathed ina huge black trench coat. He looks up as we peek in. A mess of thick dark hair, like the kind you see in Japanese anime, hides his eyes. Cargo pockets, most looking hand sewn, litter the coat. Army boots dart out from under. His build is hidden beneath the coat, but it’s obvious he is neither thin nor a bodybuilder.
    He smiles. His face is at once humorless but friendly. There’s something uncanny about him, like God forgot to give him lips, and two thin black scratches were an afterthought, a compromise for a mouth.
    “Here for the Chasers meeting?” Trench Coat asks, beckoning to us. His voice is scratchy. I can’t get a read on his age. Twenty-one? Twenty-four? “Good to have you. You wanna catch the door? Then we can start.”
    I shut the door, and Davis and I go to sit on the floor when Trench Coat stands. He is very tall.
    “Plenty of room over here.”
    He moves to the head of the bed and pats the mattress. Davis casually sits next to our host and leans in, no doubt hoping for an “accidental” touch. The first sign that Davis is smitten.
    Trench Coat extends a huge hand, first to Davis, then to me. “I’m Sable.”
    When their hands meet, Davis grins. “I’m Davis. This is Evan.”
    I reach out to shake and, just like my dad taught me,I meet Sable’s gaze. His face is sallow, his eyes a little sunken in,