The three men were arguing in Time Square. The youngest one hated quarrels, so he looked away. His eyes drank in the simmering lights of the district. The evening seemed desolate to Sean. As the two others argued, thousands of pedestrians wove through the grid of the streets. A few blocks up, hundreds were vying for half-price fare at the big ticket outlet. Hotels were swamped with tourists. Policemen were everywhere; so were pushers and panhandlers.

"Mark," said one of the men. "It's Saturday night. I have a concert to get to. I'm cold. And I'm sick of your stupid ideas about what the League should and shouldn't be doing."

Mark laughed that uninhibited laugh Lukas hated so much and said, "You are one of the most uptight activists I've ever known, Lukas! You are a control freak!"

"Lower your voice," said Lukas.

These two veterans of gay activism were like a study in opposites to Sean, (the youngest of the three). Lukas was an aging preppy who was well into his thirties; he still dressed like a fraternity boy and wore his brown hair neatly trimmed. Mark, an ex-hippie in his forties, wore the kind of clothes that he wore in the days of the student revolution, even though his fair and curly hair was short, now, and he was going bald.

"Our assignment tonight," Mark chuckled, "is not to override the steering committee, but to scout out ways this proposed demo could be done."

Lukas shot back, "I don't give a shit about our assignment. The New York Times isn't the real villain to our community, anyway. It's City Hall. We should be prying open City Hall with a demo, not liberal papers like The Times."

All three men suddenly had to act nonchalant because some cops strutted by, with handcuffs rattling on their belts.

The organization these men belonged to was unraveling before Sean's very eyes. Key figures were bickering like they never bickered before.

There was an angry pause on the street. Lukas, so stuffy and officious, glanced at his digital watch, and then muttered to Mark, "I gotta go. Do whatever you want at the next steering committee. I wash my hands of The Times demo."

Lukas disappeared among the throngs of pedestrians, and Mark hooted, "Does that man hate my guts or what?!"

"Mark," said Sean. "The Gay and Lesbian Social Defense League is only two months old and the leadership is already at each others' throats." Mark giggled at the expression on Sean's face.

Then Mark sighed and said, "Don't worry about it. It's just the usual growing pains. GLAAD, GMHC - all of them probably went through it. Back in the '60's, those civil rights groups went through it, too. Now's our turn."

"But - "

"Lukas and I really care about each other. We just fight a lot that's all. C'mon, let's grab some dinner."

They needled their way through the tourists, as well as through the pimps, the pushers, and the men in turbans who were selling incense.

The gutter echoed with the city's noise, and smelled of its waste. To Sean, Time Square epitomized all that was exploitive in New York City. He found it hard to have faith in any kind of ideals in the face of such brutal commercialism.

As the two men left the area, both saw the big zipper band of news overhead. It ran a report on the tensions between Iraq and Iran and another about the covert arms deal conducted by men in Washington, D.C. (Reagan was the President.) Sean and Mark always kept their eyes peeled for news about AIDS, but at that hour they didn't see any.

***

"What IS your beef with The New York Times?" Sean asked. "Lukas thinks you hate them." Sean and Mark had taken the shuttle to Grand Central Station. They were on a southbound to the East Village, as they spoke.

"I don't hate anybody," said Mark, gently, as the crowded train rattled. "But I do think you have to be provocative now and then, and I'm not afraid to be that." Mark grinned. "Sometimes you find these corporations aren't so bad, once you get to know them, but you have to challenge them. Shake 'em up a little. Even the liberal ones." He winked.

"Other newspapers are worse than The Times," said Sean.

"So let's tackle them, too," Mark answered. "I don't believe in limiting ourselves. I agree with much of what The Times says, but they're powerful and they have a bad record on covering gay issues. Not to mention AIDS issues. They deserve our pressure." After a moment, Mark added, "There are other reasons why Lukas is against my proposal." The train screeched. Passengers swayed. Mark's face wrinkled into an elfish grin. He whispered, "Lukas has a personal agenda of going into politics. That's how come he wants to target City Hall. He wants to make contacts there."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I were." Mark chuckled. Then, something colored his mood. Sean had a question in his eyes.

Mark said, "I wish Lukas well… he'd be good in politics… Of course, nowadays, he's not sure he has a future… his health ain't so hot. His doctor thinks it could be AIDS."

The cavernous subway wall raced by, looking like a filthy dungeon. Sean, who tended to empathize quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, with people he liked, stared at Mark for a moment, transfixed by the darkness that had just entered Mark's eyes.

"Have you known many people with AIDS?" asked Sean, softly.

"About fifteen," Mark said. "You?"

"Only two and pretty distantly," answered the younger man. "But I remember when AIDS first happened. My fear of it was one of the main reasons why I became an activist."

"Your fear of it?" Mark said, pensively. Their stop came up.

Mark and Sean got off the train, slipped through the turnstile, and mounted the dirty, steel-edged steps from the station to the street, where the air was blustery. The city was its dirty self.

Mark led the younger man through the thick night to a strip of Indian restaurants on Sixth. Italian lights made each gate shine as though Christmas were right around the corner.

They gossiped about their organization.

The Gay and Lesbian Social Defense League was only a couple of months old. The membership numbered three hundred gays and lesbians. Their goal was to end homophobia in the media, the workplace, the market and the government. The main tools were direct action campaigns like rallies and marches.

According to Mark, a big portion of the leadership was Ivy League. In fact, much of the leadership in the gay community was rather preppy. Mark liked those prominent figures, well enough. He knew some of them from way back in his counterculture days. Old cronies of his included Greg, for example, who became a bigwig in a city arts organization; there were also Andy, Marty, Amy and Anne, who were major activists, often quoted in the media. They were all well-connected people in New York City, and they knew and liked Mark, and he knew and liked them. Even Mark, who never finished college, and who was in his element most when he was shouting slogans at rallies, was the son of a privileged family. His Dad was a wealthy lawyer in the city. Lukas, on the other hand, who came off sounding elitist, was the son of a mere high school teacher in St. Louis. Lukas was materialistic, but his finances were modest. Mark had no material drive to speak of, but he was from a rich family.

Mark and Sean chose a restaurant that was dark inside, with ornate designs on the wine-red walls. There was scrollwork carved into the wooden brackets on the ceiling. The smell of spiced tea and curry scented the air. They sat.

"So where are you from, Sean?" Mark asked.

"Los Angeles."

"Ouch."

"It's not my favorite city, either," laughed Sean. "The LA gays can be sort of cliquish compared to the ones in San Francisco or here." Mark just chuckled. "One thing that surprised me about this city, though, is that the straights are a lot more anti-gay than I expected."

"I've put up with it all my life," said Mark. "What made you move east?"

"I went to college in LA. I'd never really been far away from home before. I thought it was time I try that out. When I got to New York, I first moved to Brooklyn Heights. That was an eye-opener, too. They're supposed to be real liberal, but I was surprised at how cold those yuppies are to gay people. And the merchants there can be homophobic, too. Some of the immigrants bring that old-world bigotry right over here with them!"

Mark laughed. Did Sean know how politically incorrect he was being? Mark wondered.

"Now I live in the Village. Where do you live?" Sean asked.

"Way out near Prospect Park," said Mark, leaning back and stretching. "I can't afford to live in Greenwich Village anymore. I used to get laid more often when I did, though. Back when the Village was 'the Village'." He winked.

Sean told Mark his paranoid fantasy that landowners and speculators were upping the rent in gay districts to destroy the gay community. Sean had countless paranoid fantasies like that.

During the dinner, Mark watched this strange, clean-cut young man. Sean seemed so white bread. He also appeared suburban and healthy, with a full head of auburn-brown hair and a clear complexion. Square jaw, nice figure. But Sean had a side to him that couldn't let go of these tiny obsessions, apparently.

Over dessert, Sean listened for a moment to the diners around him talking about charge cards and vacation spots, then he said to Mark, "Sometimes I think people are afraid to talk 'politics'. They don't really want to examine just what their own values really are. I find President Reagan sinister. Don't you?" Mark just chuckled, again.

After dinner, Mark asked Sean to come home with him. Sean said, nervously, "I feel like being by myself tonight. But - um - we should have dinner again, some time, soon." (The fact was, Sean wasn't attracted to the older man, sexually.)

Mark got the message. He looked at Sean from a sideways angle, and said, dully, "Sure, Sean. Whatever you say." They paid their bill and left.