Faultlines

FAULTLINES

by Stan Leventhal

Lambda Literary Awards Finalist

Best Gay Fiction

Foreword by Alexander Inglis

ReQueered Tales

Los Angeles  •  Toronto

2023

Faultlines

by Stan Leventhal

Copyright © 1989 by Stan Leventhal

Foreword: copyright © 2022 by Alexander Inglis.

Cover design: Dawné Dominique, DusktilDawn Designs

First American Edition: May 1989

This edition: ReQueered Tales, March 2023

ReQueered Tales version 1.20

Kindle edition ASIN: BOxxxxxxxx

Epub edition ISBN-13: 978-1-951092-90-0

Print edition ISBN-13: 978-1-951092-91-7

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By STAN LEVENTHAL

Mountain Climbing in Sheridan Square (1988)

A Herd of Tiny Elephants (1988)

Faultlines (1989)

The Black Marble Pool (1990)

Candy Holidays and Other Short Fictions (1991)

Skydiving on Christopher Street (1995)

Barbie in Bondage (1996)

Short Stories 1988-1991 (2022)

Stan Leventhal (1951-1995)

STAN LEVENTHAL, author, editor, and publisher, lived in New York City in the 1980s through 1995 where he died of AIDS. He is fondly remembered as a generous, genuine and passionate advocate for social causes and other writers. He was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award three times: for the debut novel Mountain Climbing in Sheridan Square, Faultlines and The Black Marble Pool. He published one other novel and three collections of short stories.

He served as a judge for the annual Bill Whitehead Memorial Award and was a member of the Publishing Triangle Steering Committee. His short stories and reviews appeared in Outweek, The Advocate, The New York Native, Torso, Mandate, Exquisite Corpse, The James White Review and Gaylaxian Gayzette.

In addition, his work appeared in the anthologies: Gay Life, edited by Eric E. Rofes; Shadows of Love, edited by Charles Jurris; The Stiffest of the Corpse, edited by Andrei Codrescu; and Sword of the Rainbow, edited by Eric Garber and Jewelle Gomez. The author was actively involved in the fight for literacy. His message to his readers: Literature is crucial to our lives; reading is fun.

Praise for

Stan Leventhal

"Stan Leventhal was wonderful company: warm, honest, curious, engaging, and human. Mountain Climbing in Sheridan Square is the next best thing to hanging out with him."

– Christopher Bram

A tender, honest novel about that moment between diagnosis and the decision to grow. Messy boyfriends and dreamy crushes set against the back-drop of daily life make Leventhal’s characters vulnerable and familiar. His insider’s view of the porn industry adds a comically surprising dimension.

– Sarah Schulman

Stan was a literary activist who always gave to, built and endorsed literature and writers. On this Sunday morning, all these years later, I can still see Stan in his apartment window on Christopher Street, next door to the Stonewall Inn, overlooking Sheridan Square as he typed away.

– Michele Karlsberg

"Stan Leventhal’s new novel, Skydiving on Christopher Street, is a startling attempt to capture the life of an urban gay man on the printed page. Leventhal’s vision is clear and undaunted. For all of its somber chiaroscuro, it challenges us to see the world through new eyes and to revel in its author’s ability to translate life into art, pain into understanding."

– Michael Bronski

Leventhal’s novel is powerful for unexpected reasons. This portrait of life at the crux of New York’s gay community is excellent company.

– Dennis Cooper

Young plus gay plus romantic plus New York: it’s an engaging sum of the parts toted up by Leventhal in his first novel, an autobiographical delight which glistens with truth and humor and winsome experience.

– Booked for Brunch,

A Different Light Bookstores

FAULTLINES

by Stan Leventhal

Foreword

Stan Leventhal lived this motto: Literature is crucial to our lives; reading is fun. He was an editor, author and activist who never tired of reaching out to others to help make the world a better place to live in. He is fondly remembered as a generous, genuine and passionate advocate for social causes and other writers. He founded the Pat Parker/Vito Russo Library at the LGBT Community Services Center in New York City. He also devoted time to a literacy program at the Center. He created Amethyst Press so writers had another outlet where they could be published.

He inspired readers as well as writers. Paras Borgohain, an Indian filmmaker, stumbled across a copy of Skydiving on Christopher Street in a local market, wrapped in plastic with the provocative Hard Candy logo emblazoned on the cover. As the then teenaged Paras discovered, contrary to the promise of the bookstore plastic wrap, the book is a semi-autobiographical humorous tale of Stan’s life working in the porn industry but there’s no porn to be had. It’s also about AIDS and the author coming out to family and friends about his devastating new status. Fast forward two decades, and Paras is working on a screenplay for the book. Stan’s influence runs deep.

That blog post from 2013 was a critical poke in the ribs for our team here at ReQueered Tales. It inspired us to look up Stan’s work, track down surviving rightsholders and friends: Gary (Stan’s brother), Sarah Schulman, and Michele Karlsberg who co-founded Amethyst Press and has built a long career promoting and managing LGBTQ artists. Very quickly we acquired rights to Stan’s four novels and three collections of short stories, many of which appeared in the publications Stan edited: Torso, Mandate, and Honcho among others.

Of the four novels, Mountain Climbing at Sheridan Square and Skydiving on Christopher Street are like bookends – episodes from the life of the narrator interacting with friends in gay and yuppie and artsy underground New York. The first novel only hints at the impact of AIDS; read together, the overhang of the disease is more ominous. As with everything Stan wrote, they are entertaining, chuckle inducing and heartwarming views of the collective absurdity of his characters as reflected in our own lives.

The other two are mystery novels. We published The Black Marble Pool first (our sixth book ever). It had been nominated for a Lambda Literary Award for Best Gay Mystery upon release. Structurally, it’s unusual since the narrator is never actually named. Our hero, a music critic from New York, is in Key West on a working holiday to write a travel piece and catch some sun and fun along the way. Alas, he discovers a dead body face down in an empty black marble pool on his first morning at his guest house and the trip (and mystery) unravel from there.

In your hands now: Faultlines, more caper than mystery, joins our complete edition of Stan’s published work. In this madcap, verging on surreal, adventure, Stan spares no stereotype of comic treatment, while always employing a velvet, soft hand: you know goodness rules, even when Sam – a vicious though bumbling killer-sadist-henchman – is on the loose. As in caper-style fast-paced stories, unlikely coincidences twist the action, sometimes like a whiplash: the reader has no choice but to chuckle and succumb. And following a plethora of other characters – a cocaine addled preacher's wife, an acolyte who bleeds literally for Jesus, an investigative journalist wearing brown polyester suits two sizes too big, two dykes as fire marshalls and Paula Bluefeather who … well, it’s a faerie-tale, after all, and the fun is how it all works out.

In this novel especially, there’s an innocence and earnestness to the writing which mellowed in later works. As a stylist, he excelled in quirkiness and dialogue; less often in a magnificent string of words which make you pause and reflect. And he shoehorns brief harangues into the mouths of his characters which occasionally feel out-of-place and discursive. It would be fascinating to have a discussion about these issues in 2022 with Stan, at the age of 71, and having survived the plague years. Alas, he didn’t. We’ll never know. But his progressive ideas grew out of his life experience in 1980s New York when so much in his (and our) world was under siege.

Faultlines, in the end, is an entertaining, fast-paced read and a snapshot of San Francisco in the late 1980s. Clever in places, hilarious in others, it bumps and veers along, ricocheting off its themes and sub-plots with an impressive cast of more than a dozen characters. It lives up to Stan’s promise to us: Reading is fun!

Alexander Inglis

Toronto

November 2022

Alexander Inglis is a Founding Partner of ReQueered Tales and a retired telecommunications executive.

This book is dedicated to

Murray Leventhal, Pearl Leventhal, Gary Leventhal:

Father, Mother, Brother.

Chapter One

WHEN HE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, Kevin opened his eyes and lifted his head. The first thing he noticed was the dark and then the cold, damp concrete beneath him. His hands were bound behind his back and he lay on his stomach. There was a dull throbbing in his brain and he could feel a sore spot on the back of his head. He wondered where he was, how he’d gotten here, and what had happened. It was like emerging from deep water, gasping for air. Kevin breathed deeply and probed the uncertain corridors of his memory, searching for a sign that might tell him something about his present situation.

The last thing he could recall was kneeling to tie his shoelace. He’d been eating at a restaurant – not too fancy but quite respectable – and had gone to the men’s room. On his way back to the table he’d noticed the flip-flopping shoelace. He’d knelt to tighten it and suddenly his senses had shut down. The world, pinning into a cyclone of confusion, disappeared. He’d been hurled into a void with no light, no sound.

Now that he’d been rejuvenated, it took him half a minute to realize that someone must have struck him from behind. The same someone who’d bound him and tossed him into this dungeon. Although curious as to the reason for this – he’d done nothing wrong, to his knowledge – it occurred to him that he should occupy his thoughts with some means of escaping. Perhaps the key to freedom might be tied somehow to the reason for his abduction and incarceration. As his eyes began to discern the vague shapes before him, Kevin rolled onto his side and teetered to a kneeling position. The blurry forms began to assume definite shapes just as he realized that his legs were not bound. He struggled to free his arms, but the bonds were strong and unyielding. As the reality of this situation became increasingly apparent, Kevin could feel his mouth getting dry, His throat constricting. The cold creepiness of panic sent shudders through his spine. Is this hell? Could this be the ever-after? Am I dead?

Eventually his reasoning abilities returned. He attempted to rein in his fear. Soon his shuddering began to subside.

Sharing this dark prison with Kevin was another man, bound to a round, metallic pole. He watched and listened as Kevin began to stir, then spoke as Kevin got to his knees. I thought you were dead. Good morning. Or afternoon or evening, as the case may be. The accommodations are shit and the food’s even worse. But at least we’re alive. So far.

Kevin turned to look toward the voice. It belonged to a man. More than that he couldn’t tell from where he knelt. Rising unsteadily, he stumbled toward the direction of the voice. He almost crashed into the man, then stopped. It was dark, but, squinting, he could discern hair, eyes, a face. Who’re you?

Thad. The man grinned. Thaddeus Heath. And you?

Kevin Conover.

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Conover. I’d shake your hand but that’s not possible. Since you are mobile and I’m tied to this pole, the advantage is all yours. Do you suppose you could walk behind it and back up to me? Maybe we can untie each other’s hands.

Kevin looked at the man’s face, wondering if he should heed his request. What am I doing here? he asked. "I mean, one minute I was tying my shoelace in a restaurant and then all of a sudden I’m a prisoner in a basement somewhere … what are you doing here?"

Thad’s eyebrows tilted upwards. He chuckled. I’m here because I’m planning to pulverize Jack Corrigan as soon as I can get my hands on him. If you’re here for a different reason I’m eager to know what it is.

Kevin shook his head. I don’t know any Jack Corrigan. I don’t know anyone in this town. I’m just vacationing. And I was eating at this restaurant and now I’m here and I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Who’s Jack Corrigan?

Thad was about to reply when a creaking noise sounded from above. He cocked his head, then fixed his eyes on Kevin’s. In a barely audible whisper he said, Go back to where you were and get down. Don’t make a sound and don’t move.

Instinctively, Kevin obeyed. He tiptoed about ten feet away from Thad and the pole, got to his knees, and stretched out on his stomach. Closing his eyes, he strained his ears and heard footfalls coming closer. A gruff voice said, Just checking. Kevin opened one eye to a slit and saw a flashlight beam slicing the darkness.

We’re still here, he heard Thad say with a bemused tone.

Just checking, the voice repeated.

The light swept away from Kevin’s vision and the footsteps receded into silence. The door creaked and closed. Kevin lifted his head. A moment later Thad said, It’s okay now. Come back here and untie me.

As he got to his feet, Kevin began to tremble. He noticed that the throbbing in his head had almost disappeared. Fear had overwhelmed his pain. His heart pounded against his ribcage, his palms became moist. He didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was frightened him. This could only be a joke or something more serious than he’d ever imagined. Nothing in his prior experience could match his present circumstances.

He moved closer to Thad and regarded him with caution. Either Thad or the man with the flashlight was a criminal. But which? What if freeing Thad made things even worse than they already were? Kevin’s throat tightened and his tongue tripped as he spoke. How do I know that I can trust you?

What makes you think you can’t? Thad shot back.

Look, said Kevin, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on here. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. They must have gotten the wrong guy. He wondered if he should be completely honest, if further harm would come to him if he questioned this stranger. He finally decided that it would be best to take the risk and ask the question that might worsen the situation. What if I untie you and it turns out that you’re a criminal? Or what if I untie you and you won’t untie me? Then you could do anything you wanted and I’d be helpless.

Thad laughed. A deep, throaty sound. Shaking his head, he chortled, Silly boy. Look. I’ll untie you first. Then you can decide if you want to try to get out of here by yourself. But I’m telling you – they’ve got guns. We’ve got nothing. As far as my being a criminal goes, well, I’m certain Corrigan and his thugs think I am. But I’m telling you, they’re the ones who are out to get us! Somebody hit you on the head, right?

Yes, Kevin admitted.

And tied you up and dumped you down here, right?

Yes.

"Could I possibly have done that and then tied myself up? Would I have done that?" asked Thad, exasperated.

I guess not, replied Kevin, a bit confused.

So, Kevin, pal, walk behind this pole, turn your back to it and let me see if I can untie your hands. Then maybe you’ll realize that you should return the favor.

He did as he was asked. His wrists burned as he felt Thad’s fingers grappling with the tightly knotted rope. He tried to ignore the pain and focus his attention on the room that held him captive.

He sniffed the air; cool, salt-watery, damp, musty. There were no windows. A sliver of light emanated from the door at the top of a staircase. Cartons and crates were stacked against the walls which rose to a low ceiling. Perched above a work table with jars, cans, and newspapers were three parallel shelves, sagging in the center from the weight of more jars, cans, papers.

Thad clenched his jaw muscles as his fingers – pulled behind him, his arms encircling a cold, hard pole – worked to find a yielding inch of rope. Had the constraints been new and less supple, his task might have been easier. But the knots were as tight as only those of a worn piece of rope could be. Thad’s arms had already grown numb from their awkward, trapped position. His exertions awakened the sensations of wearied muscles forced into acute bondage. Just as his fingers would grasp a tight arc and pull, he would lose his grip and silently curse his bad luck.

After several minutes with no success, Thad sighed. "I can’t do it. My fingers just won’t … Could I somehow persuade you to have a go at the knots around my wrists?"

Without replying, Kevin instructed his fingers to find a chink in Thad’s ropy handcuffs. He backed up a step and felt the pole press into the division of his buttocks. Lifting his heels, rising to his toes to attain a more strategic angle, he sought entry among the mass of tight loops. After vain attempts at several strands, he too ceded defeat.

No way, he said. What now?

It occurred to me, a couple of days ago – I’ve been here for almost a week, I think – that there might be something on that work table that could be of some help.

Kevin moved away from the pole, his eyes scanning the table and shelves as he approached. There were no tools, nothing metallic or sharp, but perhaps there was something else that could be useful. He squinted and brought his face closer to the jars. Paint, turpentine, dirty water, various powders, buttons, nuts, bolts, nails, screws. A nail might work, he thought. But as his eyes roved across the shelf above, he