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He hadn’t expected to see Mr Jacobs there. He was somewhat perturbed by his presence, for more reasons than one. He had hoped that no-one he recognised would see him there. Least of all someone with the authority to hide him, give him detention and tell his parents. He had wandered down to the Bowery in secret out of his own morbid curiosity, fuelled by the stories he heard his classmates sharing in whispers, in nudges and winks, bragging in front of those they considered younger and inexperienced, and by the way his parents spoke of the whole area with contempt. The immigrant slum. The city’s shame. The tightly packed streets of Irish gangs and Jewish unionists, Italians and Chinese all living on top of one another in a pandemonium of sights and smells and sounds that overlapped jarringly and assaulted the senses, poverty, giving way to countless dens of iniquity where fallen women and strange men paraded the streets before disappearing behind dirty net curtains in filthy back rooms to do unspeakable things, polluting the city with disease and sin. All of these things he had come to see for himself. To look, and learn, and maybe find something worth coming back for. But it wasn’t a loose woman he was after, like so many of the boys he knew. He wasn’t after anything like that. Only some reassurances about his own self. Which is why he had slipped through the door of this building. Just to watch the men dancing. This wasn’t one of the seedy hovels where a man or a woman barred your entry from a hole in the wall, demanding money and making sure that you weren’t the law before they unlocked the deadbolt of the establishment and sent you up a narrow staircase towards unknown pleasures. He could hear the music and the laughter, and had seen people float freely in and out. Some men were chatting outside by the doorway, under the large wooden sign that proclaimed ‘dance hall’. But as he had huddled in a corner, watching the merriment, letting the feeling of being completely invisible wash over him, he was dragged unceremoniously out of the shadows when his eyes locked with that of his form tutor.
Of course, he had known that his teacher wasn’t like most of the others at the school. His parents looked down on him too much. You could tell he was poor, from the way his clothing, though smart, was always rather worn. You could tell he was common from the New York drawl that sometimes made an appearance when he talked, and that he was foreign from a slight accent that appeared even more rarely, and only ever on certain words. He’d once overheard Mr Jacobs explain that he had to send money to his parents, so a new shirt would have to wait, when the headmaster had reprimanded him for being particularly scruffy one morning, and then heard him mutter something angrily in a language he didn’t know under his breath as he walked away, fidgeting with his collar, to unwittingly reveal a bruise, that the rest of the class had discussed knowingly for the rest of the day. It was a far cry from the rest of the staff, who were mainly made up of second and third sons, and respectable maiden women, ostensibly making their own way, but who all came from money in the first place, and seemed to be effortlessly respectable, in the eyes of his parents and the headmaster, because of it. But he still hadn’t expected to find Mr Jacobs here, of all places.
He wasn’t dancing. He was sitting at a table, nursing a drink and laughing, his arms wrapped tightly around the waist of a man sitting on his lap. The man was tall and blonde and slim. He had an arm wrapped around Mr Jacobs’ shoulder to steady himself, and was holding a cigar in his other hand. You couldn’t help but smile watching him, as he pressed his face into the man’s side, leaving occasional gentle kisses in his wake. They were talking with friends. Working men, all of them, and yet somehow Mr Jacobs did not look out of place. They seemed almost as though they had known one another since childhood, and had remained those boys still, close as ever, despite the different paths they had taken. The dance hall was filled with men from all walks of life, but they remained largely divided, the wealthy among the wealthy and the poor with the poor. And yet they more or less interacted seamlessly with one another as well, the sign that underneath, they were all the same sort of men, who were there for the same sort of reason. Occasionally a wealthy man would approach one of workers with an sly offer, only to be pushed aside unceremoniously with indignant anger, as though they had been insulted. This wasn’t a place where love was bought. This was where it was found. And where communities formed. The boy hadn’t meant to intrude on what seemed like such a private moment, but his teacher had caught his eye, and gestured him towards them with a concerned look on his face. Any hope of disappearing unnoticed and without facing the consequences of his presence in this place were gone. And so he slunk towards them.
“What you doing Daves?”
“That kid’s one of my students. I need to speak to him”.
“You crazy Dave? You could’ve just denied ever bein’ here, now you’re gonna talk to him?”
“If he’s on his own I need to make sure he’s okay. And if he’s with someone I really need to make sure he’s okay”.
“He’s just a tourist come to laugh at the queens Dave, this ain’t gonna be pretty. You could lose your job if we don’t play this off right”.
“He’s not like that Racer. Trust me. He’s a good kid. Quiet.
“Oh, like you, you mean?”
“Mmm. Like us”.
“Me, quiet?”
“You know what I mean”.
“Say no more baby”.
“Hello Mr Jacobs”.
“Hello. What are you doing here?”
“Same as us I hope, or else we’re in deep shit”, the blonde said laughing, before Mr Jacobs swatted his arm and gave him a look.
“I, um, I just..”
“Take a deep breath Jonathan. You’re not in trouble. Why are you here?”
“I just wanted to see the dancing”. Mr Jacobs smiled.
“Racetrack here loves dancing”, he said, nodding upwards towards the man on his lap.
“Nice to met ya kiddo”, Racetrack said, taking a drag of his cigar.
“It’s why we come here”, Mr Jacobs continued. “To dance and talk to our friends and have a drink without having to hide. Where we can be ourselves. But it doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous, or that other things don’t go on here. Even if you’re not paying for it in this joint, it’s still illegal. You’re too young to be here”.
“I’m not here for any of that Mr Jacobs. Besides, I’m nearly 18. I’m graduating at the end of the year”.
“Regardless of why you’re here, it’s still late, you don’t know this area, people are drinking”. He sighed, at Jonathan’s determined face.
“Just for god’s sake don’t go upstairs”.
“I won’t Mr Jacobs”.
“You might as well call me Davey while you’re here, now you know all my other secrets”.
Jonathan looked at the ground sheepishly.
Suddenly, another person made their way over to their group. Muscular, in a vest but no shirt, his braces holding up his work trousers, dark hair in his eyes. By setting eyes on him alone Jonathan could see why he’d always been told to stay away from the Bowery and the Lower East Side and the docks. That they were dangerous places full of dangerous men. And if looks could kill, Jonathan would be dead meat.
The newcomer placed a round tray of pints of bitter on the table that were pounced upon immediately by his friends. He waved off the chorus of 'cheers Spot, thanks' and pulled Racetrack into a deep kiss. Jonathan wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He was drawn in to the way the man’s face softened as he kissed, though the kiss itself was rough, the way they moved together as if this was something they did every day. Then he realised that they probably did.
Racetrack knew this sort of kiss. It was born out of a mild jealousy that Spot experienced anytime they were here and saw Race or Davey talking to someone outside of their group. It was a kiss that was claiming what was his. It was the sort of kiss that Racetrack adored, with the sort of ending that had him dragging his boys back to this place time and time again. Then Spot bent down to kiss Davey’s neck and bite harshly into the skin there, before standing to his full height, leaving a hand on the back of Davey’s neck.
“Who’s this doll?” he said shortly.
“One of my students”, Davey said, looking vaguely amused.
Spot’s demeanour changed immediately, and he shifted from hostility into an uneasy friendliness.
“You shouldn’t be here you know”.
“I’m not gonna tell anyone I swear…”
“We know”, Mr Jacobs cut in.
“That’s not what I’m worried about. You could get in real trouble being here. In more ways than one. And you shouldn’t go upstairs, who knows what you’ll walk into”.
“I already said all that”, Davey said calmly.
“The other boys at school talk about those places. With the girls. And they talk about places like this, and they laugh, but that’s not why I’m here. I wouldn’t. I just wanted to see if it was true that…”
“That..?”
“That boys can dance here, with other boys, and it’s like there’s nobody watching”.
“Well look around kid, it ain’t make believe”, Spot said, a slight edge to his voice that betrayed his uncertainty of the boy's motive in coming there.
“My father always said dancing with my mother was how they fell in love. Everyone makes places like this sound awful and disgusting, but I thought it sounded wonderful. Like a place to fall in love”.
“I like that”, said Racetrack. “I reckon plenty of fellas here’ll be falling in love tonight”, he said, stroking David’s hair and squeezing Spot’s side.
“You wanted to know you weren’t alone”, David said in understanding. The boy nodded.
“Well, now you know that you aren’t. I promise. But I don’t want to see you in here again until you’re over 18 and you no longer feel like my responsibility”.
“Yes Sir”, he agreed humbly.
“You okay getting home kid?” Spot piped up. Jonathan was struck by his look of genuine concern, despite his casual tone. “Most everyone in this place is alright but you take a wrong turn you can bump into some real creeps. Nasty ones too”. Spot’s jaw tightened, and Davey placed a soothing hand on his arm, as though placating an old wound.
“I can take care of myself”. Jonathan said, head held high. “I got here in one piece by myself didn’t I?” Racetrack laughed.
“That’s the spirit! Be seein’ you kid”. Jonathan smiled shyly, and turned to Davey.
“I was never here and neither were you”, he said. Davey smiled warmly.
“Thank you”, he said, giving him a nod of thanks, and understanding. He knew Jonathan wouldn’t break that promise. It was too risky for both of them. Then, Jonathan decided to be brave.
"Mr Jacobs? Are you in love? All three of you?" Davey laughed, and looked up to meet Spot and Racetrack's eyes. They shared a look, and grinned at him.
"Yes", he answered. "Very much so".
"Oh. I see. You're very lucky".
"I am. And so will you be one day I'm sure. I don't know what anyone else has said, or made you think, but love is possible, even between men. It's just a little trickier to find".
"But now I know where to look. And what to look for", Jonathan said, thinking of the way Davey, Spot and Racetrack looked at one another.
"That you do".
“He gonna be okay?” Spot asked.
“Yeah”, said Davey. “I think he will be now”.
As he walked away, Jonathan contemplated his teacher, and his friends. He turned back to look at them once more. Spot had been about to sit next to Davey, but Racer had leapt up from Davey’s lap and pulled them both in for a dance. Of all the men in the room, they were the only ones not dancing in a pair, yet it still looked so natural to him. Racetrack had one hand tight around Spot’s waist, facing him, and the other slung out behind him holding Davey close to him in the same way. All three swaying silently to the music, Spot and David’s hands interlinking where they met around Race’s waist, their other hands divided only by Race’s form as Spot rested his hand against Race's chest and Davey hung his hand gently around Racer's neck, occasionally brushing the top of Spot’s shoulder. And they smiled, and kissed, and danced. And looked as though they were falling in love all over again.