Oliver. London. July. 1980.
I’m a session man now. I’ve graduated from playing in Tube stops and on street corners to accompanying artists as they record the albums that will make them famous. The Blitz is not only where I find liberation through music. It’s also where I find work. Word gets around that there’s a young kid who knows how to play the synthesizer like he’s an avant-garde Rachmaninoff. Lily urges me to dream bigger. To be more than an invisible name. But she doesn’t understand that Ican’tbe famous. Fame means being seen. It invites questions. Besides, I like the background. Staying in the shadows suits me fine. And I love the music I’m playing. Love the way the world sounds right now. I’m exhilarated by the way music, culture, fashion, and life itself is being reinvented in real time.
I feel inspired as I leave a session with George’s band. He never did steal my synthesizer, but he’s stolen my heart with his melodies and lyrics. He has something to say on behalf of us all. I don’t know if the world is ready for him, but it’ll be a real shame if it’s not.
I turn the key to our house. Lily just had an extra bolt installed. Too many cops arresting Blacks and queers for nothing but their suspicions. Too many young gay kids disappearing without a trace. I open the door and hear—
“SURPRISE!” A chorus of sound. Baritones and sopranos and tenors and contraltos. They’re all there. My new family. Bram, Lily, Maud, Archie, Poppy, Azalea, Blossom. Friends from the Blitz and friends from Brixton. The lonely kid who tried to talk to me when I first arrived is here. He’s not lonely any longer. Neither am I. He has a name to me now. Charlie from the squat up the street.
“I— How did you know?” I blush as I look around. Balloons everywhere. A large banner that readsHappy Birthday, Oliver. A full spread of Poppy’s greatest culinary hits. Brightly colored fabrics rain down from the ceiling. All for me. “It’s amazing, but—I didn’t tell anyone when my birthday is.”
“You told me when we first met.” Bram approaches me with a gift in his hand.
“I did?” I race back in time, but it’s been too long. My mind is a clutter of memories. Flickers of loneliness in Buenos Aires, despair in Tokyo, solitary strolls through the streets of Madrid, seclusion in Berlin.
“You certainly did. I remember it all. Every moment we’ve shared. You not only told me your birthday, but you told me what you wanted for your birthday. Of course, I had to leave Boston so I never got to celebrate a birthday with you.”
“I haven’t celebrated my birthday in a long time,” I murmur, my eyes fixed on Bram.
He seems to know what I’m thinking.Does it even count as a birthday when we don’t age?
“You deserve to be celebrated,” Bram says.
“What did I say I wanted? For my birthday? All those—I mean... Back in Boston.”
“My memory isn’t perfect, but I think you said all you wantedwas to be in my company, speaking the truth to each other. You said you were so tired of hiding.”
It all comes back to me now. Brendan and Jack’s dorm room. Boston. 1920. The camaraderie. The merriment. The carefree youth that fooled me into thinking it could last forever.
“Hmm,” I say. “Now that I’m in your company, I want more.”
“Ask and you shall receive,” Bram promises. “What else do you want, birthday boy?”
“A puppy!” I declare. “Or a kitten. I’ve always wanted a pet, but Mother said they were—”
“Too expensive!” Lily blurts out.
“Exactly,” I say. I take the gift Bram is holding. “This is for me?” I ask.
“Open it.”
“Let’s do gifts later,” Lily announces. “It’s bad luck to open gifts before you eat the birthday cake.”
“That is a completely made-up superstition,” Blossom says with a laugh.
“Every superstition is made up by someone,” Lily replies. No one argues with that. Lily pulls me to her side. “Tonight, you must share him, Bram. Everybody here wants to give the birthday boy some loving.”
We all take turns choosing music from the record collection. Lily has even more crates than usual. She must have asked every DJ she knows if she could borrow a piece of their collections for the party. We cycle from genre to genre. The sound ofright now. How I love it. How I wish Mother and Brendan could hear the evolution of music. We play it all as we eat, laugh, dance. The Cure. Kate Bush. Blondie. Bob Marley & The Wailers. Gal Costa. Spandau Ballet. Gregory Isaacs. Chico Buarque. Roxy Music.Dalida. Michael Jackson. Johnny Osbourne. Queen. Gainsbourg. Our beloved Bowie. Françoise Hardy. Manu Dibango. Prince. My goodness, Prince. My imagination couldn’t have dreamed him up back in Boston. He blurs the boundaries of gender, color, time. He’s everything all at once. Old and new. Male and female. He wants to be the world’s lover. In a country devoted to its monarchy, he’s our Prince. True royalty doesn’t live in a castle. Doesn’t colonize. It gifts the world new ways of existing. Music has never felt more vital. Neither have I.
After Poppy’s spread of food has been devoured, Lily turns the lights and the music off. She reemerges moments later from the kitchen with a rum cake on a blue porcelain platter. Eighteen candles light her face below. On her left, Bram. On her right, Maud. My new family. Everyone sings. Archie adds an off-key “and many more” at the end of the song.
“Make a wish!” Lily yells out happily.
“Make it a good one!” Blossom adds.
“No, make it a naughty one,” Archie advises. “You’re only eighteen once.”
I close my eyes and blow. I wish for life always tofeellike this. Warm. Connected. Full of love and laughter. Not to be young forever, but tofeelyoung forever. That’s what Dorian Grayshouldhave wished for.
