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to themselves at that time. They disliked the nick-
name ‘‘Auntie” because of its connotations—an
aging queen. “Aunty” persists today.

“What’s it like to be stuck up here alone, Myrtle?”’
I asked. I used his “gay name’ because I saw he
preferred it; actually, it was probably more familiar
than Eddie. ;

“Dearie, it’s hell. Not like the old days when I
was queen of the ball. I'll never forget those Harlem
drags during prohibition. Sweetie, I worked months
on those drags, gorgeous things. None of this sequin
crap. Real bugle beads. Cost a fortune. I got them
wholesale from a girl friend of mine, Bill S., who
ran one of those bead parlors off Broadway.

“I’d go down there, scoop up handfuls and throw
four bits on the table. He had to take it or I'd tell
~ his mother he was an old fag. I wouldn’t, of course,
but it scared him to death. He was 40 and the old
lady could never understand why he hadn’t married.
I could have dished her an earful, believe you me.
Myrtle hasn’t been whoring around the world for
nothing all these years.”

Pinning Myrtle down to facts about his life was
difficult. Like most homosexuals who are no longer
wanted, who live lonely lives, he desired to remem-
ber his own version of the bright lights of earlier
days.