Twenty-seven-year-old Tim Halladay is a rising star in the three-martini lunch world of Madison Avenue in the early 1970s. In only five years, Tim has become a vice-president at the first ad agency he interviewed with, in charge of some of the most prestigious accounts listed in Advertising Age. But a week before Thanksgiving, his life takes a serious hit. After a hard-drinking, sex-filled night, Tim, the “golden boy,” arrives late to work. He suddenly finds himself fired without explanation. With three hundred dollars in his savings account, Tim wonders how he’ll even pay the rent. As Tim comes to terms with his unemployment, he reminisces about his life and the circumstances that have brought him to this crucial crossroads. Everything in his life—his emotionally unstable upbringing, his service in the army during the troubled years of the Vietnam War, his affair with a high school girlfriend, his experiences at William and Mary during the JFK and LBJ years, his relocation to Manhattan in the 1970s, his first job in the world of advertising, and his adventures as a closeted gay man in the Stonewall Era Greenwich Village—contributed to both the downfall and redemption of Tim Halladay. THE SOUND OF ONE HORSE DANCING By TOM BAKER iUniverse, Inc. Copyright © 2011 Tom Baker All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4620-5063-5 Chapter One Virginia Woolf had trouble with her opening sentences. I was just waking up from a dream, squinting through the harsh morning daylight streaming in through the skylight. Without even looking at the clock, I knew I had overslept, and I would be late for work. Of all mornings to screw up! My body was stiff from sleeping on the drafty floor all night. I propped myself up on my elbows to look at the young boy curled up next to me under the comforter, sleeping quietly like a cocker spaniel. He was as striking as I remembered him, with perfectly straight blond hair falling over his forehead and across his closed eyelids. His body next to mine was the only warmth in the apartment, and I hesitated to disturb him. His lightly sunburned skin looked wonderfully healthy and out of place in the cold November light of New York. By contrast, I looked pasty and washed-out, having abandoned my rooftop tan in August when the heat, sooty air, and humidity became an unwilling price to pay for a little color. The temptation to slide up to my sleeping guest and pull the comforter over us, falling back into a luxurious sleep, was overwhelming, but I could well have kissed off my career if I gave in. Dammit , I thought, why doesn't this happen to me on a weekend when I don't have to go to work? I hesitated a few minutes, plotting out the recovery process. Brush teeth, take two aspirin, orange juice, coffee, go shower, shave, and get dressed. Pulling it together had become a routine, but last night I'd gone overboard. It started with Ken, after work, at the Roosevelt Grill. Usually we had two drinks before he caught his train home to Katonah, but last night we were both in the mood to unwind. We'd been working on a new business presentation for the last two weeks. Ken made the 9:05 after the fourth round of drinks and two bowls of peanuts. I'd lost any desire for food but was just wasted enough to stop for another drink. I was at Julius', my neighborhood bar, at 9:30 on a week night where I met this beautiful blond boy, now lying next to me on the floor. He'd been leaning next to the jukebox at the rear of the bar, peeling the label off his beer bottle with his thumbnail, looking down at the floor. I'd had enough to drink to approach him. He'd smiled and immediately warmed up. He was a student at a junior college in Florida, on his way home for the Thanksgiving holiday. He lived somewhere in upstate New York, but other than that I couldn't remember anything we talked about. Worst of all, I couldn't even remember his name. Our clothes were scattered across the floor, and two half-empty beers sat on the fireplace mantle where we had left them the night before. A fresh gray mound of ash in the fireplace confirmed that I'd put on the Presto-Log to complete the romantic setting. Records were out of their jackets on the floor by the stereo, but despite my efforts, it appeared the two of us had just curled up and fallen asleep on the floor. My head was throbbing as I slipped out from under the comforter and made my way through the galley kitchen into the bathroom to get a terry cloth robe. My naked body felt like a corpse in the cold apartment, and with no heat on, I wondered if the landlord had forgotten to pay the oil bill—again. That would mean no hot water. Hugging myself to warm up in the folds of the bathrobe, I stared into the bathroom mirror, letting the hot water tap run, just in case. I looked like a subway had run over me: my eyes red and glossy, swollen up, puffy. I smelled stale alcohol on my breath as I stuck out my tongue, dry as sandpaper. A few more hours sleep wou