London, Fall 1982

Yesterday I thought of Reinhardt, as I do every once in a while. I met him while spending my junior year in London. It was a great year, filled with tons of theater (well, theatre), great friends crowded into a pricey but really spiffy flat, and some limits pushed. Testing my newfound outness, I went to the open meeting of a theater group called Consenting Adults in Public. I think I'd seen a notice in Time Out, or perhaps City Limits. Anyway, I rode my flea market bicycle, Fish, to a charmless concrete community center in North London. (Yes, I'm afraid I was exactly the sort of twenty-year-old who names his bicycle.) I joined a handful of scraggly sorts pushing the few broken classroom chairs against the wall and then we sat in a circle to discuss plans past and present. I think they were surprised by my showing up at what was really just an organizational meeting, but being British, they managed to hide any reaction to me, pro or con. Discussion focused on a recap of the previous month's performance of skits at a street fair, and then some vague suggestions for future activities. I didn't need to see any of the skits to know that the crew at CAIP lacked any special talents. Still, I was determined to make the most of my brave first step.

So when Andy invited me home for dinnerI said sure, hopped on Fish, and off I went to Islington, then a rather raunchy neighborhood, now nothing but luxe condos. Andy was several firsts for me: my first encounter with British teeth (it's true, it's all true) and my first visit to a squat. He lived in a ramshackle series of dirty rooms with three or four mates. The only one I remember clearly is Reinhardt, a German leather dude who loafed around the flat in his dungeon gear, sneering. At one point I opened a dresser drawer and found it packed full with handcuffs, leather straps, and so on. As I was trying to determine the usage for a particularly mysterious pair of metallic doohickeys, Andy came over and shut the drawer, reassuring me with a simple "That's Reinhardt's."

So there I was feeling quite pleased with myself, heretofore sheltered Shaker Heights/Hamilton boy with both eyes wide open in the strange new world of a gay squat in Islington! I recall smart slacker debates about books and poetry, piles of papers sliding every which way when you walk down the hallways (the apartment seemed to be more than half hallway, with tiny rooms sticking off here and there like polyps), broken but functional furniture, innovative cooking techniques, and lots of unwashed crockery. We ate supper family-style at a large table, and I was in full-on observer mode, which I use to feel participatory without actually participating. Alas, Reinhardt saw through that guise rather easily, and when Andy offered me seconds of some sort of rice stew, Reinhardt glared at me and snapped "Fuck him if he's too shy to take it himself."

But Reinhardt turned out to have a sweet side, too. The next morning he brought everyone in the house tea in bed, going from room to room, perching next to each of our tatty mattresses on the floor, setting down a fresh cup of tea. The fact that he wasn't wearing pants or underwear probably did more to wake me up than the tea.

But when I say that I thought of Reinhardt, surprisingly, that's not the image that springs to mind. No, I always see him as he was after dinner, trussed into a black harness, belly slightly protruding, buckles and metal loops all over the place, thick legs pushed into well-worn leather pants, de rigeur Doc Martins. But the outfit's only half of the picture, because what really makes him memorable, even this many years later, is what he was doing in that get up. I've always wondered if maybe Reinhardt was in England because he wasn't quite German enough for Germany, despite his lederman vibe and his love of restraints. Because Reinhardt was sitting in the best chair in the squat (the only one with any upholstery left in it), contentedly knitting.