City of Night (34 page)
Dean marched past Lance, past the staring eyes—into the bedroom. Lance is behind him, gliding past the stares knifing him brutally, ready to repay him now for his beauty, for the anarchy of that beauty. Chick steps quickly before Lance, whispers frantically: “Lance!—dont go after him!—
theyre watching you!”
But Lance brushes him aside and follows Dean into the bedroom.
The door closes.
From behind that closed door come voices, alternately raised, lowered. Now the door of the bedroom swings open, and Dean walks out, his clothes thrown carelessly over his arm. Lance stands momentarily at the door.
And now he will do what will delight all of you who have hated him for his unquestioned reign: Lance will follow Dean....
He catches up with him, pulls on the clothes draped over the youngman’s arms. The clothes spill on the floor: Lance’s façade crumbles before us. “Dean—dont—go—” he pleads. (And is he pleading as much for his life as for Dean? I wonder.) “I have to talk to you—come back into the bedroom—I—” The pressure of Lance’s hand noticeably becomes heavier on Dean’s shoulder. Dean jerks viciously away from him. And he lashes:
“Dont touch me, you fuckin faggot!”
And the door, slammed by Dean, refuses stubbornly to close—swings open, wide open, admitting the coming night.
The whispering has not yet been unleashed. Lance must admit his fall—with a look, a word.
He stands before the door, his back toward us, facing the night....
And what is he staring at beyond the door? Is he looking at the disappearing figure of Dean? Or is he staring past the youngman? Does the same ghost that had hovered that afternoon on the beach, that night on the cliff, loom now at that door?... Lance doesnt move. Perhaps he cant face the buzzing bees behind him yet. Or is he acknowledging at last the old, old man who has waited patiently for his revenge?...
And in anticipation of the crushed look which will bring down the curtain on the reign of Lance O’Hara, Chick rushes crying into the next room; and Jamey sighs: “Well!’ and that sighed word really means: “At last!”
Now Lance will turn to face you, and the look of defeat will confirm the news that the reign of Lance O’Hara is over—that the charmed life has ended. Tomorrow, in the bars, you will write the epitaph.
Lance closes the door with the intended
slam!
of Dean—perhaps with that gesture trying to push the ghost away:
Not
yet!
... And with the false courage of someone who has just dodged one bullet in a rain of bullets, he stares now challengingly at the chorus in a desperate effort to squelch their triumph—and in this crucial moment: mercifully, mysteriously, Lance looks Radiant—as if he, who has always relied on miracles, still expects some miraculous salvation.
And it comes.
Before the whispers of false sympathy can conclude his reign, the door opens behind Lance, and a meek Dean appears, the few clothes dangling pitifully from his arms. He walks slowly to Lance—waits—whispers (but we can all hear him in that dreadfully quiet house):
“Lance—Im—sorry.... Lance?... I dont really want to go.... I—I just get kind of afraid sometimes.... I thought youd kick me out first.... Lance? Can I come back?”
Lance faces Dean—gratefully and with a look that could be only compassion, flickering, but unmistakably there.
“Tonight,” Lance said, “you can stay tonight—if you havent got a place—but—for your sake—itll be better—tomorrow—if you do leave.”
Now Lance turns to the startled faces before him, as Dean disappears into the bedroom.
“Whats the matter?” Lance said smiling—disappointing—oh, deeply, deeply—the waiting chorus, forced to retreat. “Whats everyone so somber about?” He leaned against the fireplace, like an actor aware of his enthralled audience.
“Our life,” he sighed, “is meant to be a series of love affairs—nothing more. And you all know that. And who knows whos just around the corner?... Come on,” he said, passing gracefully from one awed person to another, “drink up!”
And the buzzing has not come, the chorus is bewildered—as Lance O’Hara says, his back solidly to the Ghost tapping at the door to be let in (or—is it possible?—will it retreat now in peace?...):
“Lets have a gay time!”
CITY OF NIGHT
IT WAS SUMMER NOW.
Summer, which in Southern California does not come Magically as it does in the East. Warm days merely fuse with warmer days—and your resistance to life dulls. And like mangoes rotting imperceptibly in the white sun, bodies turn brown along the wide-stretching California beaches. To La Jolla, to Malibu, to Long Beach, to Venice West, Laguna—from the canyon beyond Malibu as the morning fog is swept away into the ocean; from the hot Los Angeles streets where the heat gathers in steaming pools; from across now-vacationing America, they come.
The Southern California beaches are a way of life.
Strips of sand fleeing from the mainland are cuddled by the distant outlining palmtrees. Like a restless, futile enemy of this sunny stagnation, the ocean invades the passive sand. As it grows late in the day and the bodies cluster away from the water lapping slowly inland, night comes like a blackout. The water, dark, capped by creamy froths, will lash turbulently at the beach, and youll hear that mysterious, disturbing murmuring of the wind and the water like a personal judgment.
Those summer afternoons on the beaches, time drifts unreally. Days are measured by the deepening color of your skin.
La Jolla.... Semicircling the water, cupped in a handful of sun. And only a short distance beyond it and the navy base: San Diego, a familiar row of tattoo parlors, loan shops, stores—typical of all the lonely servicemen towns in America: sailors roaming the nightstreets—whiteclouds of drifting uniforms.
Long Beach.... The amusement park near the beach, the hectic-whirling scene—the rollercoaster plunging ineluctably like a bullet along the murderous rails. The park... the hot public heads... a bar where on Sunday afternoons a mad queen did a dragshow with balloons and feathers.
Laguna Beach.... Bordered by squat jagged cliffs.... Homosexuals ritualistically Protectively assembled in one close area—like flotsam on the beach—as if symbolically defying the world that shut them out—a world with so little compassion.
And Santa Monica.
From a slim green flowered park (a statue of Saint Monica serenely eyeing the long lines of cars turning from Wilshire Boulevard toward the beaches), the sand gleams expansively white—and Pacific Ocean Park gathers itself like a small facsimile pleasure-island: rides, a simulated sea, Neptune holding court over rainbowed fish, make-believe jungles. Between it and the row of fresh-fish restaurants—beyond muscle beach, where the men with balloons for muscles posed for each other with set faces—is “Crystal Beach.”
Along an area of perhaps two blocks, one block of sand wide from the parking lot to the ocean, the initiates of the world I lived in gathered from the early morning (a face sometimes emerging eerily out of the fog in the first sudden blaze of oceansun) into the late sun-clinging afternoon. All the representatives of that world are here: the queens in extravagant bathing suits, often candy-striped, molded to the thin bodies—tongued sandals somehow worn like slippers; the masculine-acting, looking homosexuals with tapered bodies and brown skins exhibiting themselves lying on the sand, trunks rolled down as far as possible—or going near the ocean as if undecided whether to dive in, posing there bikini-ed, flexing their bodies, walking the long stretch of beach, aware of the eyes which may be focused on them; the older men who sit usually self-consciously covered as much as the beach-weather allows, hoping perhaps for that evasive union, more difficult to find now—ironically now, when the hunger is more powerful, the shrieking loneliness more demanding; the male-hustlers, usually not in trunks, usually shirtless, barefooted, levis-ed, the rest of their clothes wrapped beside them, awaiting whatever Opportunity may come at any moment, clothes, therefore easily accessible for moving quickly for whatever reason.
Periodically, throughout the day, the representatives of that world, now centered on the beaches, will move to the small sandwich shop across the parking lot, looking back to see if anyone has followed them there. But, mostly, they will move into the bar a block away: and this is Sally’s bar.
As the magic-tanning sun diminishes, Sally’s bar on weekends is crammed with oiled malebodies rubbing sensually against each other, hands openly exploring.
Forced laughter drowns the vomiting of the jukebox.
I had seen in Lance’s look—in that look as, perhaps, he tried to expiate his guilt and calm the haunting vengeance of a sad old man—I had seen that faint glimmer of compassion, for Dean—and therefore, now, the barest hint of a capacity to attempt to love—someone!... That look had frightened me. And I fled from it.
And during those summer-beach days, I drove myself furiously: sometimes making it and quickly returning to the beach, leaving again with someone else: faces confused with others, the hurried intimacy remembered perhaps days or weeks later.
Those summerdays spent mostly in Santa Monica, I would hear often of a youngman named Glen—a smallish blond youngman I would see every day on the beach. A few summers ago, he had been one of the most desirable hustlers on the beach: “Simply everyone,” a score told me, “wanted Glen—then—but, now—well, everyone’s used to him: There are so many new faces each summer. If Glen were smart, he’d move somewhere else, where they dont know how old he is. At first, Glen was strictly trade. Now—well—... He’ll do everything!”
“After a while,” another man told me, “Glen will be out of the hustling ranks. Hell quit going around with the teenage girls he still tries to impress us with—and he’ll have a steady young boyfriend. Watch and see.”
“After all,” another man added,
“pretending
that you never, never, never do this or that is fine—or if you dont now, that you never will. But
really
never, never, never doing this or that—well, it’s slightly insane. It’s a perversion in itself.”
And so, that summer, it was an insistent refrain: the premium on Youth. Often, it was brought up bitchily by scores after the sexscene—but other times it was said from an acute awareness of the life they—we!—lived.... Mr. King had brought it up, but that had been at the beginning of the journey, and its meaning had been remote then. It wasnt
how
I would live that terrified me. It was, instead, the horror that the youthful cravings would extend into a time when what made them possible of gratification might no longer be.
And one of that summer-wave of people who would emphasize that refrain was an evil old auntie—whom I will remember as an impeccably clean dirty old man—whose name is Hubert, but who says self-affectionately: “Call me Hughie, dear—everyone does”—a rabbity-looking, mincing, effeminate, beady-eyed little old man of about 60.
As he tried to flash brilliantly before me, confusing T. E. with D. H. Lawrence, I couldnt help—and what the hell?—coming on intellectually, and I corrected him. “Oh, dear me,” he said, “how frightful—an Intellectual! You should have kept your mouth closed, youngman. My oh my—oh!—the mind of an old man and the body of a young boy. Dear, dear me!” And I struck back at him: “Better than the mind of a young boy and the body of an old man!” “Ouch!” he winced, “dear me, dear dear me,” as with rabbity gestures, he cuddled himself on a chair....
Although I had dinner with him several times after that, he indicated no sexual interest in me then.
And it was with him, soon after, that I went to the mansion of that famous director whom Skipper had known. Derisively, the old auntie announced to the director: “This youngman is an Intellectual—watch out,” and the director had immediately sneered: “The last time I even
talked
to one—a writer,” he said, “I ended up in
Confidential
magazine.” “Oh, dear, oh, my—listen to
that,
will you?” the little auntie fluttered: “Oh, the wages of Fame—tsk-tsk!” The director commanded the youngman living with him at that time: “Go tell Mattie we’ll have lunch outside”—with a coldness and an undisguised contempt—a paid owningness—that made me cringe. The youngman moved away obediently—after having fixed our drinks.
That whole evening turned into progressively less veiled hostility between myself and the director, as—throughout his brutal imitation of a star then involved in a frontpage sex scandal—the face of Skipper—somewhere drunk in downtown Los Angeles—scorched my thoughts.
Later, in his own house, when Hughie tried to come on with me for the first time—nibbling, appropriately rabbit-like, at my chest—I pushed him away, despising him strangely.
“Youre too old for me anyway,” he said. “I prefer them
very
young and very,
very
dumb, dear,” he went on cuttingly. “In their 20s, theyve already been had too often—and in too many ways. I like the little boys who can still get aroused by dirty pictures. I like to watch the naughtiness awaken.... Theres a family near me—three boys, the oldest seventeen, the youngest twelve,” he bragged, “and Ive had the first two, now Im working on The Young One.
They
read comicbooks—not D. H. Lawrence!” He smacked his lips lecherously; and noticing my reaction of disgust, he said laughingly but still seriously: “Blame the aunts, dear.”
“The aunts?”
“Yes—I was raised by two maiden aunts—they taught me to play with paperdolls. Each time I seduce a very young boy (oh, anywhere around fifteen years—anyone over that is, well, just extra),” he aimed at me, “each time, you know, well, I Offer him Up to The Aunts!”...