by William Poe
“Haven’t you noticed?” Sandra teased. “I’m irresistible.”
“I’m not sure what I noticed. I passed out.”
“Ooh la la,” Sandra said. “Let me fill you in sometime.”
“But not tonight,” I said, regretting having mentioned that first night.
Scott looked at us quizzically. “What are you two conniving about?”
“Nothing that won’t involve you, darling,” Sandra replied.
Scott scratched his head and went back to studying the menu.
We ordered escargots and shared a caesar salad. Scott ate veal scaloppini. Sandra and I split a chateaubriand. An expensive St. Émilion hit us hard, or at least it did by the third bottle.
Sandra’s maître d’ dropped by our table several times after we had finished our flambé deserts to hint that, perhaps, we should move our party elsewhere. I paid the bill, and we stumbled outside. The valet retrieved the Mustang. Sandra asked if we could go back to the hotel so she could get her car. She claimed that she wanted to go home, but Scott and I knew better. Though her voice said “home,” her eyes said Dan Tana’s.
Scott and I went to West Hollywood after taking Sandra to her car. We made the rounds—Revolver, Motherlode, Backlot—then settled on Gold Coast.
I didn’t feel reluctant about picking up someone, but most of the men had paired up by the time Scott and I arrived. Scott spent an hour flirting, only to be rejected by the last prospect. Frustrated, he sought me out. I had just ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender.
“Let’s go to my house,” Scott slurred.
After so much alcohol, I wasn’t sure I should be driving, but Scott was in worse condition. As we drove along Santa Monica Boulevard, Scott spewed rejection-stoked frustration at every gay couple walking along the sidewalk.
“Faggots!” Scott hollered at a couple. I barely sped away fast enough before we had a rock thrown at us.
Somehow, I found the road leading into the Hollywood Hills toward Scott’s house and successfully navigated the turns.
“Stop! That’s the fuckin’ driveway!” Scott shouted.
“Such a mouth,” I laughed.
Scott glared at me as though he’d been insulted.
“Just making light,” I offered.
Scott was so drunk he couldn’t manage the door handle. I came around to help him.
“You’re really sloshed,” I said.
“Like you’re not,” Scott slurred, pushing me away.
The force of his shove landed us both on the grass.
In my drunken state, I hardly knew where I was. “Let’s just sleep here,” I said, locking my leg around Scott’s.
Scott had barely looked at me all evening, but I had watched him closely. When he flirted with someone, I felt a pang of jealousy.
Scott propped himself on his elbows.
“You are really drunk,” I said, only meaning to commiserate.
“Yeah?” Scott said, struggling to his feet. He promptly fell against the car. “I may be a fuckin’ drunk, but you’re a Moonie.”
Although fundamentalist Christians had spat on me when I fundraised in parking lots, Mormons on bicycles had laughed at me as I sold flowers at stoplights, and deprogrammers had engaged me in fisticuffs when trying to kidnap my team members, Scott’s epithet really hurt.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and stood him upright. I had never hit anyone since I clobbered Ernie’s brother with a pipe because he wouldn’t get out of my sandbox, but I was angry, as much with myself for fantasizing about Scott as I was with his indifference. I hit him. The blow knocked Scott flat. I pulled his leg from beneath the front wheel of the car and left him sprawled on the grass as I drove back into Hollywood.
I had known for some time that hustlers plied their trade along Santa Monica Boulevard, but only recently had I learned that the center of activity was at the intersection with Highland Avenue. I wanted to experience another Twenty-One-Year-Old Billy, and the alcohol told me I deserved it. I’d never picked up a street hustler and wasn’t sure how to do it. The only time I had witnessed such an act was the night I met Tony and we drove to Boyle Park in Little Rock, where we watched a young man get into an old man’s Cadillac. As I drove down Santa Monica, hustlers crept from the shadows. Most looked like thieves, or worse. I passed up several opportunities.
Sobering up enough to realize what a dangerous thing I was doing, I drove away from the hustler area and stopped near Gold Coast, which was at the other end of Santa Monica Boulevard. I managed to parallel park, then started to open the door to get a drink before last call, but I passed out.
At some point during the night, a hustler tapped me on the shoulder.
“You shouldn’t be sleeping here, man, not with your window down. Someone might rob you. You’re lucky I saw you first. There’s plenty of rough trade out here tonight.”
I barely comprehended what the boy was saying.
“Hey, come on,” the hustler said, shaking me. “Let me drive you home.” He got me to scoot to the passenger seat. “Name’s Eduardo,” the hustler said as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “Where we heading?”
“Beverly Hills Hotel,” I mumbled.
“Been there before. Say, you can give me some cash tomorrow, can’t you?” He patted me on the shoulder. “Okay, amigo?”
“Yeah, I’ll pay,” I said. “You have no idea how I’ll pay.”
I must have told Eduardo the location of the bungalow, which was farther back in the complex than the first one I had occupied. It came with its own garage. The next thing I knew, Eduardo and I were in bed, with him straddling my chest. Eduardo rubbed an enormous erection on my lips, trying to interest me.
“What’s your fantasy, man? Want this up your ass?”
“Not really,” I said, assessing the baseball bat hovering above my face. “I don’t have an orifice to fit that thing.”
Eduardo smiled. “I get that a lot.”
“Just lie behind me,” I said, turning on my side.
Eduardo maneuvered so he was able to push between my thighs. “That works,” he said, rubbing in and out until he got off. In my drunken state of mind, I imagined that the scent in my nostrils came from Scott.
Lost in dreams, I didn’t move until the front desk rang with the scheduled wake-up call. Eduardo turned out to be as honorable as he professed. He hadn’t taken money from my wallet and disappeared during the night. I wrote a note telling Eduardo to order breakfast when he woke up, and left a hundred-dollar bill on the table. I stopped by the restaurant, but my tender stomach could handle no more than a fried egg on toast.
The hotel bill confirmed that Eduardo had ordered a modest breakfast. There were no other charges. Angel unawares? No, just the rare honest hustler. I never saw Eduardo again, but have always wondered about his story.
Maury assigned two lawyers to work on the appellate brief. My task was to organize the transcripts. Tedious work, but I appreciated having something to do that didn’t require mental exertion.
Sandra typed correspondence all morning as she listened to playback from a Dictaphone. Scott never came into the office. When I told Sandra that I had punched him out, she laughed and said I wasn’t the first person to clobber Scott after a night of drinking.
By one o’clock, I simply had to get more food in my stomach. I stopped by Sandra’s desk and suggested we lunch at Hamburger Hamlet, a short walk from Maury’s office. Maybe Scott could join us. I wanted to make up with him. I asked if she had heard from him.
“Wee-ull,” Sandra said in a Samantha Stevens Bewitched sort of way, “he’s a little bit pissed about last night, as it turns out.”
“Oops,” I said, putting an index finger to my lips. “Did I hurt him badly?”
“His pride, mostly,” Sandra said. “Scott likes to believe he can hold his liquor. And here you are, a newbie, drinking him under the table.” Sandra took lip gloss from her purse and applied it while looking at herself in a compact mirror. �
�He doesn’t remember much about last night, really, just that you took a swing at him. He woke up in the front yard.”
“Maybe I missed,” I said, flexing my fingers. “My hand doesn’t hurt.”
“What were you fighting about, anyway?”
“I have no idea. He said something. I said something back. All of a sudden, I was heading into Hollywood.”
“Next time, sweetie, leave the car and take a cab.”
“So, where is Scott?”
Sandra drew me close as if to divulge a secret. “He’s waiting at my car. I was going to meet him in a few minutes, and then you came over.”
“I’m hurt. You weren’t going to include me?”
“We are now, darling. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to join us. And then Scott said he was pissed at you. But you do seem to need a lift.” She placed her thumbs on my temples and pulled up the flesh. “Your eyes are so droopy.”
Sandra turned off the Dictaphone and said something to the receptionist about a call she was expecting. “Let’s get out of here before Maury invites himself and ruins everything.”
We crossed the street into the public lot where Sandra had parked her car, and walked down the concrete stairs to the lowest level. Sandra guided me through a maze of vehicles until we came to her Trans Am.
Scott waved his hand out the window. Rather than being angry, he seemed happy that Sandra had brought me along. As we came close, he said, “Lunch is served.”
Sandra opened the door and pulled the seat forward, urging me into the back. When we had settled, Scott nimbly unfolded a paper wrapper.
“What’s that?” I asked, but I knew exactly what it was. The goateed dealer in Freeport had given me the same type of origami-folded paper.
“This will free your mind,” Scott said.
Shades of Mojo.
Sandra took a mirror from the glove box and handed it to Scott. He used the edge of a credit card to chop the coke and lay out three lines.
“Better than Dexatrim for my diet,” Sandra said, rolling up a dollar bill and snorting a line. She threw her head back and flipped a strand of hair from her shoulder before releasing a long sigh.
“Now it’s your turn,” Scott said, mirror in one hand, rolled-up bill in the other.
“Isn’t it enough that I’m drinking with you guys?” I said. “Give me a break here.”
“No breaks,” Sandra cajoled, recovered from her moment of bliss.
She and Scott looked at each other and started to giggle.
“You are a couple of devils,” I said. They had no clue how seriously I meant it.
Scott held two fingers behind Sandra’s head to indicate horns. “It’s her.” Scott laughed. “Sandra’s a she-devil.”
“Come on,” Sandra coaxed. “Give it a try. Coke is nothing, really. It’s just a bit stronger than coffee.”
“Coffee, right,” I muttered.
These were my friends, the only connection I had with the world beyond the church. I wanted Scott and Sandra to accept me. Deciding that my experiences with pot and acid would inure me to whatever coke had to offer, I took the rolled bill from Scott and sucked in the powder. I felt the drug hit my sinuses, but I didn’t sense a rush of any kind.
“See? It’s not a big deal,” Scott said. “Cocaine isn’t even addictive.”
“I use it to help keep the pounds off,” Sandra added. “A little toot at lunch and my waist stays slim. See?” She sat up straight to show off her tiny waist.
We snorted more lines. Scott rattled on incessantly about his work with the transcripts, reciting courtroom exchanges nearly verbatim. Soon we were all speaking at the same time, touching each other lightly on the arm to get the other person’s attention. Line after line shot up our noses. My throat began to feel parched, and my tongue thickened. I tried to say we should go for a drink, but my brain was like the engine of my ’55 Chevy when it refused to turn over on a cold winter morning.
Despite the physical discomfort and the inability to speak, a strange sense of well-being overtook me. The disparate elements of my life fell into place. Ernie, Virginia, Tony, Jim, the angelic brother in St. Louis, David, Twenty-One-Year-Old Billy, Eduardo, Masako—all had touched my life for a reason. I knew everything would work out for the best. The future was in God’s hands, and I felt great about it.
“Let’s go to a bar,” I finally managed to say, struggling to enunciate the words. “I need something wet.”
“You can have me,” Sandra said, never skipping a beat. “But seriously, love, I have to get that typing done for Maury by the end of the day.” She had amazing control over herself, considering that she had snorted two lines for each one that I inhaled.
Scott grew increasingly agitated. He didn’t even say good-bye as he darted from the Trans Am to find his own car.
“Don’t worry about him,” Sandra said. “He gets a little weird when he does coke.” She looked me over. “But you’re a natural!”
“And I feel great,” I said, coughing lightly as drainage hit the back of my throat.
Sandra locked up the car, and we walked back to the office.
The remainder of the afternoon, Maury and I planned strategy with the two lawyers he had put on the project. I was confident about my brilliant ideas, and Maury patiently listened to the ramblings. I was the client, after all, racking up billable hours, even if the work at hand was to endure my chemically validated expertise.
Later, Maury asked me to stop by his office. “You had lunch with Sandra, didn’t you?” he said.
“And with Scott,” I blurted out, before thinking.
“I see. Scott called to say he was sick. Not enough to forego some stimulating conversation during lunch, it seems.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“You’re following the same road as Joseph,” Maury cautioned. “First, it was lunch. Then he started coming in late. Finally, he stopped showing up at all.” As he spoke, Maury flicked a ballpoint pen with his thumb. “I’ll be frank,” he said, “even though it’s not my business to advise you on personal matters.”
“That didn’t stop you in Freeport,” I reminded him. “What happened to ‘let nature take its course’?”
“In this instance, I’m concerned about the office,” Maury said, “not your sex life. We drank too much that night in Freeport. I wasn’t thinking clearly and neither were you.”
“Oh, I see.” Cocaine allowed me to penetrate Maury’s hypocrisy. What a great drug!
“The firm can’t weather you leaving the church the way Joseph did,” Maury said. “Please be mindful of that, Simon.”
“Settle down. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Maury gave up trying to convince me. He knew a cocaine Pollyanna when he saw one.
Over the next few weeks, whenever Mitsui called, Maury made excuses for why I wasn’t in the office. He’d say I was at the law library or running errands. Eventually, Mitsui stopped asking. I got news a couple of times from the receptionist that Maury had gone to New York. I worried about why he hadn’t taken me along. The receptionist indicated that church officials sometimes visited the office, but she didn’t say who they were. Sandra and Scott feigned ignorance. All they said was that work on the appeal brought a lot of people into the office.
Most nights, I partied with Sandra and Scott, eager to try more of the feel-good drug that had so miraculously caused my anxieties to disappear. Unlike those two veterans of the nightlife, who managed to get into the office on two hours of sleep, I stayed in bed all day. And often, I wasn’t alone. Having cruised Santa Monica once, I quickly became a pro at picking up hustlers.
My addled neurons told me that I had nothing to fear, that life was good. I stopped worrying about what Maury might be up to, and forgot my concerns about leaving the family. I felt no twinge of conscience about taking hustlers to the bungalow to engage in forbidden sex.
Scott acquired the miracle drug for me, which he scored from contacts of his roommate. I’d toot a line and, while
screwing a hustler, imagine that I was in bed with Masako. The cocaine told me it was training for my duties as a husband.
The Beverly Hills Hotel was too far from my hangouts—the hustler strip and the West Hollywood bars—so I moved into a seedy hotel called the Tropicana. The manager gave me a poolside “suite.” Because of its location, and the fact that people saw young men coming and going at all hours, my room became a focal point for the regular guests. Oblivious to the risks, I shared lines with all who knocked on my door, and even began selling grams to a few of them. Punk rockers with pierced body parts joined half-naked street hustlers at the mirrored altar of my pagan court. I felt weirdly important, like a demonic reflection of my former self.
Sandra avoided the Tropicana. She said it would ruin her reputation if anyone spotted the Trans Am parked anywhere near it. Scott feared that the police had the Tropicana under surveillance and refused to deliver directly to my room. We would meet at Gold Coast for happy hour and conduct our business, and then Scott headed out for a night of clubbing.
I began to frequent a bar a hustler had introduced me to, a crusty dive not far from the storied intersection of Hollywood and Vine. The Spotlight Lounge, a delightfully crummy place, read the business card of Don Smite, the owner. The elderly gentleman started treating me as a favored patron. For all anyone knew, I was a Hollywood tycoon. Every night, I bought rounds for the bar. The regulars watched with some jealousy as I left with hustlers they knew charged a hundred dollars—three times what hustlers on the street expected. Cash fell from the Diners Club card, and I had few qualms about taking what I could get.
Some days, I arrived at the Spotlight as early as four o’clock and drank until last call at two in the morning. The bartenders, who appreciated my generous tips, helped me procure the most desirable hustlers. Often, the ones I wanted were among those poised at the rear entrance, ready to disappear if Don spotted an undercover cop and gave the signal to run. They were underage to be in the bar.
When I couldn’t score a trick at the Spotlight, I cruised Santa Monica Boulevard. The street boys came to know my Mustang. They were as interested in my cocaine as they were in my cash. I was an easy trick. Sometimes, I never even asked for sex, content to listen to their life stories, poured out in a chemical rush of confession.