Simple Simon

by William Poe

  If I had tried witnessing to young men such as this in Golden Gate Park, they would have shouted at me and run away. As a cocaine friend, these same fellows opened up and shared their tragic experiences. Tough guys though they were, hardened by the struggle to survive, they wanted to talk. I was willing to listen, and that mattered to them.

  I shared my story, too, about how I was an artist who had burned his paintings because he believed they were a barrier to faith in God. I explained how I was sure, as the ashes flew above the treetops, that the paintings still existed somewhere in the universe.

  As the boys snorted more lines, they became as wide-eyed from being high as Ernie’s when I had told him I heard the mummy of my ancestor walking up the basement stairs. Listening to my tale, they believed that, one day, if I rubbed Aunt Opal’s quarter and said the right incantation, the paintings would spring back into existence.

  One evening, with The Cars’ song “Candy-O” blaring from the Mustang’s speakers, I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard after last call at the Spotlight. A blond hustler I had never seen before caught my eye as he emerged from under the awning of a bank building on Highland Avenue. I motioned for him to walk up a side street.

  “Are you a cop?” the fellow challenged, leaning in through the window.

  “No one’s asked me that in a long time,” I said. “You must be new to the boulevard.”

  “Well?” the boy pressed.

  “No, I’m not a cop. I’m just looking for fun.”

  The hustler got into the car, and we started toward the Tropicana.

  “I’m Simon,” I said.

  “Lyle,” the youth said, before blowing cigarette smoke out the open window. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “How do you know?”

  Lyle took my hand and put my forefinger in his mouth. “Don’t taste any nicotine.”

  “What if I’m left-handed?”

  “Okay, then show me how you jerk off.”

  When I did, Lyle said, “Okay, so you’re left-handed. Anyway, that’s good. It means we can play with each other’s balls while we jerk off. Do you like to do that?”

  “I prefer blow.”

  Lyle noticed my turn of phrase. “You sayin’ you got coke?”

  I reached in my shirt pocket and took out a gram paper.

  “Don’t do it much,” Lyle said, “but it’s cool to put powder on the end of your dick when you really want to get off.” He took a joint from his pocket and used the car’s lighter to fire it up. “I’m into weed, mostly. Makes me horny.”

  “Life makes me horny,” I said stupidly.

  “Whatever,” Lyle said. The pot had already made it difficult for him to concentrate.

  When I turned into the Tropicana parking lot, Lyle slumped in the seat.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “No one’s going to bother you. They like me here.”

  Lyle took a long drag off his joint. “I just don’t like being seen going into a place too often. A couple of other guys brought me here recently.”

  When we got to the room, Lyle pulled me onto the dingy sofa. The springs offered little support, but the oversized cushions made up for the sag. He started to light up a cigarette, then stopped, remembering that I didn’t smoke. He awkwardly waited for me to tell him what I wanted.

  The tragic sadness in Lyle’s face, the feathery softness of his long blond hair, and the flash of blue as the room’s dim light reflected in his eyes captivated me.

  “What?” Lyle asked.

  “Nothing. Just that I think you’re sexy.”

  Lyle grinned, but caught himself. Hustlers weren’t supposed to seem eager. He moved closer and placed his arm over my shoulders. “What’cha into, man?”

  I squeezed the front of his jeans.

  Lyle pulled me close. We kissed. The affection surprised me. Hustlers think of themselves as straight, simply “getting off” for money. Fags kissed, not hustlers. I wasn’t sure what to think, but I had learned to be cautious. The street was a better workshop than any actors’ studio, so you never knew what was on a hustler’s mind.

  Lyle stood me up and took off my shirt and, while still kissing me, removed his own. We stood facing each other in our underwear, fondling through the cotton, delaying skin-to-skin contact until the pressure became unbearable. Lyle walked me to the bed and took off his shorts before laying me down and pulling off mine. He lowered himself over me and then scooted back to lift my legs onto his shoulders. His actions were gentle; it felt like lovemaking.

  When Lyle drifted off, I studied his face. Even with his eyes closed, I could sense the pain that had driven him to hustle men for a living.

  We stayed in bed and held each other after waking up the next morning. Usually, a hustler can’t wait to leave and rarely stays the night without a prior financial arrangement. Lyle wanted to cuddle, and I was happy to have him with me.

  Lyle expected me to send him on his way, but I never did. A week later, we were still together. Remarkably, the folded paper of cocaine remained intact. Lyle preferred pot, and I preferred him.

  I got sober for the first time in a long while, but it came at a price—sudden awareness of my precarious situation. I had not kept in touch with Maury, and I had not called New York in weeks.

  After worrying for a couple of days, I finally telephoned Maury to see what was going on.

  “Are you still in Los Angeles?” Maury asked. “It seems that Reverend Moon is planning a wedding ceremony sometime soon.”

  Lyle woke up and mumbled incoherently.

  “Who’s that?” Maury asked.

  Lyle grabbed my balls, and I started to laugh.

  “Are you going to go through with it, Simon?”

  “What do you mean? Go through with the marriage?”

  “That’s what I mean, yes. Do you intend to remain with the church?”

  “What else would I do?” I said evasively.

  “I was at a meeting last week,” Maury said. “Reverend Moon wants to marry all the engaged couples in case he goes to prison.”

  “Has Mitsui asked about me?”

  “Not directly,” Maury said. “And I hope what I am going to tell you is agreeable. I would have asked first, but I didn’t know how to reach you. I wrote a letter to Reverend Moon. If the worst does happen, I suggested that you remain in Los Angeles and go to law school. The state of California has an apprenticeship program. The firm could sponsor you.”

  Maury’s tone conveyed how serious he was about the plan.

  “That would be a major change in my life,” I said.

  “Simon, I may not have given you the best advice in the past. But I meant well. I’d hate to see you throw away your potential.”

  In effect, Maury was offering me a way to live apart from the family without actually leaving the church.

  “Are you going to New York?” Maury asked. “I mean, for the wedding?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Maury.”

  “Keep me informed, Simon. I hope you’ll decide to apprentice with the firm.”

  “I’ll seriously consider it,” I said.

  Sometimes, I forgot that people actually cared about my future. Maury’s concern was realistic and practical. I wondered if Kawasaki or Mitsui, much less Reverend Moon, cared as much.

  Lyle grew increasingly worried as I paced the floor after the conversation with Maury. Mitsui must have said something—perhaps that he was planning to kick me out of the church—for Maury to write Reverend Moon a personal letter about me.

  Pacing led to no conclusions. In my dismay, I found the packet of cocaine that had been in my possession since I met Lyle. I laid out a couple of lines and snorted them. Lyle lit a joint.

  When a person was acclimated to cocaine and used it after a hiatus, it felt as though a fire, extinguished by abstinence, had reignited the brain. The heat was artificial, making the glow of every thought appear sensible, no matter how detrimental or ridiculous. I knew—absolutely knew—that until my world irrevocably
collapsed, I should allow events to play out.

  I felt confident that no one in the church knew anything incriminating about me. Why would the company in Korea care about the expenses on the Diners Club card? Maury was discreet in his billing, and he had clearly fended off Mitsui’s questions about me. I could just keep going as I had been.

  If I could manage myself well enough, Masako might never know if I slipped out to be with men. Hadn’t I always known I would end up living a double life?

  Where was that self-sacrificing character who led fundraising teams, won the respect of brothers and sisters, hobnobbed with the living Christ, and brought new members to the church? Surely this was not the same person, cowering in a dingy hotel room, falling for a hustler from Santa Monica Boulevard, and poisoning his mind with drugs.

  But it was.

  Lyle became so concerned about the way I was acting that he thought I might be planning to kick him out.

  “No, Lyle, I don’t want to lose you,” I said, consoling him. “But I have to go to New York on business. I don’t know for how long. I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  “You’re leaving me here in this room?” Lyle’s mind raced through the problems he might encounter during my absence. I wouldn’t be the first man to leave him in a hotel room, never to return. “Make sure that motherfucker at the front desk knows I’m here,” Lyle said, highlighting his worst fear—being kicked out with nowhere to go but the street.

  “I know you’re worried, Lyle, but don’t be. I won’t abandon you.”

  “Are you sure?” His voice had become a cry of despair.

  “I’ll be back, Lyle.” I pulled his head to my chest and kissed his hair. “I promise.”

  I made sure the “motherfucker” at the front desk knew I’d be gone and that Lyle was in the room. The man winked at me as he called an airport shuttle. I didn’t know exactly when the blessing ceremony was scheduled, but I knew I needed to make an appearance in New York well in advance.

  As I rode above the clouds, the silly phrase I had hallucinated about before joining the church once again came to mind. This time, they were just clouds. There never had been a messiah to appear on them. The world didn’t need one—the only people who thought it did were those who failed to understand that we were solely responsible for our lives. We make of the world what we will. No force of original sin lurked in our genes, and no demons urged us toward selfish acts.

  The Unification Church was as dysfunctional as the family I had left behind in Sibley. At least I understood that heritage. This life had become too complicated.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  A commotion downstairs caught my attention, waking me from another bad dream. Poor Bubby is chased by his obsessive grandmother, who this time has magically unleashed a horde of bees that threaten to sting him into oblivion.

  I heard Joshua’s name spoken among shouts of “one last chance” and admonitions about having drugs on the premises.

  Harris’s voice rose above the others. “What were you thinking, Joshua?”

  At first, Joshua remained silent. Then his voice rose to a plaintive whimper. “The guy offered it to me. I’m sorry.”

  Most of my compatriots snored through the ruckus, exhausted from an assignment the day before to write reports when they finished a chapter of the “Big Book.” I was glad that Harris didn’t teach a twelve-step program. I wouldn’t have lasted long at Riverdell had anyone demanded I bow to yet another supernatural force, even one diluted by the euphemism higher power.

  Harris’s use of Gestalt psychology gave me the tools I needed to start healing my damaged psyche. Even if I didn’t grasp all the concepts that Harris presented, I felt increasingly “whole” following the sessions when we discussed my writings. Becoming reacquainted with myself was a remarkable experience—like meeting a close friend from childhood in old age.

  Joshua came running up the stairs and dashed into the room. “Idiots,” he muttered.

  “Psst, Joshua,” I called out in a forced whisper. “Come here.”

  Joshua ambled toward my bunk, unbuttoning his shirt as he came toward me.

  “What’s up, dude?” Joshua asked, nonplussed by the scolding he had just received. “What’s got you awake at two in the morning?”

  “I heard a racket downstairs. Something going on?”

  Joshua raised his elbow and sniffed his armpit. “I need a shower. Want to join me?”

  He had never been that direct before. How many weeks was it now that I had gone without sex? And here was Joshua, practically reeking with eroticism.

  Tool No. 1: focus on a mental image of Thad when tempted by the likes of Joshua.

  If I so much as engaged Joshua in an intimate kiss, Thad would know. He was prescient like that. And anyway, Thad really was the lover I wanted. I didn’t have to kid myself about that.

  Joshua headed for the showers. High-mindedness crumbled as I jumped from the bunk and followed him. Joshua had a knack for shucking his pants before a person could bat an eye. By the time I entered the showers, momentarily blinded by the harsh neon lights, he stood at the sink, buck naked.

  “What did I hear about drugs?” I asked. My voice became a broken staccato as I battled to control myself at the sight of Joshua’s supple flesh.

  Joshua grinned, peering in the mirror after splashing water on his face. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist in such a way that it pressed his growing hard-on against his stomach. I could hardly breathe I felt so much desire for him.

  “They caught me lighting up a crack pipe in the weight room,” Joshua confessed.

  “You had crack?” My heart skipped a few beats.

  Joshua moved close, and again, I smelled the sweet aroma of his sexuality. Scientists were wrong if they thought the males of our species didn’t produce pheromones!

  “You want a hit, don’t you?” Joshua asked.

  “Truth be told, I’d rather have you.”

  Thad! Save me!

  Joshua was a mischievous youth determined to thwart my recovery. As long as Peter Pan controlled his lost boys, preventing them from growing up, Pan was free to remain a child.

  “I thought you’d never take the bait,” Joshua said. “I’ve wanted to do it with you since we met. You are one thickheaded hombre.” He kicked aside the rubber stop holding the door and let it close. Then he released the towel, freeing his now complete erection. He pulled the towel taut and snapped it in my direction. “Strip,” he said.

  I had lost so much weight from months of smoking crack that my Jockey shorts hung loosely around my waist. All I had to do was tighten my stomach muscles and down they went.

  Joshua popped the towel. “On your knees.”

  There wasn’t anything noble about what happened next, but I couldn’t go through with it. Fear entered my heart, pure and simple—fear of losing the narrow foothold on sobriety that I clung to in my battle with despair.

  Shortly after arriving at Riverdell, I had tried to commit suicide. Harris called to alert Thad and Vivian that I was in trouble. They came as quickly as they could. By rights, Riverdell should have turned me over to the police, but Harris wouldn’t do it. Though we had just met, Harris believed in me.

  Because of that history, Harris let me to stay in contact with Thad and Vivian, while he asked most clients not to communicate with people on the outside.

  “Not this time, Joshua,” I said, pulling up my shorts.

  Joshua snapped the towel against the bathroom mirrors, hitting with such force that I thought one of them might break. When I opened the shower room door and reset the stop, people began entering the dorm from the main stairway. Harris stood frozen in place when our eyes met.

  “Is Joshua in there?” Harris asked, pointing toward the showers.

  Before I could answer, he went to Joshua’s locker and found a glass pipe and a vial of crack.

  As the investigation continued, I put on my jeans and slipped into a sweatshirt. Everyone in the dorm had b
egun stirring by then, but no one moved from his bunk.

  Two men pulled Joshua from the showers, cursing like a demon on the one hand, demanding a lawyer on the other.

  “You’re not being arrested,” Harris said, walking up to Joshua and showing him the evidence. “We just want you to leave.”

  After first checking the pockets for contraband, the men threw the clothes into Joshua’s arms.

  Joshua marched angrily toward my bunk, but Harris grabbed his arm.

  “You’ll pay for this, motherfucker!” Joshua screamed.

  It was his way of telling Harris that I had not done anything wrong.

  CHAPTER 37

  Preparations for the blessing ceremony were well under way by the time I arrived in New York. Madison Square Garden would be the venue, but no one knew the exact date, a precaution against opponents of the church causing trouble if word leaked out.

  I ran into Mitsui talking to staff at the front desk. My presence seemed to surprise him, as if I were the last person he expected to see. Later, sitting in his office, Mitsui studied my expression carefully, probably looking for indications of guilt. If he suspected my bad behavior, I was certain of his—this was the man whose crimes were about to put the religion’s founder in jail.

  “Father received a letter from Maury,” Mitsui said. “Maury suggested that you work for his firm so you can prepare to become a lawyer.”

  As I met his glare, I couldn’t tell if Mitsui approved of the idea or not. Something told me that he had more information than he was willing to discuss. Had he reviewed the Diners Club statements? I didn’t think it was possible. Maury sent them to Korea, and I couldn’t imagine the Koreans revealing anything to Mitsui, or any other Japanese member. Perhaps I sensed his dilemma. If Mitsui had incriminating evidence against me, was this the best moment to risk turning me against the church by revealing my indiscretions? Righteous always took a backseat to survival.

  My heart pounded so forcefully that I felt like the character in Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart.” When the urge to confess rose in my throat, I reminded myself of Lyle and distanced my emotions from the religious sentiment that Mitsui wanted to rekindle by his stern look.