The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

by John Rechy

  And chose.

  And chose.

  And chose.

  And lost, and lost, and lost, and, after hours, lost again.

  He was so mortified he hadn’t noticed that the pretty young woman had left the room long ago. “I’m sorry I’m not as lucky as you thought, Mr. Fielding,” he apologized.

  “Happens, Mr. Cowboy! I trust my instincts. You’ll bring me luck—eventually.”

  How could he be so happy if he’d just lost all that money?

  “Gamblers pay their debts,” Mr. Fielding was saying. “So here—” He plastered Lyle’s hand with bills.

  “No—”

  “Oops! Bad luck if you don’t take ‘em,” Mr. Fielding warned. “Now I’m off to my beautiful woman—eventually.” A busty blonde woman swished by. Mr. Fielding winked. “Nice, but I like my babes dark and sassy. Good-bye, Mr. Cowboy.”

  He was gone! “Good-bye, Mr. Fielding,” Lyle said to the man who had disappeared, as if uttering his name would certify that he had existed, that all this had happened.

  “Didn’t know the rodeo was in town, cowboy,” a woman said. “The looks department’s improving, if you’re an indication. Most of those old cowboys got big asses. Good luck at the buckeroo.”

  Lyle looked down at the money Mr. Fielding had shoved into his hand. Three hundred dollars: some tens, twenties, a hundred. He wandered among the blinking slot machines.

  There was a place like a cage, people lined up before it.

  REDEMPTION HERE, the sign read.

  Lyle turned away quickly before he realized that those people waiting before the cage-like structure were getting change to feed the blinking machines and for redeeming the coins they won.

  A man behind a wired window gave him coins and a container like a popcorn holder. “For your coins,” the man explained to Lyle’s baffled look. “Good luck, cowboy.”

  Lyle spotted her, the pretty girl he’d seen earlier, no, another one—they sure looked alike; and she had spotted him, smiling as she carried drinks to the congregants here.

  “Hi, cowboy,” she said.

  “Hi, miss,” he said.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah, iced tea.”

  “Iced tea?”

  “Okay, make it a Coke.”

  “Got it.” She wiggled away.

  Without really looking at it—his eyes following the flouncy red skirt—Lyle inserted coins in the slot machine he was standing nearest.

  Clang, clang, clang! Clang!

  That meant someone nearby had won. He looked around. A machine had lit up madly, but why were people staring at him? Why were they gathering about him, gasping? Had he broken the machine? The pretty girl bringing the Coke almost dropped her tray. What was the excitement about?

  “Goddamn!”

  “Look at that!”

  “Jesuschrist!”

  “Oh, honey, oh, cowboy!”

  “You hit the jackpot, cowboy!”

  2

  In which is encountered a reflection of Lyle’s goddamned son-of-a-bitch father.

  That night, still weary from the long ride, Lyle collected $4,000, signed a form for income tax, bought travelers checks as was suggested, keeping some cash, and knew that from here on out he would pray to the Virgin Guadalupe, even if she was slow in responding.

  He looked around for Mr. Fielding, to share the winnings. But he was nowhere.

  Jesuschrist! What would Clarita think of this?

  In the hotel where he had grandly taken a room suddenly vacated—without knowing that it would cost him $200 for the night, and thank God he had it, and much more than that, considering the salary from Brother Bud and Sister Sis, Mr. Fielding’s “tip,” and the jackpot just now—Lyle saw a giant poster for THE LAS VEGAS FOLLIES. A row of almost-naked women rimmed the poster.

  Clarita didn’t need to know that he was wandering over to a place that said: TICKETS.

  “Lucky you,” said the sturdy woman there, “just got a cancellation. Sold out.”

  “Am I close up?”

  “Any closer and you’ll be sitting on their laps,” the woman winked suggestively.

  “Wouldn’t mind,” Lyle said.

  “Shouldn’t have much trouble,” the woman smiled. “Hey, I didn’t know the rodeo was in town.”

  “I’m not—” Oh, what the hell. “Yes, ma’am, it is—and there’ll be a lot more of us here real soon.”

  “Not like you, honey,” the woman said. “Give us a kiss.”

  She wasn’t exactly what he longed for—of course, first of all was Maria—but there she was, her lips puckered. He pecked her lips.

  “That was some kiss,” she laughed, “the kind you’d give your sister.”

  My sister! Lyle moved away as fast as he could past the crush of people.

  The show he had bought tickets for was at another hotel, and wouldn’t start for another hour. Lyle ate in a restaurant that didn’t require reservations: The Buffet. “Rodeo rider!” the female keeping the folks waiting in a long line said when she saw him. “Rodeo rider coming through! Rodeo rider coming through!” Everyone parted, and he went ahead.

  Still more time. He wandered off outside onto a veranda—a small rotunda—that faced the large artificial lake. There were a few tables and chairs there. A telescope pointed toward the sky. He focused it. The lighted city almost obliterated the stars. But he was able to see one, then another. He heard a spurting sound. The lake had erupted into its dance, music swelling.

  He sat down at a small table.

  At another table next to him were two women.

  Very pretty, made up—but not like Sister Sis. No one like Sister Sis. Lyle smiled grandly at them. They smiled back, but looked quickly away. One of the two women was older than the other—maybe ten years older—more heavily made up. Soon, two older men appeared, in suits, no ties. They introduced themselves to the women. So the women had been expecting them, but why didn’t they seem to have met them until now? The man who sat next to the older woman stared at her—and looked away. The older woman talked hurriedly, laughed, drank from her glass, tilted it empty. The two men concentrated on the younger woman.

  A third man appeared, older than the others, in a suit, tie, with glittering rings. He must have known the younger of the two women, who got up to hug and kiss him. He responded to a quick motion from one of the other men. He bent to listen. The third man nodded and whispered something to the younger woman. She got up, motioning the older woman to join her and the older man a few feet away. The man took out his wallet, peeled several bills, gave them to the older woman, who took the money. The younger woman said something to her and touched her face, gently. The older woman squared her shoulders and walked away.

  Lyle followed her back into the hotel. “Excuse me,” he said.

  She turned. “I’m not working tonight!” she said angrily.

  “All I wanted to say was that you’re just about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. That’s all.”

  She raised her head, held her breath, controlling tears. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.” She hurried away.

  Lyle thought of Sylvia Love when his goddamned father had walked out on her and tried to pay her off for rejecting her.

  3

  Some considerations about magic and illusion, and intrusive reality.

  He was in a huge showplace of colors within the hotel, a theater, where a squadron of ushers was roaming about the audience in search of “volunteers” for the magic show, preparatory, Lyle assumed, to the parade of women the poster had promised.

  “You, cowboy,” one of the ushers signaled to Lyle, whose seat was close to the aisle.

  “Go ahead, bashful!” a woman next to him chided.

  Lyle was not bashful. He had jumped up at the occasion to be on the stage with those beautiful women.

  The usher, a jaunty young man, took him by the arm and surrendered him to the stage as other ushers rustled up the requisite five
more “volunteers.”

  Lyle sat with the others in an arc on the stage. There was a woman who looked like one of his teachers, the plainest one; next to her was a burly man like one of the truck drivers who didn’t stop at Rio Escondido. There was a rotund, stern-faced woman, her chin trembling even when she didn’t move, and, with her, a small man—certainly her husband—who seemed to be about to fall asleep. There was a young man who looked like a smart student.

  “Well,” said the stout woman, “I don’t know why I was yanked out of my seat to be on this show. Well, you know I’m a skeptic about these exhibitions. Well, if this so-called magician thinks he’s going to hypnotize me, well, he’s got another think coming. … Well, wake up!” she barked at her husband, who woke with a start.

  They weren’t there to be hypnotized. The magician, a flashy man in black, with a swirling cape and inky-black hair, appeared, in a flash of flames, from the darkened back of the stage. With him was a woman in mesh tights; she seemed to Lyle to have jumped out of the enticing poster that had lured him here. “Damn!” he approved aloud. The stolid woman nearby said, “Well, I never heard such a vulgar sound.”

  With a flurry of his hands and his purple-lined cape, the magician explained that he was going to do the unprecedented. He was going to allow the “witnesses” on stage to watch his magic tricks—“Close up!” He said, “You’ve all seen a beautiful woman sawed in half, right? But has anyone seen it done before the watchful eyes of audience members?” He cocked his ears, waiting for the inevitable chorus of “No’s.”

  An oblong box like a coffin was brought out by two young men. The pretty woman stood apart, one leg slightly looped over the other, legs in mesh stockings, a pink and black leotard dipping at her breasts and up both thighs, blond hair cascading over milky shoulders.

  The magician opened the box. The woman sauntered up to it, her hands tossed out gracefully, breasts proud in their full glory, hips challenging her breasts’ pride.

  Two male assistants propped the box upright. The woman moved into it, her hands encouraging applause. The magician closed the lid, like a door. The two male assistants moved away.

  Lyle winced when he saw the magician produce an ominous electric saw. He wanted to shut his ears when he heard it buzzing.

  “Well, it’s all just tricks anyhow,” said the heavy-set woman.

  Lyle looked at her, closely, curious. There was something sinister about the plain, plump features, the trembling chins, the set of the mouth, a half sneer, half nasty-smile, eyes that shifted as if she wanted to take in everything, to judge it all. With a shudder, Lyle turned away from her.

  “I’m afraid,” said the schoolteacher as the magician poised himself to slice the propped box with the buzzing saw.

  “I won’t look.” The college student took off his glasses and leaned forward closer.

  “Shoot,” said the truck driver.

  With an agitated grating sound, the saw sliced at the box, deeper, deeper.

  The horrified voice of the woman inside screamed: “Help me, help me! He’s really sawing me, help me please, someone!”

  The saw carved in deeper.

  The voice pleaded: “Please, this is for real, he’s—Oh, oh!”

  Those seated about the box looked at each other, disturbed. People in the audience stood up, some moved into the aisles, closer to the stage.

  “Well, I certainly will not be taken in,” said the stout woman. But she leaned forward with anticipation of something gory.

  “Please!” screamed the voice from inside as the saw sliced on. “This isn’t an act! He threatened me earlier! We had a fight!” Something red, liquidy began to ooze out of the box. “Oh, please believe me! Please—oh, no, oh, oh—pleeeeease!”

  Lyle’s boots pushed him up, his hands became fists, his legs bounded toward the magician. His fist crashed on the man’s face. “You son of a bitch!”

  The magician staggered back, the saw, still buzzing, hobbled noisily along the floor. Everyone was standing.

  The magician fell to the floor, his cloak draping him. He struggled to get up, managed to grasp the saw. Lyle’s fist pounded him again.

  The door to the box pushed open. There stood the woman, her arms outspread, legs curved enticingly. “You saved me, cowboy!” she shouted.

  “Well, I knew all along he’s part of the act,” the stout woman declared, elbowing the silent man beside her.

  The audience burst into applause.

  Lyle looked around, baffled.

  The magician stood, rubbing his jaw as he struggled to stretch his lips into a smile. “You son of a bitch,” he hissed at Lyle. “Didn’t you get it? It’s all part of the act, and you fuckin’ ruined it, you fuckin’ idiot.” He tried to recover, sweeping his cape in a swirl about his body. “You better pretend you’re part of the fuckin’ act or I’ll saw you in half, and that’ll be for real, motherfucker!”

  The applause grew.

  “Bow, you son of a bitch. They’re clapping for you! Bow!” the magician ordered Lyle, as he himself bowed deeply, his cape sweeping the floor in a swirl of black. The woman beside them dipped in a sexy curtsy.

  God damn! Was this happening! The applause increased, insistent. Lyle bowed. The applause mounted.

  “Bow again, you son of a bitch!—and then get the fuck away from me!”

  Lyle bowed again to even more applause. The magician gave him a harsh push.

  “Stick around after the show, cowboy,” the woman whispered to him.

  Had she really said that? Had someone on the panel said that to someone else? On the off-chance that she had spoken that, he asked, “Where?”

  “Outside. Right exit.” She dashed away.

  Lyle walked off the stage to renewed applause. Sure he wanted to see the rest of the show. But if he stayed and the woman he had attempted to save assumed that he had not accepted her gracious offer and was waiting for him in her pink and black leotard, how would he be ahead?

  As he proceeded out, a freckled girl with braces said. “You were terrific, cowboy, but you didn’t fool me—I knew you were part of the act.”

  “It was obvious,” a man near her said.

  Lyle walked outside, around the back of the theater.

  “Meeting someone?” a security guard asked him.

  “I hope so,” said Lyle.

  “Go ahead and wait,” the guard said with a suggestive slurp, “she’ll show up.”

  How the hell did he know? Lyle wondered. Now would it be proper to say a prayer to the Holy Virgin Guadalupe to ask that the beautiful woman turn up, and that they would get together? Why not? So he asked the Holy Lady to help him out.

  He waited.

  Waited and waited. Had he heard right?

  “Hi, cowboy, who ya waiting for?” Lyle turned to see a man, slender, in his thirties.

  “Yeah,” Lyle answered, smiling. Then it struck him: “You’re not her, are you?”

  The man laughed. “No, I’m not a her, wouldn’t want to be. Mind if I join you while you wait for whoever?”

  “No.” He would welcome company while he waited.

  “Do you recognize me?” the man asked hopefully.

  “Uh, yeah, you look familiar,” Lyle tried to be kind.

  “I was in the chorus line—you know, with the women; ten of us come out tapping, remember?—in tight pants and little vests? We danced around the girls.”

  “I remember,” Lyle made up. That would have been the part he had missed. “You were good, a really terrific dancer, I saw you, sure I remember.”

  The man leaned back, wearily. “Chorus boy,” he said, “not much of a future in being a chorus boy.”

  “I’ve never been a chorus boy,” Lyle explained.

  The man chuckled. “I can’t believe you, cowboy. You’re—”

  Please, not strange, Lyle thought.

  “—different. In a good way,” the chorus boy added quickly.

  “Thank you.”

  “The man sighed. “You bre
ak your heart out, tapping, knowing that, really, most of the people aren’t even looking at you, they’re looking at the women’s boobs, and there you are tapping your heart away.”

  “I bet some people are looking at you,” Lyle said, not wanting to be obvious about the fact that he was searching ahead for the magician’s assistant.

  “Yeah, now and then, an old breed of sugar daddies.”

  “Sugar—?”

  “Older guys, you know, who wine and dine us. Not much future in that either,” he said wistfully. “They’re always after younger ones, and younger ones keep coming.”

  The lights of the bright city cast smoky pastel reflections even in this darker section where they stood. Lights blinked off and on constantly, from somewhere. The sound of voices floated into the warm air, music wafting.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” said the chorus boy. “Nights like this make me feel lonelier than usual. Too bad you’re waiting for someone already, or I’d ask you to have a drink with me.”

  “I would if I wasn’t waiting,” Lyle assured him.

  “You would, you really would?” the chorus boy said enthusiastically.

  “Why not?”

  “How old do you think I am?” the chorus boy asked abruptly.

  “Uh—” He looked to be about thirty-five; older? “Twenty-five?” Lyle said.

  A smile pushed away the saddened look. “You hit it on the nail. … Cowboy, do you mind if I put my head on your shoulders just for a minute and look up at the sky?”

  Lyle thought of Raul. “Sure, go ahead.”

  The man was shorter than Lyle by several inches. Lyle dipped down. The chorus boy rested his head on Lyle’s shoulder and looked up at the sky, toward invisible stars. He straightened up. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s all I wanted.”

  There she was, the magician’s assistant.

  “So long, cowboy,” the chorus boy surrendered. “Lord love you for being so nice.”

  “Lord love you,” Lyle responded.

  The woman approached him. He was disappointed that she wasn’t wearing her costume. She was wearing a black dress. She was still gorgeous, though.

  “Hi, cowboy.”