The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

by John Rechy

  In his apartment—“What a wonderful place you have, my beloved, although it’s somewhat small, that means we’ll have to be even closer!”—Maria pulled off her blouse, revealing her breasts, even fuller now, even more beautiful than he remembered. “I want you to make love to my body the way you did that first time, remember? And I want to make love to your body, the way I did that first time, remember?”

  He remembered all right. And remembered—oh, no, not that! Not now! Maybe later he’d allow the thought that was nibbling at his mind.

  They made love on the bed, both gloriously naked. He mounted her. (Whoa, cowboy, Rose refused to shut up and Lyle didn’t mind, you ram in like that and she won’t feel everything she should. Give her a chance to be on top, so you can see her breasts flaring out, and her legs—) He lay back and she got on top of him, hopping up and down, her fingers weaving through her hair. He eased her just slightly back (so both of you can see it all, that adds to what you’re feeling). Then they were head to toe, and he licked her glorious flesh, and she licked his—(isn’t this terrific?—wonder who discovered it)—their mouths and tongues exploring, darting—and then they returned, over and over, to kiss again. (Kissing can be the most intimate—and don’t shove your tongue in, let it slip in, and then coax hers.) Lips pressed against each other’s, Lyle straddled her, entered her. When she gasped and he knew she was coming—(nothing is better than doing it at the same time, cowboy, hold it, hold it, ah, ah, ah, now, cowboy, you too, ahhhh!)—he exploded in her. They both fell back—all three fell back? Lyle wondered—laughing with joy.

  When she quickly fell asleep, the thought Lyle had managed to keep away, ambushed him: What if she is my sister! Of course, she wasn’t. No way was it possible, no way.

  He managed to fall asleep, a fretful sleep.

  He woke with a start. Twilight glistened in the room.

  Maria opened her eyes and sat up. She was so beautiful he wanted to love her again, and reached for her.

  “No,” she said. “Once is all I needed.”

  “Needed?”

  She sat up, adjusting her clothes, while he lay back in bed and looked at her, frowning, knowing that something very awful was about to be said.

  “To remember you forever, Lyle, to remember the perfect lovemaking—to remember and cherish every bit of it—is that strange?—until I die, because I shall love you, forever, even after death.” She spoke the words with profound passion and conviction. “Remember that!”

  “Remember?” he repeated. He must grasp this slowly, word for word, was already grasping, without knowing exactly what, something he heard in her voice as if for the first time—no, he was hearing only now what had always been there, from the time she had blurted out in Rio Escondido that she loved him.

  He tried to laugh, tried to make it all be this: “You’re not going to tell me that we can’t be together because we might still be brother and sister?”

  “Oh, that,” she shrugged. “Even if it’s true, it can’t be a sin if we’re not really sure. God would understand.”

  Perfect logic.

  “What I mean is that—” She paused, touching her eyes, where more tears had appeared. She allowed one to fall slowly, allowed another, another, traced the course of yet another, before she dabbed at them all. “See?” She held out her moistened fingers to Lyle. “Aren’t tears strange?” She adjusted the straps of her brassiere, straightened the edge of her panties. She arranged her hair so that it fell on her shoulders. She faced him, mournfully.

  Preparing for what’s coming next, Lyle thought. What?

  “If it should turn out that we are brother and sister, I won’t regret anything,” she said. “It would all seem, you know, even more tragic and strange. Didn’t it create more passion between us because God forbids it? Just now, when we were making love, I”—she giggled—“told myself that we are brother and sister and that our love was so great we would surmount even that, and it made everything even more exciting.” She added tears to her cheeks, then to her fingers. She touched Lyle’s cheeks with them. She frowned, disappointed not to find his own tears there. “Oh, Lyle,” she sighed, “have you been unfaithful to me?” She pouted.

  He touched his heart. “No, never, not here.”

  “Oh, but I bet you’ve slept with hundreds of women, haven’t you?”

  “No,” he answered her truthfully.

  She giggled, then became serious. “I forgive you, though.” She ran her fingers through her hair, allowing full waves. “Because throughout it all, you grew to love me even more, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it thrilling to forgive?”

  “I guess—” Still, Lyle’s heart did not breathe. What was she preparing to tell him?

  “I’ve proven my love for you, Lyle, in infinite ways, and now by having traveled miles to see you, risking my father’s wrath.” She looked around, as if detecting grave danger. “He might be here at any moment—he threatened to follow me. Don’t you think it’s unnatural for a father to pursue his daughter that way? Isn’t it wonderfully strange to love like this?”

  “Maria!” He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her, not hard. “What the hell are you babbling about?”

  She twisted her head as if he had hurt her. She rubbed her shoulders as if he had bruised her. “Lyle, Lyle,” she cried, “don’t hurt me.”

  “What?” Of course he wasn’t going to hurt her, he hadn’t hurt her.

  “I have to marry him,” she said.

  “Who?” He accepted it immediately, there was no doubt, this is what she had come to tell him, amid the most spectacular drama which she could conjure.

  “He’s been in business with my father. He’s rich, has a political position, but—oh, Lyle, Lyle—he’s not handsome and he’s always so damn happy, oh, and he’s rich, very rich—and he may be running for senator, imagine. I’ll be a senator’s wife! But, oh, Lyle, when he calls me ‘babe,’ I want to kill him.”

  “You’re going to marry someone else, and you came to make love to me?” Anger was threatening to push away the pain he was feeling. He had counted on marrying her, being only with her then, only her.

  “It makes sense once I explain it.” She was fully dressed now, sitting down. He stood clumsily, naked, before her, trying to assess it all. “Oh, Lyle, put some clothes on or I won’t be able to tell you. You’re very distracting, you know, you’re the sexiest man, I guess, in the world.” She sounded genuinely wistful, “I wish he was just this bit as sexy as you.” She measured with two fingers, almost touching. Her voice was serious. “I wish he was sexy, period.”

  Lyle wanted to tell her that she made no sense, that he did not accept what she was telling him. But it was much too outrageous not to be true, and he did grasp it. Finally, he understood her.

  “That’s why I have to remember what it was like, with you. I’ll carry that memory with me, always, and every time he touches me, I’ll close my eyes and try to pretend it’s you, try to hear your passionate voice telling me what you’re doing … Oh, Lyle, I’ve changed my mind, let’s do it one more time, and then I’ll remember even better!”

  He put on his clothes. He looked away from her.

  “Lyle, you’re not mad, are you?” she asked. “You can’t be—because I’m so honest. Don’t you think I’m honest, terribly honest?”

  He remained with his back to her.

  She sighed, an enormous sigh, another one. She produced a loud sob, another. She said, “I’ll always love you. Only you!” she gasped. “But I have to marry that despicable man—”

  “Because he’s rich and you’ll be a senator’s wife?”

  “Oh, oh, my beloved, how can you be so cruel to me? How! No, no, not that reason but—”

  “Maria!” This time he did shake her. “Tell me the truth!”

  She brushed his hands away from her shoulders, rearranged her hair. “Well, it helps that he’s rich, since he’s not handsome, like you. Everybody’
s got to have something, you know,” she said, composed. “Lyle, please look at me.”

  He didn’t. “Good-bye, Maria.”

  Her sobs resurged.

  “I said, Good-bye, Maria!”

  He did not turn until he heard her footsteps, echoing away with her sobs, the echo of her footsteps becoming louder in his mind.

  2

  More speculation about the Mystery Cowboy.

  The Hollywood Reporter

  What’s the Buzz?

  The Mystery Cowboy has still not been located, unseen since he saved Ms. Universal from a savage peacock at the Huey Mansion while assorted guests watched in amazement. Speculation continues. A man purporting to be his cousin called this desk to say that the Mystery Cowboy is actually the famous pilot who disappeared into the Atlantic Ocean during—

  Pushing away memories of Maria—the old Maria making it difficult for him to forget the new Maria—Lyle stood at the newsstand on the corner of Franklin and Beachwood and read about his total disappearance:

  The Los Angeles Times

  Here and There

  Another sighting of the Mystery Cowboy was reported by teenage surfers at Zuma Beach. “He strutted across the sand saying nothing,” one said, “and then he walked right into the ocean.” “On it,” said another.

  Now Times Weekly

  About LA

  A maid who worked for one of the founding families in Los Angeles and who was fired recently reported that the august family is hiding the Mystery Cowboy for reasons known only to them. She reports having heard strange bootsteps pacing about the Hancock Park house late at night.

  LA Weekly

  Who Says What from the Left?

  Indications increase that the Mystery Cowboy is waiting to reveal himself at the proper time of fullest attention in order to clear the name of his grandfather, one of the Hollywood Ten.

  Variety

  Show Biz Down & Close

  Producer Andy Kowansky is reported to be bartering with agents to film the Mystery Cowboy’s life—“when—if—he’s found.” Tom Selleck and Tom Hanks have expressed interest in playing his father, and Jennifer Lopez is being mentioned for a role not yet designated. Actors vying for the part of the Mystery Cowboy include newcomer—

  Hollywood Insider

  See All, Tell All

  The mystery surrounding the identity of the so-called Mystery Cowboy has been compounded by the fact that regulars along Hollywood Boulevard report that an imposter is roaming the streets, claiming to be the Mystery Cowboy himself. “The fake’s easy to spot, though,” said one knowledgeable denizen, “because he doesn’t attempt to hide.”

  “Hey, dude, I bet you’re that Mysterious Cowboy!” a young man with a baseball cap backwards, lowered almost to his nose, sidled right up to Lyle and said.

  “Mystery Cowboy,” Lyle corrected.

  “He’s the fake,” said a reedy girl to the young man with the backwards baseball cap.

  “You the fake?” the young man asked Lyle indignantly.

  “Yeah,” Lyle said, walking away.

  The two followed. The girl said to Lyle, “Know how I know you’re the fake?—cause the real Mystery Cowboy would say he’s the real one so they’d think he’s the fake.”

  “Cool,” said the young man to her.

  Now exactly who am I supposed to be? Lyle wondered.

  3

  A matter of good luck kept pending.

  “Where the hell is she? I had a detective follow her, he followed her here. Where the hell is—? Oh, my God, it’s Mr. Cowboy!”

  Everyone was converging in his apartment, and here was—

  “Mr. Fielding!” Lyle recognized the man who had given him a ride to Las Vegas, and then to Los Angeles.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Cowboy. I knew I would—” Mr. Fielding held his hand out to Lyle.

  Lyle took it.

  Mr. Fielding’s other hand smacked him. “—but not with the woman I’m gonna marry,” he finished.

  Lyle accepted the blow, even pretended it hurt by rubbing his cheek. More difficult to accept—but here he was in person again—was that his gambling partner was the man Maria intended to marry.

  Mr. Fielding, apparently accepting it all as easily as he accepted everything else, just shook his head. “That goddamned woman!”

  “Don’t you say anything bad about Maria.”

  Mr. Fielding laughed. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “I love her,” Lyle said, but he wasn’t sure, not at all. He just felt he had to defend her.

  “I thought I did, too. … Hell, I guess I’ll go ahead and marry her,” Mr. Fielding said. “I’m a gambler, so why not?—and, Mr. Cowboy, remember I told you I knew you’d bring me luck?”

  “I remember, Mr. Fielding.”

  “I was right, cause you gave me that beautiful little woman. Didn’t you? You do promise not to see her again, even if she returns, right?”

  “Yes. Right,” Lyle promised, knowing his heart would never be hers, ever again.

  Mr. Fielding brought out his wallet. “Here, Mr. Cowboy, I always reward those who bring me luck. … Now I’m off to meet her; she came ahead of me, and now I know why.”

  He left several impressive bills for Lyle. As he walked out whistling, Lyle said:

  “Good luck, Mr. Fielding.” He thought: I’m not so sure I brought you luck.

  4

  A violent interlude.

  “Motherfucking trash!”

  “Shit motherfucker!”

  In front of the Chinese Theater, two gnarled-faced young men with shaved heads pummeled a crouching figure, whose arms, decorated with one glittering bracelet, flailed vainly to thwart the blows. Tourists milled, watched, some looked away and walked on hurriedly.

  Lyle’s body moved to where the beating was occurring. The figure on the sidewalk looked up, a young woman in a lacy blue dress, ripped in the altercation. Lyle saw that only in a flash because his fists were already striking out at the attackers, swiftly. One jumped on him, hopping up because he was short. The other aimed at Lyle’s groin. Lyle dodged, thrusting the man off his back; his fist punched so hard his fingers throbbed. The crowd began to root for him. Two other young men emerged to help him. The two attackers sprawled on the concrete among movie star prints.

  “Why the hell did you wanna hit on that lady?” Lyle asked the two attackers, softly although his fists were on their way toward them again.

  “He ain’t no fuckin’ lady, he’s a fuckin’ queer, man!” one of the two shouted at Lyle.

  “A fuckin’ faggot, motherfucker!” the second one shouted.

  As they struggled to get up, they were shoved away along the street by the two who had joined Lyle.

  Standing up, the man in drag wiped blood off his face. Lyle offered his handkerchief and helped him brush dirt from his dress.

  “I’ll walk you to your car, ma’am,” Lyle said, with a tilt of his hat.

  Holding his hand to his swollen cheek, the man in drag looked around in triumph. “There are still some brave men in the world,” he called back to the crowd. “Still some decency to be found.” He bent down, trying to disguise the rips in his dress.

  “That’s a pretty blue dress,” Lyle consoled.

  “Thank you, it’s della Robbia blue, my favorite,” the man said softly. He linked the arm Lyle extended. They made their way along the Boulevard.

  “I’ll be fine now, thank you,” the man in drag said when they had reached a residential side street and were approaching his parked car.

  They unlinked arms.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a prince?”

  “No, ma’am, no one, ever.”

  “Well, you do,” the man said. “But whoever you are”—he kissed his own fingertips and extended the kiss gently to Lyle’s lips—“I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.” He walked to his car with dignity, paused, turned. “My name is Blanche.”

  5

  Lyle sees
more of the world.

  He was returning to the Boulevard when a car screeched next to him. Two of the earlier attackers joined now by two more rushed out of the car. “We’re back, motherfucker!”

  They wrestled him to the ground. A heavy man held him while the other three struck him with their fists, kicked him, laughing.

  “Take his boots! Take his boots!”

  One of them yanked at his boots, tossing one into the street, pulling at the other.

  “Hey, man, look!” one of them had found the bills Lyle had stashed in one boot.

  Police sirens screamed nearby!

  The attackers jumped into their car, racing away.

  Lyle lay on the sidewalk. He tried to stretch his legs, he could, but they hurt. He raised his arms, they ached. He touched his eyes—one was pulsing, maybe bleeding. He felt throbbing pain all over. He stood up. Okay, just a little wobbly, he told himself as his legs threatened to buckle. He stood, until he had steadied himself.

  Barefoot, he began to walk to his apartment. Wait. The other boot, across the street. He couldn’t bear to leave it there. He hobbled across and retrieved it.

  Stumbling along and holding on to his remaining boot, he thought, Damn, the world sure can be mean.

  6

  Back on the Boulevard—

  Three days after the violence—days during which he mostly slept and Mrs. Allworthy tended to him, soon bringing him food and eventually, as he recovered, filling him in on the latest gossip about the stars as if she had learned it by herself—Lyle was ready to go out again—still slightly sore, sure, maybe hurting in some places if he moved too fast—wearing another pair of boots. This time, he stuffed some of the travelers checks he’d kept in the apartment into his jeans’ front pocket.

  He was back on Hollywood Boulevard. “Fell off your horse?” a fat tourist asked him, nudging his wife, who giggled.