“You think he might be a friend of Dorothy?” Cliff said raising his chin toward Roddy McDowall who was now sitting with a girl. I am guessing a studio arranged date.
“Me?” said Dot.
“Yeah, yeah, is he a friend of yours?” said Cliff to Dot.
“No, he is kidding. A friend of Dorothy is code for someone who is gay,” I said, whispering at least the last half of that sentence.
The waiter appeared at our table, just in time too. I guess it was just dumb luck because it was not the first time he showed up just as someone in our group was saying “gay” or “homosexual” or even something a little off-color. Impeccable timing, this guy.
But maybe Cliff knew something I didn’t because the last time the waiter came over, Cliff casually handed him a little piece of paper. He took it but did not react. He just put it in his pocket. Was it Cliff’s phone number, I wondered. I don’t think anyone else noticed, and I looked at Cliff who gave me an innocent look. If it was his phone number, it seemed like a risky thing to do.
Besides, I noticed the way Jerry had been looking at Cliff all night. If my estimation was correct, he was gone, or getting there.
“Well that was delicious, boys. Thank you,” said Dot at end of the meal.
“It was our pleasure. Did you girls bring your dancing shoes?” said Jerry.
Dot was excited. “Where are we going?”
The boys answered together that we were going to Ciro’s. Dot and I were thrilled. Neither one of us have spent much time on the Sunset Strip.
And then we got one more thrill. As we were walking out, who was walking in but Groucho Marx himself.
“Hey Groucho, good timing. A booth just opened up. We were just sitting right under you,” said Cliff referring to the caricatures on the Derby wall.
“No thanks. I don’t like to watch myself when I eat. I eat like a pig,” was his response. We all laughed. Then he took a look at Dot and started moving his eyebrows up and down. “Of course if you would like to join me, sweetheart, I might make an exception.”
We left a moment later, but not before Cliff scowled at Groucho, pretending to be jealous. Fifteen minutes later we were at Ciro’s on Sunset. The place was crowded and only got more crowded as the evening progressed. This was not helped by the fact that they save empty tables just in case someone like Humphrey Bogart or some other elite Hollywood royalty show up.
Fortunately, we managed to get a table, and we all got drinks. We were once again sitting boy-girl, and due to the noise, we had to huddle pretty close together, at times, so that the girls could talk to each other, and the boys likewise. Xavier Cugat and his band were playing, so it was hopping, to say the least.
We saw a few more celebrities including George Raft and Peter Lawford and a few B-listers whose names I would not be able to summon up even with a gun to my head. It was obvious that Jerry was really impressed. He was fighting to stay relaxed, though, so he would not look like a rube, I suppose. I guess he is used to gay bars, which are poison for movie stars. Besides, he is a pretty fresh fish, Hollywood-wise, so it is all new to him.
But I will tell you, of the four of us, Jerry was hands down the best dancer. He was terrific. And tireless. Dot and I took turns with both boys, and we must have danced for two to three hours taking occasional breaks for drinks, smokes and conversation. I had as much fun watching him fling Dot around that floor as I did when he was giving me the same treatment.
My only regret is when it all of a sudden hit me that I could not dance with Dot. I mean this is obvious, but for some reason it hit me hard at one point. Here was the love of my life, and I could only watch her dance with others. At least she was confined to Cliff and Jerry because even though it is bad etiquette, they refused to let anyone cut in on us. They seem to be very territorial and protective in that way, even though to mainstream society our status as lovers is one big charade.
We were all having a great time, and between the dancing and drinks, our heads were spinning. But I knew it was time to go when the four of us were dancing, and during the turns Cliff kept reaching out to pinch Jerry’s behind. This could only mean trouble so I managed to corral the group and we made our way to the door.
In the car we all were able to come down a little, but the alcohol’s effects would be with us for a while. Cliff was whooping it up a little too much and driving way too fast, so I insisted that he slow down and take the side streets home. I really was not sure if he would listen to me, but he did.
We drove for a few minutes, chatting away, when Jerry spoke up. “Two things.”
“Yes?”
“Cliff, pull over right here.”
Cliff pulled over and Jerry got out. I thought he wanted to walk home for some reason but he surprised me by vomiting in the bushes. Well, better than in the car.
When he returned, he got back in, and Cliff pulled away. “That was number one,” Jerry said. “Number two, wouldn’t it be nice since it’s dark now if the girls could sit in the back together? That way they can snuggle together all the way home. If Cliff’s driving doesn’t kill us.”
We all agreed. It was a nice idea. So without stopping the vehicle, we made the necessary adjustments as half our party climbed over the front seats, with grand giggles, and we went from boy-girl-boy-girl to boy-boy-girl-girl.
Jerry unrolled his window and turned back toward Dot and me. “Hey, you know what girls? You two are pretty good beards.”
Dot and I were holding each other tight. What a nice ending to a wonderful night. “We are not your beards. You’re our beards,” I said.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Women having beards? Now that’s really taking lesbianism too far.” It was Cliff. And we all laughed until our sides ached. The laughter was probably seventy percent alcohol and thirty percent funny, but it was the perfect last line of the evening. One that would all be ringing in our ears. I told you he always gets the last word.
But not tonight. Dot was wiped out. Her head was leaning against my shoulder but before falling asleep she was able to manage to squeak out in a breathy, alcohol-soaked half-whisper, “Shut up, you cocksuckers!”
Great night.
Cliff Lonigan
I guess in a way—but I didn’t realize it at the time—everything was coming to a kind of junction for all of us, and I suppose it all started with that night at the Brown Derby. It was like the next phase in all our lives. An important one, and it blindsided us. Or at least me.
It was a kind of ordinary weeknight and me and Jerry were meeting for a quick bite at Tommy’s over on Beverly. Being a recent immigrant to L.A., Jerry went nuts over their chili burgers, and it seemed like the next thing I knew we were hitting the place once, sometimes twice, a week.
He asked me about work, which was going great. At that moment I was working on a laundry detergent campaign. So, you can clearly see why I was so excited. I’m actually being serious. I really don’t care about how much detergent a company sells. I mean not in a direct way. The kick for me is writing the copy, coming up with tag lines. I love playing with words, the whole creative process is right up my alley. At heart I’m an idea-man and a problem-solver, and I just don’t stop thinking until I get the job done.
This works out good in social situations, it seems, as well. I’m not much for small talk, but I do like playing off of people, and I like to joke with them and keep things light. Sometimes, especially if a group is quiet, I seem to have the chops for asking a simple question that will launch everyone into a fat conversation that breaks the silence. This gives me a big hunk of backdrop in which to play. Half the time after I launch things I’m not even involved anymore. I just get the damn thing rolling.
Maybe that’s why Jerry calls me the glue. He says I keep everyone in our little group together and keep things spinning. But anyway, whatever the reason, I guess we had become a little group, the four of us�
�me, Barb, Dot and Jerry. And like I said, that first night at the Derby was only the beginning. Jerry had especially gone ape over this lavender dating thing, and after that night, he had no doubts about wanting to go out with the girls again.
He told me he wished things could always be this way. But then again he seemed to be stuck on wishing for things in a general sort of way. He was all kind of lit up after that night. Almost like he thought he was getting away with something—like he’d learn the secret of robbing banks without the possibility of ever being caught.
But anyway, we all enjoyed going out together and I guess it’s lucky that we all seemed to get along. And as a bonus it was kind of a way of thumbing your nose at Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public anyway. To me it was like hiding but out in the open.
The next week Jerry wants to go out to Tommy’s again. Now the place, you understand, is casual and outdoors. Hell, you don’t even sit down. You stand up at counters, and at a quick look it would be hard for a pedestrian to tell who’s with who. Nevertheless, Jerry has a theory: it’s okay for two guys to hang out together, but they shouldn’t be seen at the same place together too often. It arouses suspicion, he says. Maybe he’s right. I don’t know. He burns a lot of time thinking about that kind of stuff though, I’ll tell you. So anyway, this time he invites the girls to come along.
“What would you like, sweetheart?” Jerry asks Barbara as we get to the front of the line. He puts his arm around her back to let the counterman know that this is his girl.
We moved as far away from other people as we could, but when we finally started eating though, it was obvious that something was wrong. Barbara noticed right away and asked Jerry about it.
Jerry stared at his burger. “Do you guys remember me telling you about Dennis Saxby? My boss at work, the one who wears women’s clothing?”
A round of nods. “Yeah?”
“He’s dead. He killed himself last night.”
The girls gasped and put their hands over their mouths. But I wasn’t too surprised. I’m betting things don’t usually turn out too good for guys like that. Unless you’re Uncle Miltie. Dress up like a dame on T.V., everyone gives you a pass. Plus a million dollars. But not in the real world.
Apparently, Saxby hadn’t been in the office for a few days, and one of the partners finally called the police. He had taken too many sleeping pills, and he was found sitting in a chair—in men’s clothing. I guess Jerry had spent the day finding things out but trying to be subtle. It turns out one of the bigwigs knew a lot and filled Jerry in when he realized his interest. Jerry and this bigwig spoke, evidently, like they understood each other well. Wink-wink. But it’s like they were talking in code.
So, this is what I know, according to Jerry: not only was Saxby wearing a man’s suit but there were no women’s clothes anywhere in the apartment. My guess is The Salvation Army got a few pretty little boxes of anonymous donations in the last day or two that’ll make some little doll pretty happy. What was found in the apartment were a few girlie magazines, a copy of Field and Stream and one of Sports Illustrated, all recently dated. There was also a note addressed to the members of the law firm. Listed first were the other partners. After that, Saxby took the time to mention most every other employee of the firm, starting with, you guessed it, Jerry, even though they barely knew each other. He seemed to also accidently leave a few people off the list. Also noted were the first names only of a few close friends and several girls, including his “best girl, Mary.” It was about as vague as you could get, and it certainly didn’t look like the cops would be locating Mary anytime soon. Of course, Old Man Saxby may be getting the opposite of what he wanted, because in the cops’ search to try to find this Mary doll, they may come up with God knows what, so it may just backfire. The note told everyone that “the strain of work and such has worn me down” and that they “should all keep the faith.” Finally, on the subject of faith, Saxby bought himself some heavenly insurance, proclaiming his belief in Jesus Christ and asking for forgiveness for any and all sins.
Jerry seemed pretty shook up. We had all planned this date here at Tommy’s yesterday, before Jerry had known anything, and Dot asked him if he’d like to call it a night; be alone. He never really answered her, and the next thing I knew, we were all taking a walk down Rampart toward 2nd.
The whole evening took on a somber feel. I guess no one needed me to be the catalyst to spur on discussion that night. And jokes were pretty much out.
We walked as a group at first, and then we seemed to spontaneously pair up in different combinations, like bouncing pinballs. You know how it goes. I ended up talking to Dot for a short stint while Jerry and Barb pulled ahead. They seemed to be deep in discussion and often held hands as they walked. Dot told me about how uncomfortable things were for her at home, and how her mother was always on her back to get married and settle down.
Like I said, it was a real downer of an evening, and after a while, I huddled everyone together and made a suggestion. I could tell the glum mood would continue for a while, but I hoped a change of scenery might help and suggested we drive a few blocks over to Echo Park Lake and walk around there, maybe get an ice cream or something, lighten the mood.
The lake probably had a soothing effect to a point, but the topics of conversation still had a stench of despair which was getting to me. As a matter of fact, everyone, me being the exception, was just wallowing in it that night. Moansville.
Anyway, we continued to group and regroup in various combinations. The sun was going down at this point and Jerry and I each got an ice cream.
“Don’t you ever wonder about all this? I mean, why am I gay?” Jerry asked.
I shrugged but before I could really think about it, he continued.
“And I wonder about the guys, guys who’ve never even met me, who hate me because I’m gay. Just because I’m gay. I’m not bothering them. I wish I could get a guy like that on the stand. You know? I’d say, ‘Describe your perfect woman to me.’ And he’d say, ‘Blonde, big breasts, full pouty lips, very curvaceous, soft sweet voice, petite.’ And I’d say great. Miss Anderson, would you step out here please. And he’d perk up. And out would walk Miss Anderson. Brunette. Or better yet, bald. No breasts at all. Flat as a chalkboard. Thin lips, no feminine curves, husky, gravelly voice, rough skin. And I’d say, ‘Pal, this is it.’ This is who society says you have to be with. Oh, don’t worry, those blondes with the chests are all around you. Everywhere you look. Only don’t look too hard. Because then you’re sick. You’re disgusting. And if you try to touch one of them, even if she wants you to, watch out. They’ll put you in jail for that. This is it, buddy. Miss Anderson. That’s who you have to be with for the rest of your life. ‘But I’m not attracted to her,’ he’d say. Tough shit. You get attracted to her. This is normal. This is what you’re supposed to like.”
Then he paused. And threw his hands up. “You ever think about stuff like that?”
“Never,” I said.
“I do.”
“Obviously.”
“Sometimes I think about it so hard I can’t get over it. I don’t know. I guess I just want all the answers.”
I figured it wasn’t too helpful, but I just blurted out, “Hey, who cares? It is what it is.”
He threw up his hands again. “You really don’t think about this stuff? What the hell am I doing with you?”
“Chemistry. Don’t try to explain everything.”
But I guess he did want to explain things. He wanted answers and solutions. I don’t know if it was Old Man Saxby or what. He just couldn’t stop thinking about this stuff. And by the end of the night, it was like he was challenging me to come up with something. He was on a mission here, this kid.
“What do you mean come up with a solution?” I asked. At this point it was just the two of us. “A solution to what?”
“There’s got to be a better way to live. I just wish thin
gs could somehow change.” There he went with that wishing stuff again.
“Well, I know one thing. Wishing never got anyone anywhere. Believe me, I’ve tried wishing for junk when I’ve blown out birthday candles, blowing unattached eyelashes off my fingers. Once I even blew an eyelash off of some other guy’s finger, you know, before he had the chance. I’ve even tried wishing wells, despite their conventional overuse. And by the way, I never told what I was wishing for—you know, to increase the odds of them coming true. Nothing.”
I wasn’t even sure if he was listening. His eyes just starting glazing over, and I noticed he was staring at something across the street.
“Jerry?”
I saw the wheels turning in his head, a look I’ve seen in the advertising business countless times. Usually those ideas go nowhere, with the originator of the scheme’s ego falling hard and dying a miserable death. Probably because he gets so wrapped up in his little brainstorm that he just can’t see its obvious warts. Plus, it’s all theory when it’s in his head. Then he says the idea out loud—usually right after he says, “I got it!”—and makes way too big a deal about it. Builds it up far too much. Always a horrible mistake. I’ve learned that lesson myself the hard way. The more air you put in that balloon, the louder the pop.
“I got it,” he said. Of course, sometimes those ideas are pure gold.
Dot Johnson
Well, I guess I liked the idea the moment I heard it. It also made me a bit nervous but maybe that was just the excitement I felt. You see, unfortunately, things haven’t been going all that swimmingly at home with Mother, so the idea got me thinking right away.
The Duplex Page 6