Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  “Oh, I will, sir, I will. And thank you.”

  Even so, I must have done something wrong because he never hired me again.

  About this time I became acquainted with ‘The Lido’. It doesn't take too much of a leap in imagination to suss out that ‘The Lido’ was a large rambling Municipal Baths. It had been bought by a couple of wealthy gay guys. Their acute business acumen turned a council run turkey into a lion amongst recreation centres. This was achieved by a very simple expedient. They attached a gym facility to the main swimming pool. For the time, it was quite an innovation. Although the casual client would have paid his or her entrance fee and indulged in a pleasing plunge in the pool or had a happy flex–pex in the gym, there was more to this place than immediately met the eye.

  At the back of the building, in a sort of annex there was a monumental changing room. Unless you knew it was there it could be utterly overlooked. The guys had reopened this vast hall for the convenience of their gay customers. Its geography had been concocted with great care. People came in one door and followed a meandering trail through the strategically positioned changing cabinets. The track led up and down the hall until one arrived at the exit door. There were no short cuts. In this imposing cavernous maze, the rents congregated. The advantage of the space was obvious. The tricks minced through it, went out the far exit, walked along a short corridor and re–entered once again at the start. The rents and non–rents who decorated these ill lit, man made alleyways, tended to dress only in swimming trunks so that they could legitimately display their wares. The swimming costumes also allowed a quick calculated accidental flash to any interested party. When strolling through, the amount of half and full erections either poking through the leg or over the top of these inviting trunks was mind blowing. These murky corridors became a great favourite with ‘The Temps’, as they could more easily retain their anonymity.

  The exterior short corridor, already mentioned, was lined with many individual cubicles where the tricks who wanted greater privacy could be taken. A convenient shower was another useful addition. I didn't go there very often as I found it difficult to keep a straight face. The constant parade of clients and the overt sexuality of the patrons made me want to laugh. It was also rather disarming to turn a corner in this labyrinth and stumble on a spontaneous public orgy. The main draw back in working ‘The Lido’ was the problem of where to keep the money you earned. It was a proper Gordian Knot but without Alexander the Great’s problem solving sword. Trunks were worn for showing the goods, not for storing the goodies.

  For a while, it was the ‘in’ place to be. After a few years ‘Lily’ got wind of both it and its special amenities. So, determined to stamp out all innocent entertainment, they began to raid it regularly. The first flurry of ‘The Lido’s’ unrestrained liberation from constricting laws came to an abrupt halt.

  Freedom

  Now, a series of events unexpectedly presented themselves, which magically fanfared the possibility of leaving the emotional prison of my parents. They were things I desired and longed for with every fibre of my being: freedom from the suffocating atmosphere of that place which my mother called ‘Home’.

  The first, joyful trumpet blast resounded when my last day at school finally arrived. It had been expected, but I could hardly believe it was here. I would walk out through those imposing gates for the very last time. My attitude towards the whole business was somewhat ambivalent. There was, nevertheless, a brief pothole in that final path to freedom. My two favourite teachers decided to exert some mild pressure in a futile attempt to make me stay on. For a while, I almost felt resentment at my premature propulsion into the workplace. Why should I have to give up my education? The first of these teachers, a charming man, endeavoured to encourage me to pursue my interest in literature and, perhaps, make a career in ‘English Lit.’ Managing to convince him that I was doing the right thing wasn’t easy. I dare not mention that my leaving had nothing to do with me. If he’d known I was dubious, he’d have gone mad. The second teacher was a friendly, enthusiastic chap who took me for ‘Art’. Confident that my small talent in drawing ought to be encouraged and developed, he sat me down and bent my ear for a full hour. The long lecture to which I was subjected was entitled, ‘The Act of Betrayal by Running Away From One’s Gifts’. (He was rather overplaying the compliment, as time bore out.) Even on the final afternoon of my final day, they presented a last ditch attempt – a united front – in an urgent appeal for me to alter my mind. Little did they realise that the force they battled against was far stronger than I. How strong this force was even I didn’t realise until a few months later. For the moment, it was my father’s insistent wish that I leave school which stopped me even considering their offers. As I sat there, listening to their arguments, I wondered what my father would have said if I told him that I didn’t give a fig what he wanted – that I wanted to stay on to complete my studies. Although I knew my mother would have been pleased, she would have objected vociferously to any of my chosen subjects.

  Knowing, with my expected new life, it would be difficult to keep in touch with my school friends, I resolved never to see them again. Work and the continuing life on the racks would take up too much of my time. It was at this point I made the sad farewell and final break with Brian who was being encouraged to stay on for higher qualifications. For me, leaving school was the last straw. He was becoming more involved with his girlfriend – and, I assume, she was now performing the oral stimuli for him as, these days, he rarely asked for my services. I used this change in my fortunes as the excuse to break all ties as I wished to embrace, wholeheartedly, my new existence. My present and future would be unencumbered by the baggage from my past.

  My mother, not too graciously, allowed me a week’s holiday before I began the quest for employment. Well, I say ‘holiday’, it was merely spent at home. Because she didn’t care to go anywhere, any suggestion of a break away from the city’s limits was pooh–poohed with gusto. Further, throughout the whole seven days, I was forbidden to relax and enjoy my new freedom. She gave me a constant verbal reminder that my time was limited. She simply couldn’t resist permanently dripping in my ear, “Make the most of it, my son. Remember, soon you’ll have to go out and earn your crust.”

  The instant this short but cherished, homeworkless break was over – to the day – I was commanded to “Get out there and get a job.” My mother took me to the local offices of the residential careers officer. In those days, the government made available funded positions whose sole duty it was to assist school leavers to find work. The thing is, back in the early sixties, there was more than enough work to go around. Employees were in demand. The euphemistic ‘Downsizing’ had yet to be invented. ‘Up–building’ was the norm. The huge wealth created by the technological age was a few decades into the future – not that the new wealth has been spread around. These days, the selfish few benefit whilst the impoverished mass still suffers. But, when my mother took me to visit the careers officer, it wasn’t the case of ‘The rich get even richer and the poor can get stuffed.’ Our society had yet to adopt; ‘It’s the rich what gets the pleasure and the poor what gets the blame,’ as being philosophically acceptable.

  A smiling assistant showed us into a pokey little room, smelling of stale pipe tobacco. A pleasant, elderly and rather portly man indicated for me to sit in a chair opposite. Because of his bulk, an optical illusion was created, making the room appear even smaller. Another chair then had to be found and installed for my mother who insisted on being in attendance at the interview.

  “Right, Stevie...”

  “Ste–VEN!” prompted my mother.

  “Ste–ven,” he corrected as he shot my mother a tolerant glance and smiled indulgently. This was an unsubtle attempt at telling her to keep quiet. For a moment, she took the heavy hint. I liked this man very much. “Now, what are you interested in doing?” he continued doggedly. “Let’s start with what you’re good at? We find that if school leavers can be steered t
owards making a career out of their interest or hobbies, they are set up for life. Now, Ste–ven, what would be your ideal job?” I hesitated. “Come on, use your imagination. What would you like to do more than anything else? Just take a moment to think about it.” He sat back to give me a moment to ponder my future.

  In a flash of impish delight, I nearly said, ‘Rent Boy’, but I thought better of it. Instead, I ventured onto safer ground: “Art!” He smiled and nodded approvingly.

  “Good. Right, now...” Having something concrete on which to build, he began shuffling through some files.

  Plainly my mother didn’t like the direction in which my audience was going, for, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her give herself an enormous electric jolt. She nearly choked in her eagerness to ensure the complete demolition of such a pathetic idea. “What are you talking about, my son?” She spoke gently, but firmly. From her, the career’s officer received a wild, fixed smile. “You can’t do anything like that!”

  “Why not?” I moaned.

  “Well, let’s be quite honest, dear. You’re certainly not good enough to make a career out of that sort of thing, are you?” Nice lady, my mother! “It’s all very well to doodle for fun – as a little hobby, but not for earning a living.”

  The man and I exchanged a look. He was on my side, but what could he say or do? My mother spotted the look and her natural sense of suspicion caught his hesitation. “I’m right, aren’t I?” With her best, tight–lipped pleasantry, she pressurised him into submission.

  “In a way, but...,” he attempted. I could have told him that it was hopeless trying to reason with her.

  She ignored ‘but’. When in full defensive flow, she brooked no ‘buts’. “You see, Steven? The nice man agrees with me. Now then, Steven, stop all this nonsense and start behaving reasonably, there’s a good boy. You must choose something a lot more reliable.”

  Visibly, the officer caved in. He took his young charges’ welfare seriously and with me, thanks to my mother’s interference, he had failed – disastrously.

  He sighed. My mother gave a smug, triumphant smile. His voice lost its enthusiastic edge as he went into autopilot. “In that case... There’s a lot of office work around at the moment. Will that do?” Though this was directed at me, I had the feeling it was aimed at my mother.

  “Oh, that’s nice. Now, that’s much better, don’t you think so, Steven?” Plainly, I was dubious. She rammed home her advantage. “Now then, Steven, you know office work is much better for you, aren’t I right?” She paused, daring either of us to answer. In case we did, she ploughed on, “Good, then I’m glad that’s all settled. So long as you understand, it’s your choice.”

  I sighed. This prospective career move bore no relationship with what I wanted to do. Office work, for Chrissake? I simply couldn’t believe it. I knew I would grow to hate the whole set up.

  Over the telephone, the officer arranged my interview. The job was working in the city centre at the head office of a long established chain of local retail shops. As soon as the details were finalised, my mother rose from her chair and crossed to the door. As far as she was concerned, the session was over. Everything was signed, sealed and irrevocably settled. Time to put it out of her mind and interfere in something else. For a moment, I couldn’t move. I cast a quick glance at the career’s officer. Shaking his head and staring at his desk, he looked as depressed as I felt.

  My mother had skilfully ambushed me into a sphere of work I didn’t want. General office duties! Ah well, it should keep the peace and she could impress the rest of the family with her boasting of how she had personally steered her beloved child off a wayward career path and back onto the straight and narrow.

  I knew the little contretemps with the careers officer would never be allowed to pass without comment. She’d won a battle and would want to crow about it. And, true to form, every time she told one of her cronies about my new job, her monologue was punctuated with, “I had to put this silly man right. And the job is what Steven chose. I didn’t have a single say in the matter. Well, you can’t, can you? After all, he has to spend the rest of his life doing it, doesn’t he? It’s important he does something he wants to do, don’t you think?” The rest of my life? My God, what a frightful prospect.

  When her crowing flew up into the rarefied atmosphere of the unbearable, I had the temerity to raise an element of doubt in the veracity of her account. She would not permit my intrusion to be suffered easily. “Why d’you say that?” she’d snap. “You said to that man that you were all right with it – and don’t say you didn’t, because you did. Didn’t you? Well, didn’t you?”

  In the end, I surrendered to this verbal onslaught and let her enjoy this pathetic point scoring. Once she realised that victory was hers, all recounting of the outrageous claims became more smugly confident.

  My job interview went very well. They appeared to like me. When asked about outside interests, I listed various branches of the arts. After hearing this enthusiastic catalogue, they requested a firm assurance that I wouldn’t leave to pursue something over which, “You plainly feel passionately about. Why on earth do you want to work in an office when your heart is obviously somewhere else?” Everyone, except my fucking mother saw which way I should be going. Fear gripped my mind. Was the potential offer of a job slipping away? Had I blown it? Would my mother have another reason to think me a total failure? I avoided the truth and, instead, told them that I didn’t feel ‘The Arts’ was the career for me. I actually managed to look him straight in the eye as I uttered this dreadful lie.

  My interviewer was convinced and, the following Monday, I started my ‘official employment.’ The hours were from nine in the morning until five at night – with an hour for lunch. The only major set back was the demand that we work one Saturday morning in three.

  As it turned out, the office wasn’t nearly as bad as expected, but it was bad enough. There were fifty of us crammed into an early form of open plan office that felt like it was designed for thirty. It was decorated in a dark brown and dirty cream – just like a Victorian Railway Station. I had my own worktable – without a phone. Telephones, in those days were a status symbol. Only section leaders and managers were given this coveted privilege.

  After a couple of days, I was struck by a delightful thought. The office – well, it was in the centre of the city – so it would be nicely convenient for moonlighting in my black economy. I could save a small fortune on bus fares! When I began my sojourn in purgatory, I had to wear a jacket, trousers, shirt and tie. Strangely, on the racks, my popularity grew slightly. Don’t ask me why. I had always believed that the punters hungered for the scruffy look – a nice bit of young, rough trade. It’s true, a lot did – but I found there were many who didn’t. The clean–cut look was as much in demand as the ruffian. A youth who looked much younger than his age but dressed to look older was, to many, highly attractive. Ah well you can’t please everyone all the time. Eventually, I adopted the tactic of being smart during the week and craggy at the weekends.

  My work duties involved fitting smoothly into a strict system, which was as up to date as the room’s colour scheme. The office procedures must have been formulated in the eighteen hundreds and had become a sacred cow. Vast quantities of paper documentation flooded in from the firm’s various branches. They were studied studiously, worked on then passed to another person. This next in line’s job was to study studiously, work on and check every scrap of paper then, pass them on to me. I repeated the whole process before passing them on to some other poor sod – and they did the whole thing yet again. It was mind blowingly fascinating. I couldn’t get enough of it. I yearned for anything to get me away from it. Soon, utter boredom pressed down upon me. It quickly became a total drain on my creativity. I managed to get around the mind mincing monotony by mutely mulling over my latest artistic project. By hiding a pad under my pile of work, I was able to make secret notes and sketches as they occurred to me. If I needed to develop some idea or o
ther, a quick trip to the loo gave me the extra physical space and privacy that I needed. During my stay with the firm, I managed to complete four plays, a novel and several hundred drawings!

  There was one major saving grace; what the work lacked in attention grabbing fascination, my work mates compensated for in a big way. There were three special office juniors, two boys and a girl, who soon became friends. My attraction to each was for different reasons. Their names were Sam, Jimmy and Paula.

  Sam was a short, muscular, bouncy lad of seventeen, sporting a great mass of shaggy brown hair and huge, sad eyes. He was good looking but didn’t appear to realise it. I have always found this sort of young man highly attractive. He boasted a girl friend whose personal crusade was to treat him like shit. He lived only about a mile from me and, on the odd evening when I wasn’t on the racks, I’d cycle over for a visit. His girlfriend, when I finally met her, took an instant dislike to me, which pleased Sam enormously. There was never any indication that he was a member of the clan, and I didn’t bother to try and find out.

  Jimmy was a sweet lad who had just reached sixteen. His lank, blonde hair framed a disturbingly pimpled face. He constantly fought a severe weight problem. Quiet in company, he was jolly in private and frequently had me in stitches. I instantly discovered he was exploring his sexuality. The very first time we were introduced, the familiar ‘lock’ was made. That secret look of recognition was exchanged. Because I was sympathetic, he soon began attempting to find out – through me, which way, sexually, he was heading. He became one of those sickening closet gays who spend all their public free time talking about girls whilst, privately, actively searching out guys for sex. This sort of self–denying gay was the staple diet of the meat racks. I didn’t mind trying to help him discover his identity because, in all honesty, I felt more than a little sorry for him.