by John Rechy
One day, in sorrow at His own creation, God plunged into Hell. . . . Now the world spun dizzily like a ferris wheel out of control.
CHUCK: Rope Heaven by the Neck
1
“HEY, MAN!—HOW YOU MAKIN IT? . . . Cummon over—jine me.” Chuck sat familiarly on the railing at Pershing Square under the statue of a World War I soldier valiantly facing the street. Wearing a new pair of cowboy boots—resplendently Bright (orange, brown, traces of yellow)—which hes showing off by rolling his levis an extra turn—Chuck sits there as if on his own frontporch. “Where you been?” he asks me.
(I didnt tell him this, but I’ll tell you: After staying away from the park as compulsively as, always, I returned, I had gone to San Diego again: to the beach at La Jolla set like a jewel in a ring of gleaming sand. I would lie alone for hours on that still-cool beach, just staring at the sky, at the patterns of the hastily smeared clouds: as I had lain looking into the El Paso sky when I was a kid, when I had climbed that range of mountains called Cristo Rey, to get closer to that Sky; hugged by the jutting sandy hills: lying there—alone—looking up—at times at the sky itself, times at the clouds, times toward the giant statue of the peasant-faced Christ at the top of the mountain. . . . And years later I was lying on the sand at La Jolla, trying now perhaps to find in the shape of those California beach-clouds the lost patterns I had found as a kid. Vainly. . . . The idleness of the not-yet crowded beach hinting lazily of spring—and the keyed-up idleness of the streets in the city—San Diego!—at night swarming with aimless sailors—this only emphasized the formless terror and panic. . . . I returned to Los Angeles, to that same room on Hope Street, to that same roof at night—to the same maryjane daze whose miracles were slowly diminishing. . . . And I returned, soon, to Pershing Square, as, before, I had returned to Times Square. . . .)
I only told Chuck: “Ive been away.”
“Ain that somethin now?” he said. “Me, too—I been away too. I had this gig justa while ago,” He yawned as if even the memory of work tired him. “It was in this parking lot out in Hollywood. This score I met out here, he got me that job. But, hell, I figure: So I make a few bucks working, I blow them—jes like that! Shoot, I get along jes as good without Why hassle moren you got to?” Then, squinting at the sun, he added philosophically: “Theres jes two kindsa people that don gotta work: Those that got all the money, an those that ain got none. . . . An me,” he said happily, “I ain got nothin.”
I sat next to him on the railing. In my mind, later, Chuck, like that statue, would become a part of my memory of Pershing Square: Chuck, sitting there complacently in the lazy afternoons, in the same spot, shoulders hunched, hands holding on to the railing, balancing himself—long, lanky legs locked loosely under the bar by booted toes as if on a fence, on a ranch; sandy hair jutting out from the widehat over long sideburns—as he looks at the passing scene of Pershing Square with what I would usually think was amusement—but wonder, occasionally, Is it more like bewilderment? . . . When something unusual—unusual in the sense of Pershing Square—happened within the area of his vision—or, rather, of his consciousness, since the two seemed at times to be completely separated—he would shout: “Yippee!” with more energy than he would muster for anything else—as he might have at a rodeo—or at the movies rooting in child-excitement for The Rangers.
Others in that restless, nervous world came and went, suddenly disappearing altogether. But Chuck seemed always to be here. And unlike the other youngmen hustling the park, he seldom even moved about hunting for scores. Not because of vanity or self-confidence, I am sure, but because he preferred to move as little as possible, he waits for someone to come to him. And, usually, they did: In that world of downtown Los Angeles, Chuck was one of its best-liked citizens—as much by the scores as by other hustlers—perhaps because, with him, everything always seemed to be going right . . . He moved effortlessly from day to day as if taking a necessary journey which he must make as easily as possible.
“You know what I mean about hassling a gig, don you?” he asked me. “I mean, crazy if you dig what youre doing an thats what you want—but jes workin—! Hell, I would jes as soon hang aroun here, . . . Hell, I made a few bucks in that there parkin lot—an—dig—I bought me these here boots.” He raises one gaudy-booted foot for inspection. “Tough, huh?” he asked. “I wanted some with Red on em—but they didn have none.”
I nodded yes on both counts: I understood about working—and the boots were “tough.”
“So: I hang aroun here an make it jes as good,” he said.
It’s that limbo-time in Los Angeles arbitrarily called “spring,” merely because, technically, summer hasnt come. The weather inches toward summer, boundaryless, and the only difference you notice, in the park, is that the crowds become even thicker as the days become slowly warmer.
Now, in the park—and it is mid-afternoon—there are the familiar sights of mangled American outcasts of every breed. Under the drooping palmtrees, old men and women sit on benches; and outside the enclosed lawn, along the outer ledges, the vagrants of all ages—the younger ones out to score and the older ones out merely to fill the necessary space of time required of that day to qualify them as being “alive”—sit singly or in groups, always waiting: the masklike faces of people expecting anything or nothing. . . .
“When I got this gig, parking cars,” Chuck was going on, “I figured theres got to be that malehouse somewhere in Hollywood I heard so much about, an someone’ll spot me, sign me up for it.” This was a familiar thing with him—said now half-jokingly. “This score, man, he says: ‘Chuck, you jes work in my parkin lot an someone’s bound to show that knows where it is an you can go there an apply.’ But, hell, nothin happened, An I Got Tired.” He shrugs his shoulders. His hat was pushed away from his face, turned toward the sun. “Gettin a tan,” he explains, yawning lazily, very long, “an—uh—it makes me—unhhh—real—sleepy.”
Directly behind us, the howling voice of the Negro woman who preaches there every day rises in a wail as she goes through a religious Revelation. She clutches her throat, gasping out choked obsessed mutterings; eyes shut deliriously, one hand dangling intimately between her slightly spread arched legs—like a burlesque queen. “Comin, Lawd!” she announces triumphantly. She gasped now as if shes seen Him, lurking among the California palmtrees. She greets Him with bumping hips. “Comin, Lawdee!” and her hands are stretched out in supplication or welcome.
And Chuck said happily: “Yippeee! Man-oh-man! She has made it!—I swear she has made it!” Then he yells to her: “Grab Him, lady! You jes grab-im while you got-im—an don let go!”
Now he turns to face me. He yawns again. “The best way to get there,” he mused now, “is to take it slow.”
“Get where?”
He shrugged. “Wherever. . . . I mean, wherever you wanna go. Like for her—” indicating the Negro woman “—her, see, she wants to make it to Heaven. . . . Or, I mean, like, if you wanna make it to New York or Denver—. . . Or Nowhere, like me. . . .”
And there it was.
There was what had intrigued me about Chuck from the very beginning: His easy, happy acceptance of Nothingness. It wasnt resignation—it was acceptance. I look at him as he smiles into the bright glare of the sun. . . . In the midst of all the turbulence, he was always enviably cool—almost as if some compassionate angel had whispered a secret to him (which must have been something like: “Rest”), and based on that secret, he seemed to live his life untouched by turmoil—yet the turmoil surrounded him constantly.
“Now you take Skip,” Chuck is going on. “That stud, he is gonna bust wide open one of these days—I mean, he is gonna explode! Boom! It’s like he has gotta firecracker with a long fuse up his ass—an that fuse gets shorter an shorter—an one day: Baroom!! . . . An take Buddy: he is gonna end up with his picture hangin in a postoffice. . . . An Tiger—one day he is gonna kill one of them guys he makes it with—he hates everyone, man. . . . An you too, man,” he says to
me now, “hell, you always ack like youre hyped up or comin off: Always movin. Where you think you gonna go so fast?—an what’s gonna be there if you get there? . . . Me, I’ll take it real slow, real cool—easy—I’ll last longer.”
And so how could I explain to him the frantic running that, for me, was Youth? With the stark realization that I could never outrun It, I became more and more anxious to find some kind of meaning in Youth itself. . . . And so how can I explain this to Chuck?—always smiling, always drifting happily, effortlessly. . . . He was right about the other young-men hustling Main Street and the park. Although they never Spoke of their terror—and for that matter neither did I—it was stamped in every frantic gesture, in every empty pose of unconcern. . . . We worked at indolence from bar to park to bar. . . . Not Chuck. His idleness had an aspect of purity. Again: The world for him was a vast plain which he must occupy for a space of time, easily. . . . And yet—. . . Yet there was something incomplete about his easygoingness.
“Now there is one thing I wouldnt mind,” he was going on good-humoredly. “I wouldnt mind finding that male whoorhouse I been hearing about Out in Hollywood. Wouldnt that be a gassy kick?—get signed up workin there? Even hustle chicks for a change. Man, I will tell you some-thin: Usually I don get no real good buzz outta guys swinging on my joint. Most of the time, I fall asleep. When I fall asleep, I ain got no problem. I always sleep with a Hardon. . . .”
With Chuck—and I knew this instinctively and without a doubt—there was nothing ulterior in his making it with males. It was merely easier in the world in which he found himself. That sexually he liked only girls, I never doubted. The other scene would have been too complicated for him to hassle. . . . And I had never heard even the scores and queens, who would often in bitchiness claim that “today’s trade is tomorrow’s competition,” say it about Chuck.
“Not that I got anything against anyone swinging on a joint, dig?—if they wanna—” he was going on.
There was little he condemned, little he didnt accept—even to being rousted by the cops. . . . Once, weeks before, sitting with him at Hooper’s coffee-and-donuts after two in the morning, we had been picked up at random from the other faces there by two cops. Chuck had remained lackadaisically cool, almost Philosophical. He told me: ‘’Shoot, unless they really want you for something, we will be back here in jes a few minutes. On weekends, man, this late, they got too many in the joint already. . . . But we are gonna take a little trip to the glasshouse,” he predicted—and he was right—the glasshouse being where they interrogate you, fingerprint you without booking you: an illegal L.A. cop-tactic to scare you from hanging around . . . (I remember: As we were being taken to be fingerprinted, along with five others out of Hooper’s—one of the night typists at the station, a pretty roundfaced girl, said to the one next to her: “Thats a cute bunch they got there.” And Chuck called to her: “What time you get off, honey?” She answered saucily: “When do you get out?”—just as the cop, Meanly, stormed back to squelch the Romance. . . .)
Along the walks in the park, the hunters and watchers slowly thickened. I noticed three malehustlers standing a few feet from us. I can hear snatches of their conversation: “—I rolled him for a C, man—. . .” “Man, I didnt even let im touch me an I scored 20 bills . . .” The preaching has increased. The angelsisters are marching solemnly to Their Corner—led by the sinister deacon old man. . . . A man is now standing inches before the howling Negro woman, and as she bumps, he puts his hands behind his neck and thrusts his pelvis lewdly at her, shouting: “Go!”—while she continued howling: “Lawdl Don lure me wid da Debil! Lawd! Ah done seed Yuh in all Yuh Glory! Lawd!” as if playing hide-and-seek with God. . . . A tattered gray old man, drunk, passes by, mumbling: “Goddamn! God-Jesus-damn!” . . . Chuck is staring at all this. He shakes his head. I wait curiously for whatever comment hes about to make.
What he said was: “Man, dig those birds.” Before us, two pigeons were cooing romantically at each other. “Now ain they something? They make it with each other in Broad Daylight, an nobody busts them for indecent exposure. . . . What happened to that guy?” he said abruptly—and always he would speak out whatever had formed in his mind, as if expecting that others were following his thinking identically. One moment he could be consumed almost childishly with glee—and like a child dazzled by sights of spinning ferris wheels and rollercoasters, the next moment he could shift his interest easily to something else.
“Which guy?”
“Oh, you know, man—the score you was with that time—the one that wanted pod so bad.”
Sometime ago, on Main Street, I had met a man from out of town who was almost breathlessly intrigued by what he called “the lowlife”—and particularly with what for him was its ultimate manifestation: smoking marijuana. I told him I could get the weed for him and we’d get high. He was so completely square that I figured—correctly—I could get him to pay as much as two bucks for each joint—which at that time was four bits a stick but which I could score for free from a queen from San Francisco. That night, I couldnt find her anywhere. I tried to pick up at Dora’s—a junk bar—but the heat was on, and the twitching pusher who hung out there—talking to you in the sinister, evil-smelling mazelike head downstairs where he made all his transactions—told me he couldnt get anything that night—“not even a benny.” At Ji-Ji’s, Dad’o hadnt even shown up—nor the pusher with the prophet-like face. . . . Then we ran into Chuck in the park, and while the score stood wide-eyed digging the “low-life” scene, I told Chuck what I was looking for—and why. He conceived a plot: He would split, get some ordinary cigarettes, remove the tobacco, and re-roll them in brown paper. I’d meet him in a few minutes and he would give them to me, playing a real “lowlife” scene for the score. It worked. . . . Later, in a ratty rented room—which I was sure the score had chosen for “lowlife atmosphere”—the score gagged on the faked joints; said: “This is sure powerful stuff you got us, boy.” After smoking about two of the ordinary cigarettes, he was convinced he was Heavenly High. . . . “You sure are getting high,” I told him, “just look at your pupils, theyre about to explode!” “Is that how you can tell?” “Sure!” . . . “Yeah,” he said, rushing to the mirror to look at his lowlife pupils, “I Sure Am High. Powerful stuff, powerful!”
Now, I told Chuck how it had turned out.
“Great, man,” he said. “An dig: No one got hurt—he got his kicks, same as if he had smoked the real stuff. . . . An what the hell, if it hadda been the real stuff, it wouldda been his luck to get busted or something. Maybe he’dda become a real strong head, even!” And now he smiles and said: “I even used some of that there men-tho-lated tobacco.”
And so, for Chuck, the scene had been the Good Deed of a Boy Scout.
Enter Darling Dolly Dane!
“Im positively deadass tired,” she says, rushing over to us. “Babies, there just aint no one at the 1-2-3—someone’s been spreading rumors that theres so much junk being sold there that the cops are gonna knock it over any day!”
Queens usually avoid the park in the daytime, and when they do come in, they tone down their effeminateness—necessarily: they are too easily spotted by the cops. Even so, Darling Dolly is wearing a shirt that could easily have been a blouse.
Chuck: “Darlin Dolly, huccome you ain got no makeup on this afternoon?”
Darling Dolly sighing: “Sweetheart, the fuzz just aint as Tolerant as you are, God Bless You. . . . Have you seen Trudi? No? My God!—the poor girl’s in a State of Nerves. Skipper has disappeared—Again!”
“That ain new,” said Chuck, “he disappears all the time.”
Darling Dolly Dane, adjusting her collar so it sticks up higher. “Of course it aint new—but Trudi worries each time like it is—and the way Skipper’s been drinking lately! . . . And this time she aint seen him for More Than Three Weeks. Now you know how he stays with her, and goes away, and comes back—but he dont stay away that long. And! Poor Trudi’s even checked the joint, and those nas
ty hulls there and all! (And, babies, this is The Real Truth, I cross my heart: One of the bulls thought Trudi was real fish—she went in drag, and you know how Real she looks—and one of them, he tried to put the make on her, and Trudi said, Tuck off, fuzz!’) . . . And Trudi says they told her, no, Skipper aint been busted. . . . Poor Trudi—my God!—youd have to look Far and Wide to find a more Loyal Woman! . . . Well, honeys,” says Darling Dolly, “your baby sister’s gonna be on her way now. . . . Honestly, if the fuzz dont stop bugging us, there just aint gonna be a Decent place where a Respectable Queen can go to in the afternoons. . . . Why, we’ll just have to start cruising the tearooms, and then theyll call us a menace. . . . And By The Way!” planting her hands indignantly on her hips, “have you seen that Buddy?!”
“Whats he done to you this time?” said Chuck.
“Do You Know What He Done?” Shes dragging out the obvious for dramatic effect.
“Again?” asked Chuck.
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Chuck, “I bet he clipped your dragclothes an hocked em.”
“Thats right! . . . Now I let him, Out of the Goodness of My Heart, stay with me—again! And! After he hocked all my very best drag!—for ten measly bucks, mind you! And then! He comes knocking on my door he aint got no pad to stay. And, honeys, I am a gentlewoman, and I let him stay in my pad. I-never-was-no-good-at-learning-my-lessons. And! That cunthungry sonuvabitch—he done it again—and someone told me he gave one of my bracelets to some ugly cunt hes been after. . . . Oh, if I see him! Oh, if I just see him! I swear: Im gonna make the wildest scene ever, no matter where I find him! Right here in Pershing Square, even! . . . And if the cops come, why, I’ll just let them know he stole my drag, and, honeys,” she adds slyly, eyes twinkling with cop-bitchiness, “the cops got so many queens on the force themselves that theyll certainly understand what a girl feels like with all her drag clothes in hock! Why! She feels: Lost! . . . And did I ever tell you who I saw at the Long Beach Drag Ball last Halloween?” she goes on gleefully-bitchily. “Sergeant Lorelei—thats who! And honey, he was the maddest drag youve even seen. She looked like Sophie Tucker—simply the maddest drag I ever laid eyes on! I guess he thought nobody would recognize him out of his uniform.”