City of Night

by John Rechy

  Sensing this and the unyielding stare of the fatman, Skipper moves slightly back, into the orangy twilight that floats, in smoky pools about the bar.

  2

  On the table, in the booth where weve been sitting since Skipper came over—myself and the fatman on one side, Skipper and the skinny man on the other—there are the empty bottles of beer, empty glasses; the ashtray is crammed with smoked cigarettes like dead bugs. The mixture of beer and hard liquor Ive been drinking has worked its peculiar magic on me: I feel alertly high: The world now seems compressed into this immediate spot, as if in a giant painting everything but one tiny area has been blocked out—and the unblocked area is now in sharp focus, locked for minute observation. And as usual in that state, I fed tied in fascination to the scene. . . . The dim smoky figures beyond this booth have retreated farther and farther into the amber darkness of the bar.

  “And then what happened?” The fatman has been questioning Skipper with the tone of voice one would use to goad a child to relate a fantastic story for the amusement of adults listening with mock interest—the child, unaware of being used, becoming more and more responsive to the attention.

  I know that, sober, Skipper would have left long ago—as I would have left—but in the willing surrender to drunkenness, he is answering the fatman’s questions as if testifying in his own defense. Sitting next to Skipper, the skinny man has completely abandoned his previous role of novice. He has given in, under the impact of the liquor and the fatman’s brutal attack, to the life the fatman has badgered him into. Watching him—his skinny form propped there resignedly against the brownish leather of the booth—I feel even more sorry for him now—now that the pose which up to tonight had made his existence more easily possible has collapsed under the ramming words of the fatman. The fatman, aware of his triumph there, has pushed the skinny man into the background. Now he is questioning Skipper with the certainty of a prosecutor interrogating a witness who has already confessed.

  “So then what happened?” the fatman repeats: He sits there, a giant caricature of Buddha. He has been sipping one drink since we sat here; and he holds that drink cupped in his fat-hand as if it were his sobriety, which for the purposes of tonight he was guarding.

  Skipper mutters: “Yeah, well, see—it was just after I got outta the marines—and I met this guy in L.A. And I—”

  “Louder,” the fatman says. “I cant hear you.”

  Skipper raised his voice. Hes creating the familiar circles on the table with the watery glass. “I knew this guy in L.A.—see—that I stayed with. . . . See, when I got outta the service, I made this Main Street scene. I met—lots of guys—you know—go with them—hang around here—Main Street—all the time. . . . Thats when I met this guy—right here, too, right here at Harry’s was where I met him.”

  “Oh?” the fatman says. He never removes the cigar from his mouth, except when it becomes a stub, and then he seems for a moment to be deliberating whether to swallow it—his lips tossing it about his mouth uncertainly—and then he Spits it out, replaces it Occasionally he winks at me: For his immediate purposes—tonight—he is trying to separate me from the questions hes hurling at Skipper. But I know his contempt could easily—would easily—turn on me. . . . “And so this man—you stayed with him?" the fatman says.

  “Yeah,” Skipper said, downing the drink in his glass. “Wannanother,” he says. “Nother drink.”

  The fatman hands money to the skinny man. “Get some more drinks, Mary,” he says, and the skinny man—obediently now, unprotestingly—goes automatically to the bar, returns shakily balancing the drinks. The fatman slides his own drink toward Skipper. “Heres two,” he said. “Mustnt run out”

  “Mustnt run out,” Skipper echoed, shaking his head, whether for some kind of clarity or whether because, for him, the words have a more immediate meaning. “Mustnt—run—out”

  “And then?” the fatman persists impatiently. He seems to be delving into Skipper’s life for some mysterious vindication of his own.

  “Well—see—like I say—I was just outta the marines. Busted. I kept going awol. Christ, man—I was restless to start living. You know—really Living. . . .”

  “We all want to live,” said the fatman sneeringly. “Thats not strange.”

  “Yeah,” says Skipper. “Sure—but see—when I got outta the service—busted—I was just making it. No gig. . . . So I made this Main Street scene. Then I met this guy—this guy I told you about—right here I met him—see—I just got busted out of—out of the marines—I—”

  “You told us that,” said the fatman.

  “I would have liked to be in the marines.” the skinny man said wistfully. “But—”

  “We know, we know,” the fatman dismisses him, “they put you in the wacs instead.” He turned to Skipper. “You were out of the marines, and you met lots of people—who ‘helped’ you—”

  “Well—this guy,” Skipper said, “there was this one guy—he—. . . Man, he used to call me an ‘angel’—dig—and he says he wants a picture of me—for this—for this crazy album he had—of guys—. . .”

  And suddenly, in double, near-drunk pity, I want to laugh. . . .

  And Skipper is saying: “So this guy takes me to this photographer, who takes these body pictures—you know—hardly any clothes—and he—this photographer—he asked me to come back—gonna take more pictures. . . .”

  “I wouldnt have minded being in the navy,” the skinny man muttered. His cigarette holder has lost its magic. It rests before him, discarded, dead, along with the previous pose.

  “So this guy—he was Okay, this photographer—he wants to help me—he tells me someone called him—wants to meet me—this big Director out in Hollywood—and I go out there. . . . Got this real mean pad—I mean, swimming pool—the size—the size—” He looks into the bar. “Bigger than this bar,” he finishes. “And this Director, he calls this photographer—wants to meet me. See, those photographs—they were in one of those body magazines—”

  “What was this director’s name?”

  Skipper answers.

  (I had heard the director’s name—everyone in that world has. He is one of its kings. Later, in the Hollywood bars, when I would make that scene, I would hear the giddy fairies excitedly—enviously—narrate who the director’s newest “discovery” was. Still later, with an old auntie—a prissy old man —I went to the director’s home, his mansion. That day, another youngman was there—the director’s current “discovery”—living with him. And later, when I think of Skipper, I’ll remember that other youngman. Life reveals itself, if at all, slowly—and often through patterns discovered in retrospect . . .)

  Closing his eyes completely now as if for him the memory of the past is too special to allow it in this bar, Skipper says: “It was a Beautiful home. . . .”

  (The director’s house reigns over the enchanted hills. You park by a thick stone wall, shutting in the famous-director’s world: Within that wall, he reigns Supreme as a monarch. You lift a telephone in a niche, announcing yourself. A maid opens the door if youre expected. And you walk into a garden—sprawling beyond the door in three levels, outlining the house. About the garden are statues, nakedly white in the green of the trees, the grass—the lush flowers. A swimming pool dominates one level of the garden, bordered by marble benches. In a cave of shrubs, a long bar displays bottles like gaudy jewelry. They stand at attention as if awaiting the presence of the director. From the pool and the bar a gradually ascending flight of stairs swirls into an alcove, short white pillars creating a ceilingless rotunda. Beyond that, the trees spill deceptively into green-shrugging hills . . . .)

  Skipper faced the wall momentarily, turning from the shrill sounds at Harry’s bar. A piece of plaster has begun to crumble from the wall. He places his hand over it, covering it impulsively. “Man,” he says, “I was nervous that first day—I went alone. See, the photographer—he couldnt go—this Director wants to talk to me—alone. The maid let me in. I just—stoo
d there—it was like—a palace—. . .”

  (And then, that afternoon, the director makes his entrance, emerging out of the white walls of the house in slacks and sport shirt: a tiny, skinny, wiry old man with alert, determined eyes. He looks at Skipper appraisingty. “Youre much better-looking than your photographs, youngman,” he says, “and I might add you look good in clothes.”)

  “I knew it was the Bigtime,” Skipper sighed.

  “The Bigtime,” the fatman repeats—as if in his role of prosecutor, of Avenger, this phrase gave him a clue.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Skipper. “Everyone’s hearda this Director—”

  “Even in New York,” said the skinny one, “everyone knows about him. I heard hes got this great pool—boys there all the time. I heard—”

  (Later, when I went to the director’s house with the auntie—several weeks later—the director would be redecorating his house. “Ive grown fond of it,” he’ll explain to us, “but it needs much work on it, so Im redecorating it—all.” The auntie will say: “You know exactly how to live.” “I do, I do” the director will reply.)

  “Did this director put you in the movies?”

  Skipper sighed almost inaudibly: “Yes.”

  (It’s a summer day, the warmth hugs the director’s house, this garden, loving the luxury, too: a Special warmth. And Skipper looks about him hungrily. The director senses the Craving in Skipper’s eyes—which he knew would be there even from the photographs—as he has sensed it many times before in others; and he looks around at his house, his garden, his pool, owning every inch of it, possessing it. Now he looks at Skipper in the same way. “Would you like to take a swim?” he asks Skipper. And Skipper, in his early 20s then, goes swimming in the director’s pool, and the water embraces him as if he, too, were meant for all this luxury. When he comes out of the water, laughing—the director places his hand on Skipper’s shoulder and says: “I have a feeling youre my new Discovery.”)

  “He asked me to move in with him,” Skipper was saying now, spewing out for the fatman with the cigar the steps by which his life had led him to squint his eyes now at Harry’s bar.

  “How long?” the fatman shoots at him.

  “I moved in the next day,” Skipper said evasively. “He said I’d be real big in the flix—I heard him—he told everyone I was his Biggest Discovery.”

  (“Youre a Very Beautiful Boy,” the director tells Skipper. “And in this town thats All that matters”)

  “He took me around—showed me off,” Skipper said. He smiles, the phantom smile of the youngman who believes hes seeing materialize fully the world hes been searching. “Man—I was really Someone!”

  (Skipper learns how to make drinks—like the youngman who would be there when I would meet the director later. He learns, at dinner, to cue the director’s best stories: “Remember when you were filming Angels in Paradise?” he may say, and the director: “Oh, yes—it was very amusing. The star was—. . .”)

  “And what did you have to do in return?” the fatman said. “Or did you just live there?” he asked derisively.

  Skipper’s eyes rise slowly from the surface of the table—he erases the circles of water in one sweeping move of his palm—and focuses his eyes evenly on the fatman. “I—” he started, and then instinctively he wiped his lips as if in physical disgust at the remembered contact “Nothing!” he almost shouted.

  (Skipper learns, for the first time, to reciprocate in bed—to close his eyes in order to stem the revulsion—to concentrate on the doors swinging open before him, leading to that glittering world . . . . Those first weeks he and the director will be alone. The groups of other youngmen are no longer invited. And in the afternoons, when hes not at the studio, Skipper will dive into the water of the pool, which, warming him, will reassure him. . . .)

  “How long did you stay there?” the fatman persisted.

  “A month—more—maybe two—” Skipper says at last

  “Why didnt you stay longer?”

  Again Skipper dodges the question. “Well—see—this director—says I got the looks—the personality—but Ive got to study—lots—to get ahead in the flix—and—see—well—I was in one of his movies—”

  (The director says to Skipper: “Youve got what really matters—Looks. But youll need training. Talent is important, too—there are many very beautiful boys in this town. . . . I know a man, a wonderful drama coach—I’ll take you to him.” And Skipper will have publicity photographs made, and the coach will tell him, “Youre a very beautiful boy—and thats Important.’ And the director tells Skipper theres a part for him in his new picture: “Not a big part—but the next one, when youve learned more—” He smiles reassuringly. “Theyll get to see you, at least, and thats important, In my next film therell be a bigger part, youll get to speak—theyll hear you this time..” And Skipper tells himself he is certainly meant for this life.)

  “What movie was that?” the fatman says.

  Skipper looked into his empty glass. He turns to the bartender. “Hey! More drinks!”

  The bartender calls back: “come get em yourself, honey; I ain no waitress!”

  The fatman extends money again to the skinny man. “More drinks,” he orders.

  The skinny man rose—the cigarette holder rolls and drops on the floor, and he almost stumbles on it.

  “What was the name of the movie you were in?—I might have seen it.” The fatman again shoves his own drink at Skipper as the skinny man sits down, sinks into the booth resignedly.

  “It was called—” said Skipper, “—it was called That’s Life.” He laughed mirthlessly.

  “I dont remember you in it—of course, it was such a long time ago,” the fatman said inevitably. “What role did you play?”

  “I didnt have a name,” Skipper said.

  “Why, I was sure you were going to tell us you got an award for it!”

  “Shit, man!” Skipper blurts drunkenly, “you couldnt—couldnt even see my face!”

  “And afterwards?” the fatman’s implacable questioning continued.

  (One evening, a cool breeze invading the garden from the hills—one evening, Skipper will refer to “his’ room, like the youngman I would see there later—and the director will frown, look at Skipper; “You mean the east bedroom,” he’ll correct him ominously . . . . Soon Skipper detects the impatience in the director’s eyes, he sees the new group of youngmen from the studio that come again to swim in the pool—and one especially—and he hears the director announce to that new youngman, emerging out of the pool while Skipper sits on the marble bench: “I believe youll be a sensation in the movies” And he turns to Skipper and says, “Go tell Mattie we’ll have a guest for dinner.)

  “Well,” said Skipper, “see—after that—he tells me I need more lessons—I gotta—gotta learn more about acting.”

  (“He hasnt got the Magic,” the director will say to his friends later about Skipper. “But there is this young boy at the studio, I just talked to him today about his Possibilities—and: he is A Very Beautiful Boy.”)

  “You must have been a very beautiful boy,” the skinny man muttered.

  Skipper winced. He looked at the skinny man, startled. He looks in bewilderment about him—as if the echo of the words he had heard through those precious years of his life had momentarily transferred him somewhere else: the director’s mansion, the homes he had been in, progressively less and less extravagant. In his look now I see, blurred, the slow surrender.

  “What happened then?” the fatman said. Exhaling two fat cylinders of smoke through his nostrils, he resembled a charging bull.

  “Oh—I—well—later—I moved out But I kept going to this acting teacher—and, well, see—I moved in with him—and then—see—I had met lots of other people—when I was living with this Director—and then through this teacher—and—I—well—they liked me. . . . Shit man,” he said suddenly, “I lived with them all, one right after the mother-fucking other.”

  “And after them?”r />
  “Others,” Skipper said dully.

  “And then?” the fatman persists.

  “Then—then I got fed up, see? Put it all down—I split Then—when I came back—hell—I didnt even wanna—didnt even wanna see those people. And some of them—” he adds bitterly, “—they didnt wanna see me. Theyd call someone else—put me up for a while—with a friend of theirs. . . . Then I hung around Schwartz’s, that movie drugstore—Hollywood Boulevard—the beaches: the whole scene. . . . So I came back—to Main Street—I didnt even wanna see Hollywood anymore—not even think about it . . . Then—Christ!—I even got inna mess in fuckin Pershing Square. . . . Pershing Square!” he says contemptuously.

  “Hows that?”

  “This cop—this Sergeant Morgan. Man—he rousts me once, takes me downstairs—where they interrogate you. We’re alone—tries to put the make on me—I slug him. Man! A cop! But, hell—dig: hes scared shitless—scared Im gonna tell on him. He lets me go—tells me if I ever show, he’ll bust me—. . .” He holds his glass in both hands, squeezing it tightly. “Motherfuckers,” he says, shaking his head, as if he were passing judgment on all the people crammed into his life.

  The fatman eyed him stonily. Then he yawns, looks at his watch. “It’s past one,” he says. . . . About us the desperation to find a partner has begun: Make it! During the past hour many couples have left, for the hotels along the block, for apartments, homes—parties that will last into the next day. But the bar is still jammed. The music seems louder, the laughter is more piercingly shrill, more forced. A sustained roar of words crowds you almost physically. The poses have become more effeminate on one side, more masculine on the other.

  Like a bull ready to charge, the fatman lowers his head, places his hands on the table. “I’ll tell you,” he says to Skipper, and in acute awareness of what will happen, I want suddenly to stop his words. I start to get up, but the fatman is already saying to Skipper: “My friend here,” indicating the skinny man, “would like you to go home with him. He hasnt got the guts to asK you, and so I offered to buy you for him—no big deal like youre used to: just for tonight.”