City of Night

by John Rechy

  Now there was another figure on the beach—a shadow obviously pursuing the youngman in the white shorts. Soon, another lonesome figure appeared. The three formed a kind of strategic triangle on the sand—the focal point being the youngman in the white shorts. They disappeared toward the water. . . .

  In the light along the bridge as we walk to the car, the man looks much older. The wrinkles on his face are sharply etched—or perhaps I notice them for the first time. Still wordlessly, we got into the car.

  He drove a short distance, along the quiet park.

  Then, brakes screeching, he stopped the car suddenly.

  “Ive decided to go back tonight,” he said. “Where shall I leave you?”

  “I’ll stay here,” I said.

  He was looking intently into his hands, as he had done—only yesterday—when he had told me about his son.

  I opened the door, got out.

  Without a word—and before I could say anything to him—he drove off.

  But a distance of only a few feet away, he stopped the car sharply. And he waited there. . . . And with a knifing awareness I thought: Just as I paused outside of Dave’s door!

  Then the car, stopped only for those few decisive moments, roared away along the street.

  CITY OF NIGHT

  YEARS, YEARS, YEARS AGO, I HAD stared at my dead dog, buried under the littered ground of our barren backyard and dug out again, and I had seen in revulsion the decaying face. Now, as if I had dug beneath the surface of the world, I saw that world’s face.

  And it was just as hideous.

  For many, San Francisco is an escape, in that coffin-shaped state, from the restless neon-forest of Los Angeles.

  Its whitewashed, closely pressed houses cuddle each other as if from the chilly invigorating breeze that invades its streets every day around noon, washing them with rain-specked fog almost nightly. In the crystalline mornings, the sky blazes triumphantly clear. Whitewashed, rain-cleansed, breeze-swept, the city itself ascends vigorously in steep hills before diving toward the bay. All this gives San Francisco an aspect of purity—a magnificent impressionistic prettiness. Even its inevitably shabby streets—around Mission, say, or toward the Embarcadero, into Italiantown—exhale that fresh, fresh bay-air.

  For me, San Francisco was the inevitable step in that journey toward the loss of innocence. Although I didnt realize it then (telling myself that I was coming here to separate myself—again!—from what had become a guilt-obsessed life; that there was a resurrective atmosphere in San Francisco which would make this possible), I understand now that I came here instead to initiate myself in a further rite which that world would only too willingly expose me to: hinted at subtly the previous time I had been here: when I had explored, but shortly, the netherworld of that city.

  And I did get a job. Yet in fairness I must say that, even then, I knew that on the slightest pretext, if any—as before—I would quit.

  Looking out the window where I worked on Market Street, I saw an older man stop to talk to a boy who had been loitering at the corner obviously trying to score. Together, they moved away. Minutes later, I walked out on that job.

  Away from those streets, I was wasting my Youth. The end of youth is a kind of death. You die slowly by the process of gnawing discovery. You die too in the gigantic awareness that the miraculous passport given to the young can be ripped away savagely by the enemy Time. . . . Youth is a struggle against—and, paradoxically, therefore a struggle toward—death: a suicide of the soul.

  Like a repentant lover, I returned to that previous way of life. And so had I come, under the guise of separating myself from Los Angeles, to search, in this seasonless city, under that bright clear cold sky, not only the life I had left behind but a new aspect of it?

  And the side of that world I will explore now in San Francisco is one that will scorch my consciousness.

  There are, recurrently, things that you realize only in retrospect, things that could have been observed as signals at the time of their occurrence.

  So it had been with several of the people I had been with, in New York and Los Angeles, but mostly in that previous time in San Francisco: the urgent whispered sexmutterings (“I am a—. . .” “Make me do—. . .” “Call me a—. . .”). There had been too, as clearly in retrospect, the insistence on pressure at certain moments, the hands reaching for you eagerly pleading for that pressure. . . . The motorcycled bars of Los Angeles. . . . Yet I had not really wanted to know.

  Buzz is a youngish score in San Francisco, who generally made his pickups at the arcade on Market Street. He was obviously fond of his nickname, which, in its jivy sound, made him feel much closer to the youngmen he picked up than the ordinarily remote score. Among the hustlers, he was well liked. Whether or not Buzz still wanted you sexually after the first time (and he seemed to prefer many people rather than one), you could always count on him. On weekends he would be at the arcade playing the machines with the young vagrants. If someone was hungry and without money, he would give him enough to eat on, without demanding anything back. Unlike those other scores who, their desire satisfied, bitchily try to put you down for the very things that initially attracted them, Buzz was more like a friend.

  I was with him two nights (going to the movies, eating with him, driving around the city in his car) before he came on with me; but at the end of each of those previous nights, he had driven me to the Y on Turk Street, where I was staying, and he would give me money.

  On the third night, at his apartment, we made it.

  “Have you ever been busted?” he asked me in the morning.

  It was a square question, especially since, last night, two youngmen from the arcade had come up to leave some mysteriously acquired things which Buzz had accepted un-questioningly.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Im not coming on square,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I dont give a damn, myself. The reason I asked is I want you to meet someone who can help you. See, San Francisco isnt like L.A. The street scene here can get pretty mean after a while. This guy I want you to meet—well, you cant have been busted.”

  The next day he took me to a Turkish bath, to meet the man he had mentioned.

  The bath is in one of the seamier sections of the city—down a flight of gray stairs, leading to a small booth where customers pay to get in. I had walked through this area before—one of the hustling bars is nearby—but I had never realized there was such a place: It is almost hidden, gobbled by the other buildings on the street and then it sinks underground. To get to it, you have to know it’s here.

  Behind the registration booth, a short squat, muscular man of about 40 is working on a ledgerbook. Hes wearing a T-shirt. His arms are covered with a thick mat of black hair, and he looks like a wrestler.

  “This is the kid I told you about,” Buzz said to him.

  “Wait for me in the lounge,” the squat man said peremptorily. In the lounge were several couches—a coke machine m one corner, several doors leading to other sections: to a row of whitedoored cubicles, the steam room, the head, the showers. It was not a wellkept place, although it appeared superficially clean. Even the lights were grayish. It looked improvised, as if someone, deciding to open a bath, had merely adapted whatever was readily, cheaply, and most concealedly available.

  As I sit there with Buzz, several men walk from one door into another, glancing at us: the customers—older men, starved-eyed youngmen—in towels, the attendants in sweatpants. I notice how different each of the attendants Ive seen (and they all spoke familiarly to Buzz) is from the other—markedly dissimilar as if carefully selected as to type.

  Im struck by the atmosphere of overwhelming debauchery here—beyond the feeling of the streets and the bars: a fantastic apparent anonymity as the various attendants and clients move about, somehow like shadows, lifeless manikin people. . . . It was as if what revealed itself on the streets and some bars as at least wild, alive determination had reduced itself here to its rockbasis, a cold,
unquestioned, unquestioning Availability.

  The squat man appeared. “We can talk better back here,” he said, leading us into a small room lined with shelves on which are stacks of clean towels. “Im sorry I kept you waiting. One of my helpers—I told you—” he said to Buzz “—he left abruptly—just didnt show up.” His voice was incongruous with the rest of him. He spoke clearly, precisely. He has put on a pair of black-rimmed glasses and now resembles someone trying to look like an aloof businessman. He stares penetratingly at me. Already I dislike him.

  “Do you have a record—other than just being rousted?” he asked me.

  “Why?” I asked him.

  “Because I cant hire anyone with a record,” he said impatiently.

  “Hire?” I asked.

  The squat man turns to Buzz exasperatedly. “Didnt you tell him?”

  “Just that I wanted him to meet you,” Buzz says.

  “Ive got a vacancy here,” the squat man goes on officially. “That kid you sent me—the skinny one,” he said to Buzz, “hes the one that left.”

  Purposely Im looking blankly at him. He seems uneasy at my attitude. Buzz notices it.

  “Hes all right,” he tells the squat man, “Ive known him a long time.” He puts his hand intimately on my shoulder to emphasize it.

  “Umm,” the squat man said. “All youve got to do here,” he said to me, “is hand out towels to these guys—keep the place clean. I dont pay you much. But I leave it up to you how much you make—on tips.”

  Im still playing it square, not saying anything.

  “You sure this is the guy you told me about on the telephone?” the squat man asked Buzz again impatiently. Buzz nods. “Look, boy,” the squat man says, “I’ll tell you straight: I need a small slender guy something like you—some of these creeps prefer them; theyre pretty weird; you cant tell what they want . . .” Hes trying to indicate that he himself is uninterested, disassociating himself from “these creeps”; indicating that hes outside of the scene; that this, to him, is a business. I wonder how Buzz can take it. . . . Several times the squat man twisted a wedding band on his finger, to bring attention to it.

  As usual, I react negatively to being appraised that coldly, to being, if only by implication, talked about as if Im not around.

  Suddenly, from somewhere beyond this room, theres a shout. The squat man disappeared. We followed him into the lounge. I heard excited voices coming from the cubicles—snatches of talk: “Ive warned you—not so loud!” the squat man is saying. A man emerged from one of the cubicles, going to the head. His nose is bleeding profusely. As he passes us, I see on his oddly smiling face—which he doesnt bother to cover with a hand or a towel—an unmistakable look of pained satisfaction. . . .

  Back in the room with the toweled shelves, the squat man says to me: “Well?”

  “Well what?” I glare at him, strangely filled with hatred for him.

  “I believe youve got it all wrong,” he says coldly. “I run a legitimate business. Sometimes things get out of hand. But the cops dont disturb me. It’s just that these guys—” again contemptuously “—theyre ‘strange’—and they like different types around them.” Im still staring at him, enjoying seeing him put on this way. Then I walked toward the door, to leave. “You—” he started and broke off abruptly. “I dont think I’d hire you, you wouldnt do very well here,” he said, opening the door—attempting to beat me to the gesture.

  Feeling the perversity seething inside me, I shot back at him, aiming at what I knew would be his weakest spot: “Im not your type,” I said, watching him blanch.

  Outside, Buzz said: “Why did you play square? You wanted to bug him, didnt you?” It wasnt asked in annoyance—almost, instead, in amusement. “You knew the scene. You kept putting him on.”

  “I hope I didnt screw up anything for you.”

  “Hell, no. Wanna know something? I kind of dug seeing you put him down. Hell, most of the people hes got there—I got for him. When he needs someone, he calls me. He’d called me that he needed someone—well—you know—your type—to replace that kid that left.”

  “The skinny one,” I laughed.

  “Why did you play square?” he repeated.

  In my mind I could still see clearly the delirious face of that man with the bleeding nose.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Throughout the time I will be in San Francisco, I wont see Buzz again. I’ll hear a few days later that he was busted for “harboring” two youngmen involved in a robbery. . . . People just disappear, in one way or another. You seldom know what really happened to anyone, except as your own life may have touched theirs. . . .

  And even then—

  The fastidiously dressed man next to me at the Stirrup Club on Turk Street has been wordlessly drawing on a piece of notebook paper. Earlier today someone had mentioned this bar to me, and I had come here for the first time tonight—knowing what I would find. . . . Now the man slides the paper toward me.

  On it is the lightly outlined figure of a man wearing tall boots, lovingly and in detail drawn so that they shine. The figure also wears a wide garrison belt and an open jacket, both as sharply and shiningly indicated as the boots.

  About us in this malebar are a number of men—some young, others not so young—dressed similarly: black shiny jackets, boots. The goodlooking ones—and sometimes the not-so-good-looking ones—pose imperiously for the others ogling them. Just as the queens become a parody of femininity, many in this leathered group are parodies of masculinity: posing stiffly; mirror-practiced looks of disdain nevertheless soliciting those they seek to attract.

  I was ready to push the slip of paper back to the man beside me, resenting it, when I heard him say: “Thats how you should be dressed, youngman. Those Wellington boots youre wearing arent nearly enough. Really, Im a good judge of character.”

  I faced him for the first time. In his late 30s, he looks like a college professor. He is obviously trying to suggest elegance.

  “I dont know what youre talking about,” I said curtly.

  “Dont you really?” he said delightedly. “How marvelous!” He calls the bartender and orders two drinks. “Dont be annoyed,” he said, pushing the drink toward me like the momentary bribe it is. “I merely want to be friendly.” He changes the conversation: “How long have you been in our fair San Francisco? . . . Are you working? . . . Where are you staying?. . .” He is trying to determine how aware I am of the scene and whether Im here to score. “You intrigue me,” he said, his eyes flirtatious—and the more he speaks, the more effeminately coy he becomes. “Well, of course, a large part of it is that Ive not seen you before—and one grows oh so bored with the same tired nelly faces trying so hard—and so unsuccessfully—to look butch in leather. . . . But there is something else—. . . I wonder,” he says cautiously, “if youd care to join me at my home for a drink. I have a bar there,” he says to impress me. “We can talk—better—and I would like that” Seeing me hesitating, he says, waving his hand dismissing it impatiently, “Oh, dont worry. Ill make it worth your while.”

  We sit now on Russian Hill, in his apartment, which, like him, is impeccable. If I stand by the wide window, I can see the city, fog-covered tonight: tiny pinpoints of smothered lights trying to penetrate the mist.

  Distrusting his Grand Show, I have asked for the money first—which he gives me unquestioningly.

  “You really didnt know why I drew that sketch for you?” he asked me. “Or why I suggested thats what you should wear?”

  “No,” I said, but of course, vaguely, I did.

  He went into another room. When he returned, hes holding a black jacket, high boots, black belt—the same items he had drawn so adoringly in the sketch. “Try them on,” he said.

  I remember the man on Times Square. But I know that this time I will not be expected to walk around the streets in this man’s clothes.

  “Please,” he coaxed, extending the clothes toward me. A disturbing note—almost a whine—is creeping
into his voice.

  “I’d rather not,” I said.

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself. You will eventually. If not with me, with someone else. Remember that.” And then burying his finger into the collar of his shirt to exhibit a tiny chain on which dangles an “M,” he announced proudly: “Do you know what this means? It means Im a masochist. It means I adore pain.” He spoke with alarming aloofness. “It excites me because I really do believe youre new to this—to this aspect of it,” he adds. “And the best experiences Ive had are with such people.”

  In one fierce movement, he planted one of the heavy boots harshly on his crotch, grinding it in savagely. His previous look—impeccable, composed—disappeared, became rapt His face contorted ecstatically as he utters a pained “Ugh!” And he coaxes me: “Put them on please.” His voice has become a complete whine. “Please—? Please command me to do whatever you want!”

  I stare fascinated at him.

  “Is that a glimmer of interest I detect in your eyes?” he asks me, laughing. The boot is still pinioned between his legs.

  “You dont detect anything!” I said angrily.

  “I feel cheated, then,” he said. “Not because of the money—but because I somehow expected so much of you. . . . Wont you. . . let me. . . Idolize you?” he said slowly. “Won’t you be brutal?”

  I have always been repelled by pain, either inflicting or receiving it. Why then did I feel a dart of excitement at the man’s words? To squelch that feeling, I walked out quickly.

  There is a theater on Market Street that changes features daily: One of those enormous swallowing buildings with a dark, dark balcony. Its back rows fill quickly with men, and there is constant movement. The most intimate sexscenes are sometimes played out here, at times in groups gathered like dark vultures. . . .

  As I sat down, halfway up the balcony, a man moved hurriedly from another aisle to sit directly beneath me, where my legs were propped on his seat almost straddling his shouders. In a quick movement, he turned his face sideways, brushing the Wellington boots with his tongue. When I didnt move, he got up, startlingly gasped at me: