The Good Life

by Gordon Merrick

  “No, but I like it.” They laughed and liked each other immediately.

  Matt was obviously queer, but he hadn’t pushed himself on Perry. “I have the feeling you run this place,” Perry said.

  “Somebody has to keep the ball rolling. I’ve been here about six months. Anything you want, just come to me.”

  “Why don’t you come to me in the morning and answer all my questions. I’m dead tonight. I’ve hitchhiked from California.”

  “Ouch! You look like a tough cookie. That must have been pretty rough.”

  “Not too bad.” Perry started to tell him that it had cost him practically nothing since he got a ride with a guy who drove him for four days, buying him food even, just to be able to grope Perry and suck his cock, but decided against it. “What I have to do is get a job. Think about something for me and tell me tomorrow.”

  “Having got a good look at that body of yours, I’m sure you won’t have much trouble. Sexy, you are. Damned good-looking. There was a guy staying here a few months ago, a cute kid, a dancer. I ran into him the other day. He’s living in WaldorfTowers, being kept by Cole Porter. Filthy rich. I’ll bet that sort of thing could happen to you.”

  “I’d rather find a rich dame.”

  “You would? Well, that’s all right too. You might find a rich old dame. The young ones are all looking for rich men. You can’t win.”

  They said good night and went to bed.

  In the morning Matt told him to get the papers and look in the HELP WANTED ads or go to an employment agency. He did both, and his job worries were almost over before they got started. He played up to the old dame who interviewed him, and he got a job for twenty a week as a messenger in the Wall Street district, wherever that was. He knew it was where the Crash happened and that a lot of guys had jumped out of high windows there. He went off to investigate the area, finding the subways easy but the Wall Street area tricky.

  He started work the next morning and felt like a native.

  He became very much a native of the Y. Matt introduced him to new arrivals daily. He met young men his age from every state in the union — all looking for work, seeking their fortunes in the big city.

  One was an actor with the improbable name of Rodney Fairfield. He looked a bit like Robert Taylor, and Rodney thought Perry looked like Tyrone Power. The two movie stars were quickly fast friends. Rodney was going to be in the new Kaufman and Hart show after Christmas starring Fredric March at the Radio City Center.

  “With the Rockettes?” Perry asked.

  “No,” Rodney laughed. “That’s Radio City Music Hall. You’re new in town, aren’t you?”

  “Fairly. Teach me things. Show me things.”

  “You’ve shown me some pretty impressive things in the shower.”

  Perry blushed. “I couldn’t help noticing you either. I’m sort of new at all this.”

  “Aptitudes and attributes. You’ll go far.” Rodney studied him closely. “You’ve just come out?”

  “Out? You mean from California?”

  Rodney roared with laughter. “I don’t believe it. You’re too marvelous. I have to give you an education.”

  He did. Starting with a wild session in bed. Then he started taking him to parties in smart apartments where men made passes at Perry, occasionally successful ones.

  Not that it would become a part of his life, of course, but if it could possibly become one, Perry tried to figure out how he felt about having sex with guys. Should he stay away from it? Was there harm in it?

  There was an active, aggressive power in a guy that challenged the male power in Perry instead of surrendering to it. He didn’t see why it should turn him into a sissy. In a funny way he’d felt his masculinity more sharply with Rodney than he ever had before. Sex became a contest for domination. He had discovered also that there was something exhibitionistic in his response that made him enjoy showing himself off.

  Rodney made it clear that he had used his body to get his break in the theater. Perhaps Perry should consider it too. Perry knew that he couldn’t expect things to fall in his lap. He couldn’t afford to miss anything that came along. Versatility was the thing. He’d realized that in San Francisco.

  At one party a guy named Otis approached him. He was beautiful rather than handsome, but Perry had felt something cold and calculating about him that put him off.

  “I want to go to bed with you,” Otis said as if he were offering Perry the answers to all his prayers. He did something with his eyes that made them shine like stars, luring him. “Will you take me home with you?”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m staying at the Y.”

  “Oh. Somebody said you were a Wall Street wonder. I thought you were a bit young.” He switched his seduction off like a light. “My room isn’t as good as the Y. We’d both better start hustling.”

  Perry was adding to his small store of New York lore. Guys lived together. Guys hustled. It still wasn’t unreasonable to expect guys to invite him home, if only for a night. It shouldn’t be difficult to stretch a night into a week or more. He had practice now. He could save on rent.

  His job as a messenger boy in the financial district wasn’t demanding or very interesting, but it kept him busy and gave him the opportunity to get to know New York and the opportunity to hint that he was a Wall Street wonder. He’d been able to buy a decent suit and save a little money. Staying at the Y proved convenient and practical.

  Matt and Rodney eventually moved out of the Y as their jobs and prospects improved. The constant turnover of tenants was a source of endless speculation, and the activities in the showers amused Perry even though he was rarely tempted to take advantage of the open invitations he received.

  One exception was Larry, an attractive kid from the Midwest, who became a friend and occasional bedmate. Perry had long since given up the thought of making it with girls. He couldn’t afford them, for one thing.

  Larry was hoping to get a job at the World’s Fair, which was opening in Flushing in the spring. He said the pay varied according to the job but was sure to be at least thirty dollars a week.

  After several months Perry didn’t see much future in running around Wall Street and applied for what was going on at the fair — guides and pushing rolling chairs. He’d be making more money than he ever had before, which was a step in the right direction.

  In April he was given a job pushing a chair and went to work learning the routine before the fair opened. Larry was going to be a guide and found a furnished room on Long Island, but Perry decided to stick to the Y. They agreed that if they found any big tippers, they’d steer them in the other’s direction.

  The fair was called “The World of Tomorrow” and looked it. Perry loved it. It was huge, which explained the need for push chairs. Visitors were expected to collapse into them gratefully, and Perry learned where to roll them. He’d worked in a travel agency in San Francisco, and moving people around was apparently his destiny.

  Each weird-looking building had its own theme, many of them with movies and sound effects or odd contraptions that did unexpected things. There was a theater for regular plays and a big place for a water show called the Aquacade Revue featuring the swimmer Eleanor Holm.

  Perry expected to meet theater or movie stars or even Alexander Woollcott, whose radio program was the ultimate in sophistication as far as Perry was concerned. There was a rumor that President Roosevelt was coming. Perry felt as if he were getting closer to the glamorous life he had expected in New York. He was issued an attractive summer-weight uniform.

  It was hard work, but within the first week he pushed Katharine Hepburn around for an hour and felt that it was worth it.

  Several weeks after he’d been there, Larry signaled him from the building where he worked to a smallish older man accompanied by a young, soft-featured, effeminate boy. The man gave Perry a long look before stepping into the chair. When the man paid him at the restaurant where Perry had taken them, he trailed his fingertips over his
palm and asked him to wait for half an hour.

  Intrigued, Perry watched his customer go into the restaurant. Aside from the fact that the guy was obviously on the make, there was something unusual about him. He didn’t have an accent, but he didn’t sound like an American. His speech was sort of clipped. His asking Perry to wait was a sign that he didn’t mind spending his money. He was nattily dressed in white flannel trousers and a dark blue blazer with a silk scarf knotted around his neck. Perry was looking forward to a big tip.

  The man returned in less than half an hour and climbed into the chair and settled back, looking up at Perry over his shoulder. “There. Now you can take me for a tour. I’m Billy Vernon. What’s your name?”

  Perry told him.

  “That’s a nice name. Tell me how you like working here, Perry. It looks like fun.”

  “It’s work, but you meet interesting people.” Perry started pushing the chair.

  “That boy who was with me is Jimmy Donahue, Barbara Hutton’s cousin. You know — the Woolworth Donahues. He’s taken a fancy to some waiter in there. He comes out here almost every day. He’s gone quite mad.”

  “A lot of people come quite often.”

  “Perhaps you’ll turn me into a regular like poor Jimmy. Your uniform is very becoming, but I imagine that’s true of everything you wear.” He paused for a moment’s consideration. “I’m an artist. I’d like to sketch you. When do you get off?”

  “Off work?” Perry hesitated. Play hard to get or make it easy for him? He didn’t doubt that Mr. Vernon was working up to a proposition. A friend of Barbara Hutton’s family must be worth knowing. His passenger was a distinguished-looking man, slightly on the plump side, with some gray in his hair and an imperious chin. He didn’t look as if he’d like to waste time overcoming resistance.

  “I’ve been working until fairly late at night, but I’m starting an earlier shift tomorrow. Then I’ll be free at 5.” It happened to be true, but Perry knew guys who would trade with him if he asked.

  “That would give me some time. Would you like to come have a drink with me tomorrow and let me see what I can do with you? You have a very fine head.”

  “Thanks. You live in the city? I can certainly be there by 6.”

  “Good. Actually, I don’t live here. I live mostly in France, on the Riviera, where I keep my yacht. I’m planning to go back soon. I’ve been subletting a furnished flat for this visit. When the Munich crisis was going on, everybody thought we were going to have to hurry home, but everything seems to be all right again. Thank heavens, Chamberlain had the sense not to drag us all into war.”

  Perry was impressed by France and the yacht but disappointed that his find was going to slip through his fingers so soon. He could use a well-connected friend in the city, somebody with an entrée to the highest social level, where he might even meet Barbara Hutton. He had lost track of whether she was married or planning to marry soon, but miracles happened. She wasn’t all that much older than he.

  He pushed Mr. Vernon around for half an hour and then was directed to go back to the restaurant.

  “I’m so glad I met you,” the passenger said, getting out. “I’d better go see how Jimmy is faring. I promised his mother I’d look after him. I’ll expect you tomorrow at about 6 or sooner if you can make it.” He gave his address as East 66th Street and paid. He gave Perry a ten-dollar tip, a record so far.

  “That’s an awful lot, Mr. Vernon,” Perry said.

  “Please. Call me Billy. And I should thank you. It was worth a great deal more.” He held Perry’s hand a moment longer than usual in his slightly plump well-tended one and left.

  Perry supposed he couldn’t hope for much from the meeting, but he was sure Billy would make what he could of it.

  The sublet apartment turned out to be the sort of place Perry was beginning to hope he could take for granted, as luxuriously furnished as some where he’d gone to gay parties but considerably bigger, on two floors of a converted house. He was admitted by an attractive young man who Perry assumed might be another guest.

  “Mr. Vernon told me to send you right up.” The young man directed him to the stairs — a manservant rather than a guest. “He’s waiting for you. I’m just leaving.”

  Perry mounted the stairs. Billy met him on the landing. “I thought it was you. I’m delighted. My word, you’re even more dashing than in your uniform. Let’s go in here.”

  He ushered him into a room where furniture had been carelessly pushed against the wall to make room for an easel. “I’m making do with this as a studio while I’m here. Laszlo has left everything we need for drinks. How old are you, Perry?” He stood in front of him and took both of Perry’s hands in his. He was wearing a loose coverall over his clothes, like a housepainter.

  “I was twenty-one a few months ago.”

  “Yes. I thought you couldn’t be any older. Lucky you. It’s the perfect age. What will you have to drink?”

  Perry asked for his dependable whiskey and noticed that Billy already had a drink. When they both had glasses in hand, Billy’s eyes focused on him more sharply, and Billy moved around him, scrutinizing him carefully. “Yes. Very handsome from every angle. You don’t have a bad side.”

  Billy put a big folder of drawing paper on the easel and picked up a glasses case from the table and waved it at the folder. “I just want to do some quick sketches while we talk to see how everything fits together. Don’t pay any attention. Perhaps I’ll try something more ambitious another time. Sit there if you’re comfortable. The light’s good enough for what I want. You don’t have to pose.”

  He opened the glasses case and put on a pince-nez like the ones Roosevelt used. He stood in front of the folder of drawing paper and worked quickly with a soft pencil while he continued to sip his drink. His attentive eyes darted disconcertingly over Perry’s face.

  The face wasn’t a beautiful one in the conventional sense. It was far too strong to be pretty. The odd angles of his high cheekbones and the prominent bridge of his nose gave his face an angular asymmetry that pleased rather than stunned. His eyes were the center of his face — the humor in them glittering — surrounded by luxurious lashes, not long but furry, giving his eyes a depth that was further accentuated by his thick, straight brows. His hair was a straight, nondescript brown that clung to his head like the fur of a slick animal — not spiky like straight hair can be — with a beguiling tuft that fell over his wide forehead. The overall effect was one of manly strength and health, his mouth and straight teeth completing the picture of good, solid American stock.

  Perry had never had his picture drawn before; he felt as if Billy were ferreting out all his secrets.

  “Are you an American?” Perry asked.

  “Very much so. For several generations.”

  “I thought you had a slight accent at first.”

  “Speaking French a great deal and mixing with Britishers, you pick up little speech habits without even knowing it. I hope I don’t sound affected.”

  “No. It’s just different. I like it.”

  “I’m glad of that. The family started out in Milwaukee, in fact. German stock. One of those impossible Germanic names and Jewish to boot. My grandfather very sensibly simplified it. You’ve heard of Mt. Vernon stores, the food chain? That’s the family business.”

  “Really? We have those on the West Coast.”

  “They’re everywhere. My grandfather was a very shrewd businessman. He put his fortune into a family trust. I don’t know how many millions it is by now. My father’s dead. My mother inherited. She remarried and lives up on Park Avenue with my stepfather. Everything will come to me in due course, but she allows me to take a reasonable share now. That’s why I can live in France.”

  “You like it?”

  “It was very gay in the ’20s. One knew everybody. The Depression put an end to a lot of the fun, but I think it will come back if there isn’t a war.”

  For a moment the silence was broken only by the sound of pencil on
paper. Perry was confronted with big money at last. He was going to have to move fast if he expected to get his foot in the door. Billy’s plans to go back to Europe were discouraging.

  “Can I see what you’ve done?”

  “Of course. They’re only rough sketches, but I think I’m getting it. I’ll never be a great artist, but I’ve been to schools here and in France, and I’ve developed a certain professional competence. Have a look.”

  Perry rose and stood beside him in front of the easel. Billy took off his pince-nez and put his arm around Perry’s waist. Perry relaxed into the embrace. There was something precise and slightly fussy about the older man’s manner that made Perry doubt that he’d let his life be seriously disrupted by a stray new guy, but enough might happen between them so that he’d remember him on his next visit.

  Perry turned over the drawings. Sketchy though they were, he could see his likeness in them. He looked like quite a dish.

  “They’re very flattering,” he said.

  “They’re not, I promise you. You’re too modest.”

  Billy’s hand moved up along Perry’s side to his chest. Perry’s cock responded. Billy was no beauty, but he was rich. He knew “everybody” and undoubtedly could take his pick. Perry couldn’t help being sort of thrilled that he’d picked him.

  “You feel as if you have a splendid body.”

  “You’re flattering me again.”

  “I don’t flatter,” Billy snapped. “It would be insulting to you. You don’t need to be flattered.” He withdrew his arm and turned to face Perry more squarely, apparently mollified by his impatient protest. “You know what I would like? Would you be willing to pose for me in the nude?”

  Perry’s heart gave a little leap of excitement. That was more like it. Billy’s reaction to the ill-chosen word had given him a small scare. Rich older men didn’t like to be crossed. They expected to get what they wanted. Perry was going to be allowed to show his stuff. If Billy liked what he had to offer, he might take him around town and introduce him to some of his important friends before he left.

  “Naked?” Perry asked with a careful note of hesitation. “Well, sure. I wouldn’t mind. I guess we’re getting to be friends.”