Arkansas

by David Leavitt

Of course, I often asked myself where it had started, this tendency of mine to focus so hard on horizons that I lost sight of the earth rolling away under my feet. The usual suspects appeared in the lineup: Mother, telling me I could be anything I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do; Father, full of assurances that for such as we, there was no situation that could not be alleviated by pulling strings. Well, Dad learned he was wrong the hard way, when after his second heart attack even the best surgeon in the country couldn’t save him; even getting himself bumped up on the transplant list couldn’t save him. That someone will always be there to catch you, to bend a rule for you, to finesse you through—it must be the most pernicious of all the pernicious lies that the privileged, meaning only the best, tell their children.

  Phil had a different history. He’d grown up with no sense of entitlement whatsoever. To him living in the world was essentially a hostile business, a hot wind you had to fight against. If Phil was stoic in the face of adversity, it was not because he possessed some saintly capacity for patience; it was because his childhood had taught him the essential futility of complaint. He understood that being Hiram Roth’s son didn’t guarantee you preferential treatment from God.

  Acceptance: that was his gift. Not that it was easy for him; indeed, I don’t doubt that acceptance takes as much of a toll on the psyche as scrabbling on rat’s wheels. Yet at least it is a journey that has an end.

  I asked him about his friends. He mentioned Roxy, with whom he worked out at his gym. When he’d first gotten out of the hospital, he said, Roxy had visited him on the average twice a week, but now she was pregnant, and her lover, Dora, didn’t want her seeing Phil until the baby was born.“Risk of infection and all that,” he added. “I suppose it’s understandable.”

  “Maybe. Anyone else been by?”

  “George came last week. He lives in Laguna these days, so he doesn’t get into town too often. And Justin, of course.” At the mention of Justin’s name, he smiled. “Oh, and you, Jerry.”

  “How about your family?”

  “Haven’t heard from them lately.”

  “Do your sisters write?”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes, but Phil, everyone needs company.”

  “Company!” He laughed. “That I’ve had too much of! More company than all the boys in this room combined, I’ll bet.” He leaned closer. “You know, when I was in the hospital, they asked me if I’d fill out this survey? So I said sure. And I had to answer questions like, How many people did you have sex with in 1981? How many people did you have sex with in 1982? Was your primary sexual activity a) oral, b) anal passive, c) anal active. And I thought about it, and the number of guys I’d had sex with in my life—it was close to three thousand! Three thousand! And I’m thirty-nine. So now George, he’s really into these twelve step groups? He calls up one day, and he says, ‘Phil, when we were younger, we were classic sexual compulsives. All the symptoms.’ Like it’s news. And I say, ‘Sure, George, but isn’t sexual compulsive just a new way of saying we had a good time?’ He didn’t laugh, though. He takes these things too seriously, George does.”

  Our food arrived. Looking down at my plate of shredded duck breast, cactus relish, and spaetzle, I envied Phil his turkey burger.

  “Does George have a lover now?”

  “Oh, sure. Carlos. But they don’t have sex. They haven’t had sex in like five years, which these days seems to be the definition of lover. So now every couple of weeks George comes into L.A. and picks up a hustler, after which he feels so guilty he calls me up, and goes, ‘What am I going to tell Carlos, what am I going to tell Carlos?’ And I say, ‘Nothing, George. You’re going to tell him nothing.’ But of course he does tell him, and Carlos goes ballistic, and they have these screaming fights so that the neighbors call the police. Their therapy bills must be through the roof. Anyway, last week George comes by and tells me he’s sworn off sex. He says for the sake of his relationship he’s moved beyond the need for sex. I mean, maybe I’m crazy, but I just don’t get that, Jerry. Because all the relationships I had with lovers, including George, they were for sex. Sex was what they were about.”

  “Oscar Wilde said conversation had to be the basis for any marriage.”

  “Conversation! I had this one lover from Italy? He could barely speak English! We did great for a year and a half.”

  “But only a year and a half.”

  “Well, better a good year and a half than a miserable two decades, if you ask me.” Phil played with his french fries. “You probably disagree.”

  “No! I’ve just had a different history.”

  “Yeah? What is your history, Jerry? You know, you’ve never told me.”

  He put down his fork, crossed his arms, looked me in the eye. In his steadying gaze he had me cornered. He was right: I’d never mentioned Julian’s name in his presence. And why not? Maybe it was all part of my effort to dress in Angel drag, to be the selfless caregiver who didn’t impose his own worries. Maybe I was scared that he’d blame me, as Julian’s mother had. Maybe I just didn’t want to implicate myself. Another test.

  Still, I had to tell him something.

  “My history?” I said finally. “Well, I lived with someone nine and a half years. Then he died.” I didn’t specify how he died.

  Conversation halted. Not a comfortable silence this time. I felt that cheap relief you feel when you’ve gotten away with something devious; and yet the old dread lingered. Having cheated, the fear of being caught lingered. Phil, not Julian, was now the proctor in the exam room of the examined life.

  “Jerry,” he said, “I hope you don’t think—”

  All at once a blond boy in a Notre Dame T-shirt and white biking shorts was looming over our table. “Phil, my man!” he crowed, grabbing him by the neck.

  Phil, slightly dazed, stood up. “Hey, Kein, how you doing, buddy?” He patted the boy on the shoulder.

  “I’m doing great,” Kein said. “Did Justin tell you I’m in Show Boat over in Simi Valley? A small part, but it’s better than waitering.”

  “That’s terrific.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, holding up, holding up. By the way, this is Jerry. Jerry, Kein.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Good to meet you too.” Kein turned back to Phil. “By the way, how is Justin these days? I haven’t heard from him lately.”

  “Pretty good. Busy right now.”

  “Yeah, it’s the season. Well, give him my best, will you? And come see me! I can get you comps.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Bye.” (This time to me.)

  “So long.”

  He wandered away.

  “Friend of Justin’s,” Phil said.

  “Ah, Justin.” I lowered my voice. “Listen, do you want to get out of here?”

  “Yes.”

  We paid the bill and left.

  “Kein and Justin used to be lovers,” Phil explained in the car. “I only met him once. A strange guy. Like, his real name is Kevin Levy. Then he goes and changes it to Kevin Prescott because he thinks it’ll be better for his career. Then when all he gets are parts in like Friday the 13th, Part 978, he changes it back, and then Justin gets this thing in the mail, a card like a change of address, except it says, ‘NEW NAME! NEW AGENT! Kevin Levy is now Kein Levy.’ ”

  “Kein! Do you think he knows what it means in German?”

  “What?”

  “It means ‘no.’ It means ‘none.’”

  Phil laughed. “I doubt it. Kein’s not exactly what you’d call the intellectual type.”

  He put his elbow out the window. “I tell you, sometimes it seems like the world’s outrunning me. For instance, the other day, I’m thumbing through Frontiers, right? And I’m looking at those model and escort ads, when I come across one for this guy who calls himself a ‘cuddle buddy.’ Cuddle buddy! ‘No sex,’ the ad says, ‘no nudity. Just cuddles. Twenty-five bucks an hour.’” Phil shook his head. “If you ask me, some thin
gs shouldn’t be sold.”

  “Cuddle buddy,” I repeated.

  “Or take these boys at the restaurant. Probably every one of them shaves his chest, shaves his balls. Which is fine. I just can’t quite figure it out. Maybe you can tell me. What is the thing about hairlessness? To me they look like Foster’s Farms chickens.”

  “I guess it’s an aesthetic. Frankly, I’ve always preferred hairy men.”

  “Me too. Which means that these days in L.A., I’m basically shit out of luck Even the porn videos—you have to get the old ones if you want to see an unshaved, excuse me, asshole. It used to be different. In my day body hair was hot because it was masculine. Even when we dressed up as Lucille Ball, that felt masculine—you know, Lucy Ball with hairy arms. It was like, we knew we were faggots and we liked it. But these guys, with them it’s so much about this separate-but-equal thing, about living in the gay neighborhood and eating at the gay restaurant and having the look, whatever the look happens to be. I know, I used to go out with some of them, and what I wanted to ask them, I wanted to say, Hey, whatever happened to the sense of spontaneity? Whatever happened to adventure?”

  “I guess spontaneity got dangerous.”

  “Sex got dangerous. It’s not the same thing.”

  We were at a stoplight. I turned and looked at him, his beard phosphorescent in the sunlight.

  “I don’t know what it means, Phil,” I said. “Regression to childhood, maybe. Everyone wants to be daddy’s little boy. Or they pack on muscle like it’s some sort of armor. To feel protected that way. Or they just rechannel all their energy into working out or biking or volunteering for the Angels. What’s obvious is that it’s operating from fear. These days everyone operates from fear.”

  “Maybe,” Phil said. “I can’t say for sure. I only know that it makes me feel outmoded. Like Saturn Street.”

  “Saturn Street?”

  “Some dead generation’s idea of the future, getting yellow around the edges: that’s me.”

  The light changed. We crossed Olympic. On the left, Ships aimed its fins at the stars. I wished we’d gone there instead of the place on Third Street.

  We stopped at a video store and rented Forbidden Planet, which Phil had been urging me to see. He was just sliding the cassette into the VCR when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” he said. “Hi! Yeah, we just got back. No, I can talk.” A long pause. “And what did you tell him?”

  A smile. A laugh.

  “Perfect. By the way, I ran into Kein today.” Pause. “The same as ever. Yes. Listen, I’d better go. Yeah. So I’ll see you around five, okay? Good deal. Bye. I know. Bye.”

  He hung up. “Justin,” he said, aiming the remote control at the television.

  “Oh,Justin,”Isaid.

  Forbidden Planet began. I had trouble following its plot, which seemed to borrow heavily both from Freud and The Tempest. Early on, however, my ears perked up when one of the astronauts lifted a shiny chrome microphone to his lips and uttered the memorable words, “Blastermen, activate your scopes.”

  “So that’s where you heard it,” I said.

  “Heard what?”

  “That line you quoted on the way to the clinic.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess. I didn’t remember.”

  His eyes were fixed on the set. Very lightly I touched him on the shoulder; he tensed; perhaps I left my hand there a fraction of a second too long before taking it away.

  Simple as that, I had my answer.

  As soon as the movie ended, I got up. “Well, it’s nearly three,” I said. “I’d better be going.”

  “What, you’re expected somewhere?”

  “No, but you’re probably tired.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Even so, you’ll want to rest.”

  “Jerry—”

  “You’ll want to be fresh when Justin comes.”

  Phil gazed at me.

  “What?”

  “Just ... so you’re not tired.”

  He looked surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then the surprised look gave way to a look of unaccountable sadness. Then he turned away.

  “Whatever,” he said. Just that: “Whatever.” And returned his attention to the blank television screen.

  “All right,” I said. “Well, see you tomorrow, I guess.”

  “Sure.”

  “Bye.”

  I let myself out.

  Back at the hotel I tried to work on my screenplay. But I couldn’t concentrate, so I called the phone sex line. Nobody was on it except an old leather queen from Long Beach. Finally around four I got dressed again, went down to the garage, and climbed into my car. For about twenty minutes I drove aimlessly, wishing I could undo things, start again, go back to the real beginning, my very first lunch with Phil. And yet if I could have gone back to that first lunch, what would I have said differently? What would I have done differently? Probably nothing. My fear of illness still would have prevented me from making a move on Phil. And if his behavior today was any clue, Phil wouldn’t have wanted me then any more than he did now, either because I was who I was, or because of the illness, or both.

  About Justin I still wasn’t sure. Yes, that “I know,” that “No, I can talk,” spoke of intimacy, even trust. But did intimacy mean they were lovers? For that matter, did I really even believe they were lovers? Perhaps I was playacting at suspicion in order to heighten the gratitude I’d feel when at some later date I discovered I was wrong. Or perhaps I wasn’t wrong. Perhaps the real fake wasn’t Phil’s affair with Justin so much as my pretending not to believe in it in the first place. In such Rosemarys, and worse, I lost myself for the better part of an hour.

  And of course, around five, I found myself turning onto Saturn Street. In retrospect, this seemed predestined. I parked in front of Phil’s building. I didn’t get out of the car. Some kids on bicycles were chasing a bunch of very black crows that hopped and lunged on the parched lawn. I watched them jump away from the wheels, hop back, jump away again, as if either they enjoyed their own torment, or were too stupid to realize that they could fly away.

  A few minutes later a car swung round the corner, a battered white Corolla (I noted the make) that parked directly across from mine. A fellow I judged to be in his late twenties got out. He was carrying a grocery bag. Short, maybe five-seven, with windblown ragged hair, dark eyes, a faint beard. Sinewy and sexy. Locking his car door, he strolled over to Phil’s building and rang the buzzer. The gate opened. He went in. It was the last I would see of Justin for a very long time.

  I looked at the clock. I told myself I would wait fifteen minutes to see if he had left. But fifteen minutes later he hadn’t left. Nor had he left thirty minutes after that.

  It started getting darker outside. Switching on the ignition, I drove around the block three times. Each time I returned the Corolla was still there.

  At six-thirty the Corolla was still there.

  Not anything unusual. Not surprising that a buddy might stick around for an hour and a half.

  I went back to the hotel. My jealousy had dissipated, swallowed up by a homesickness so dizzying I nearly swooned. Suddenly I wanted my apartment in New York—our apartment, Julian’s and mine. Usually I tried not to think about Julian, for the simple reason that thinking about him made me want to talk to him, which I couldn’t do. But now I missed him so much that I did a dangerous thing: I took his picture out from the drawer of the bedside table. I always kept his picture in the drawer of the bedside table because even though I couldn’t bear to look at it, I also couldn’t bear sleeping without it nearby.

  And suddenly, there he was: Julian. Gray-streaked hair, big reddish nose, that weird half smile he affected because he was embarrassed by his teeth. “There’s nothing wrong with your teeth,” I always told him. But if I have to be honest, like mine, they were slightly yellowed, the result of a wonder drug his mother and my mother and half the mothers of the 1960s had been given during their pregnancie
s: another outmoded stab at the future.

  Nine months, two weeks, and four days had now passed since the afternoon Julian had done away with himself; nine months, one week and two days since the police had found his body, dragging the river...

  Maudlin emotion flooded me. “Julian,” I said to the picture, “oh, Julian, why’d you leave me?”—sounding strange even to myself, like someone in a play, or someone trying to sound like someone in a play. Even where my own emotions were concerned, I had trouble distinguishing the genuine from the counterfeit. I wasn’t sure whether this sudden flood of grief was an alias for admitting (as I now had to admit) that I’d fallen in love with Phil, or whether my jealousy where Justin was concerned was a front for pent-up grief, or both. The mask and the face fused to the point of being indistinguishable.

  It occurred to me, then, that telling Phil about Julian’s suicide might be the trump card I hadn’t thought of; the express train to winning his sympathy, even his love. Or would that constitute misuse of Julian’s memory? Unfortunately, the only person I could have asked that question was Julian.

  I put the photograph away. I redialed the phone sex line. It was busier than before. A fellow called Tim invited me to a jack-off party in Highland Park. Having jotted down his address, I got in the car and drove along freeways and winding hill roads to his house, rang the doorbell, found myself standing face to face with a six-foot-three albino, naked except for two nipple rings and a hoop through his foreskin. And so I turned around, I got back in my car, I drove to the hotel and redialed the phone sex line. Sometimes brutality is the only antidote for sorrow.

  But I found no one. You never do in such situations. Even through the telephone, people smell panic. And they run from it.

  Around one in the morning there was another botched rendezvous. The fellow, having opened his front door and looked me over, backed away. “I think I’ve changed my mind,” he said.

  “No problem,” I said.

  He shut the door in my face.

  I got in the car and switched on the radio. A late-night talk show, the opposite of Dr. Delia. No screeners. The people who called could talk about anything they wanted.