Freaks and Revelations (14 page)

I don’t feel it.

How could I? I don’t really exist.

I’m only the skin that binds me together and the bones that hold me up.

1979

ONE YEAR BEFORE

LOS ANGELES COUNTY

Definitely boys’ night out. Mark, Jack, and me are in Mark’s car with a shitload of guys, heading to Cathay de Grande in Hollywood, to see African Dogs. The lead singer, Tony, is a friend of ours. Rosie’s on a trip to see her dad in Sacramento and Stacie’s hanging out with some old friends. Probably her ex-boyfriend Carlos from Argentina is one of them. Maybe she
is
half-Mexican. She sure as hell doesn’t mind being around them. I don’t care—Tony’s probably going to ask me up on the stage tonight. I’m damn sure ready to sing in a club. The band’s okay, but we’re wasting our time doing yard parties. We need to move forward. I have to get my life going.

“I’m getting laid tonight,” Mark announces, passing me the O.J., which is, of course, half vodka.

I stare at his profile as I drink. He’s got to be at least twenty-seven now, if not older, and all he hangs out with are teenagers.

“That’s messed up, man.” I settle back and drink.

“You should talk.” He cranks up Black Flag.

“That’s way different. Stacie’s older.”
And probably with Carlos right now.

“Yeah, well, what Rosie don’t know ain’t gonna hurt her.” The car pulls up to the curb. He yanks the brake, leers at me, climbs out.

I’m drunker than I thought and stumble when I get out of the car, go down to one knee. Mark laughs. I shove him into the bougainvillea along the sidewalk. He scratches his hand on the thorns and comes running at me, body slams me into his car, starts my hip throbbing.

“Fuck you, man,” I say, shoving him again. I hate how my goddamn hip interferes with everything. I stomp off down the street, trying not to limp. He tosses a rock that hits me in the back of my head and the cut bleeds a little onto my shirt. I flip him off without turning around, take out my flask, and down it.

“Sorry, man, you gotta be eighteen.” The bouncer at the door stops me. “Let me see the license.”

“Dude, it’s way back in the car. I never bring shit here.”

“Sorry. Need that I.D.”

Tony sees me just in time, writes our names on the guest list and ushers me in. He takes me backstage to meet the rest of the band. I wait for them to invite me to sing, but he rambles on and on about some guy that wants them to sign a record contract. He goes to finish unloading and I head back to the main room. Mark and them come in but now I don’t even care about them. I keep my distance. When the African Dogs get going, it occurs to me I could do as good as, if not better than, Tony.

“Animals walk on all fours—rending talons crushers.”

Stupid lyrics. I jump in the circle to skank. Skanking is second nature already, feels like coming home. I focus on the bodies in front of me, on staying up and taking the blows as they come. My head mellows as the music and my heartbeat amp up. Around and around we go. I am finding my place, knowing where I am. Dancing with my tribe, in sync with my soul.

From out of nowhere, Tony lands on my shoulders, holding the mic, singing away. I grab his legs to keep him steady. We wail around the place, swerving and knocking into people, going the wrong way, turning around. He does something—grabs the wall, or maybe hits the ceiling with his head, I don’t know—and he starts to fall. I hold on to his legs, too wasted to figure out why not just let go, so I fall with him. I split my chin open on the stage. Tony disappears. Mark pulls me up so I don’t get trampled.

“Where the hell is Stacie?!” I yell, forgetting she didn’t come.

Mark moves me to the side. He’s laughing like crazy. “Ah, man, what an idiot, dude, that was hysterical.”

I don’t think; I hit him. He hits me back. In seconds, this blossoms to a full-on brawl. Bouncers move in and the next thing we know, we land on the street in front of the club. Not just me and Mark, but all the people we came with, plus some. I taste blood.

“Don’t come back,” the bouncer says.

“Man, this is your fault, Doug,” Jack says. Mark’s bleeding from his mouth. Looks like he cut his lip with his tooth.

I lift my middle finger.

“We’re going,” Jack announces and starts toward the street with our car. Mark and the rest trail after. Not one looks back.

“Who needs you?” I yell, wiping my mouth and getting blood all over my sleeve. My chin’s got a gash down the side and there’s a hole where my tooth used to be. I stumble to the edge of a planter, still totally smashed. They turn the corner. I could catch up if I went now.

I don’t and minutes later, they drive past. Mark flips me off. I return the favor but now I’ve got no way home. I try to think when Stacie will be back so she can come get me, but then I can’t remember her phone number. So what. I’ll just sit here, see what happens.

A car stops in the middle of the street, the Dead Kennedys blasting from inside. A guy waves. I recognize him, but can’t call his name.

“Need a ride?” he yells.

I cross Hollywood Boulevard—not easy at this time of night—and climb in the backseat. We go down to Oki Dogs for something to eat. My chin throbs but it’s nothing compared to inside my mouth. The nerve must be exposed. I can’t eat anything, I can’t even open my mouth. Somebody has vodka and I chug it straight. My shirt’s bloody. I wish I knew where Stacie was. I wonder if I could get ahold of Carl. The guys are going out to Claremont to a party but I don’t want to. I know how to get home, I don’t need anybody’s help. I wait for the bus on the bench outside Oki Dogs. I spit a gob of blood and look around.

This street sucks. Too many faggot whores, walking around in their stupid tight pants and acting like they got a right to be here. Assholes. It’s got to be obvious that I’m no faggot, but cars still slow down and check me out.

“Fuck you, queer!” I yell at one of them; he speeds away.

A Mercedes pulls up. I’m ready to cuss him too, but when he rolls down the window, he doesn’t look gay.

“You okay, man?” he asks. “You need a ride?”

“No, man. I’m cool.” Talking hurts.

“Quite a gash you got there,” he says. “Want me to take a look? I’m a doctor.”

“Fuck off.”

“Bit of a bad mood, are we?” He chuckles a little. “Are you sure, now? It looks like a pretty deep cut. I’ve got my bag in the back.”

I don’t answer. He backs the car to right in front of the bus bench. “I’ve got something I can put on it, it might help.”

I’m trying to wrap my brain around this but I’m not doing so good and suddenly notice his pants are unzipped. His dick is sticking straight up. He’s holding himself, jerking off.

“Why don’t I just come over there and fill up that hole for you?” he says, yanking faster, starting to pant.

I bash in the side of his door with my boot and manage to bend his antenna straight back before he gets it together to drive. I grab the trash can to throw at him, but it’s chained to the bus bench so all I do is hurt my hand. A couple of faggots on the other side of the street start to laugh. I march toward them; they scatter. Now my hand hurts as well as my face.

Back at the bus stop, I won’t sit down again. I pace until the bus finally shows up. I sit in the way back, across from a kid who reminds me of myself, two years ago, with his mean face on, looking stupid. We go down Santa Monica Boulevard and everywhere I look there’s some faggot whore. Young kids, old queens, like cockroaches spilling out of bars. They kiss right there, on the street, groping each other. Makes me want to puke.

This whole city sucks. The air’s poison, nobody gives a shit about anyone else. Everybody’s out for their own. Get in the way and you’re toast. The whole country’s going down. You barely see a white face anywhere.

The bus lumbers to the stop closest to Stacie’s and I hoof it over, my jaw hurting with each step. She’s home when I get there, alone with her sister, watching some old horror flick. She takes one look my face and goes for the Mercurochrome. Makes me rinse with salt water and finds oil-of-cloves for my tooth. She hands me something from a prescription bottle and I take three, then one more for good measure.

I am so damn tired of getting beat down.

1979

ONE YEAR BEFORE

SAN FRANCISCO

{1}

“Okay. You win. I’ll do it.”

“No shit?” Nick mumbles, mouth full of burger. “You serious?”

“Yeah. Why not, huh?”

It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about it for months, and the second the words are out, it feels right. It’s time. I’m tired of begging and digging through garbage. I don’t know why I’ve waited so long. Like Adam says—I do it for free anyway.

Adam shakes his head with amazement; Tommy grins; the new kid, Brandon, just stares. Was I ever that stupid?

“Let’s go, okay?” I stand up. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I want to get it over with, I want the first time behind me.

“Look sexy,” Tommy instructs, “and do not go anywhere with anyone until you see my signal.” I got the crash course on the way to Polk Street. Now he ducks into a doorway with Adam nearby and pretends he’s cleaning his nails.

I sit on the bench. I smile at cars. I drop my head slightly and peer up from under my long lashes. I’m cool until a car finally slows down, then I almost chicken out. The guy doesn’t even fully stop. Why didn’t he? What’s wrong with me? A couple of old ladies drive by just then, the tight-faced one shakes her head at me. I flip her off.

“At least I’m not ugly,” I yell, and hear Tommy laugh.

Not even a minute later, a dirty white Dodge Dart pulls over and stops. Is this it? Another huge breath. The guy has dull brown hair and keeps looking around like he’s being followed. My stomach tries to jump out of my body, but I feel Adam smirking, so I pull myself together. We’re the same age and he does this all the time. If he can, I can. It’s just like being onstage, playing a character that isn’t you.

I saunter over, lean on the car, peek down through the window. Sweat dots the guy’s forehead and outlines his armpits, which grosses me out, but he doesn’t smell, so that’s good. His car is tidy, a briefcase in the back. I glance to my right; Tommy’s watching. He scratches his nose with his thumb pointed
up
. It’s a go.

“What will you do?” the guy asks, almost in a whisper. I’m about to answer, but remember to wait. When he doesn’t say anything right away, I get nervous. He clears his throat. “And how much?” I relax. Cops can’t ask—that’s entrapment.

“Twenty for hand only. Forty if you want both.” I can’t believe how much I sound just like Nick or Adam. Like I’d been doing this forever.

“How much if I want to—”

“I don’t do that.” Good—cold, like I take no shit.

“But—”

“I don’t do that.”

I move away from the car, like Tommy told me, thinking the guy’ll split, but he doesn’t. He backs up, leans over again.

“Okay. That’s okay,” he says and swings the car door open. “It’s fine, really, just fine.” I get in.

It’s happening.

I shut the door but keep my hand on the handle, so I can jump out if he tries to lock it. I’m surprised how clearly I’m thinking.

“Um, I want both. Where should we, um—?” he mumbles. He doesn’t look at me directly. I point around the corner, like Tommy said. We don’t talk. He bumps the curb as he parks. Sweat glistens on his top lip. Still not looking at me, he unzips his pants.

Twenty minutes later, I step out with four ten dollar bills and he drives away. Tommy strolls up, grinning.

“See?”

I do three more that night, hand only. One guy cheats and gives me a ten but I don’t notice till after. Nobody’s mean and nobody’s too gross. By the end of the night, I’ve made ninety dollars! Tommy stays close the whole time. He’s going to be my protector. Lots of the younger kids have older kids watching out for them; not for money either, just somebody looking out. He already made me pass on one of the cars because he’d heard the guy’s an asshole. When he finds out about the cheat guy, he adds him to that list.

It’s good to have him looking out.

It’s even better the next day, to walk into All American Boy and get the tight parachute pants I’ve tried on at least fifty times, and a crisp white button-up shirt. Tonight I’ll make enough to get the black boots I’ve been wanting; the stacked heels make me taller.

*   *   *

Guys pull over—I’m making money. All of a sudden, life’s good. I can choose things. I’m not begging or eating garbage. I can shop. I can have dinner at restaurants. I can get supplies from Longs Drugs. Sometimes I can even stay a night at a hotel. I’m taking care of myself.

I bleach my hair and gel it up. Once in a while I stay at this place on California around from The Masque or at the Royal Ambassador down by Market. You can only go where they don’t really care; legitimate places won’t rent to kids. Bathrooms are always down the hall. You got to be careful who sees you going in, and check out the hall before you go piss. Once I opened the door and this girl was getting beat up by her pimp. She wasn’t even yelling or fighting back, just taking it. I think she was high on H. Another time, I got lice, which I didn’t even know for a week. But it’s okay most times; at least you’re out of the weather.

I keep meeting other working kids and pretty soon I know tons. I fit in. We hustle together on Polk and hang out on Castro, proud that we can pay and not have to steal. It’s important not to have a bad rep over there. Sometimes we get into clubs—the ones where we know the doorman, or our trick does. Except Nick, he never gets in. He looks even younger than me, like eleven or twelve.

“So? I get more dates,” he says when I tease him. He does. Makes you wonder.

My whole life’s at night now, from when people start cruising, as soon as it gets dark, until about four in the morning. The only part I hate is how tricks never look you in the eyes. How they seem to want to think it’s your fault they’re doing it.

I keep it fast and don’t think too hard. One night I make almost three hundred dollars. Some nights, I may only get twenty. Or nothing. Sometimes the cops are out and you have to literally run and hide from them. Always, the “regular” people look disgusted when they see us. Even kids our own age. They roll their eyes or laugh or make faces. I keep hoping I’ll get used to it, but I don’t.

“Who cares about them?” Tommy says. “They don’t know shit about anything, Jason. Where were they when your mom kicked you out?”

{2}

Cruising down Polk toward us is a silver Corvette, low to the ground, sleek, awesome.

“Is that Jetsons, or what?” Adam points as the car makes the corner and heads down our block. He still thinks he’s God’s gift but he’s so damn funny, I put up with it. The Corvette pulls to the curb in front of us. Adam pops up and smiles; the guy smiles back but beckons to me. He’s older, maybe forty, and very distinguished looking, with a great moustache and amazing thick eyebrows.

“You look like you might enjoy Edith Piaf.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Of course I would,” I say, folding my hands across my chest, looking at him through my lashes. The guys opens the door—it goes straight up!—and I climb in. This could be a sugar daddy, for sure. Adam flounces away.

His name is Barney. We go to a piano bar up on Nob Hill. I can’t believe how classy it is. They all know him there, the maître d’, the waiters, the guy at the piano. We sit at “his” table in the back near the stage, and I have my very first brandy. It makes my nose run. We eat hors d’oeuvres of shrimp and little pastries. A man who looks like a woman who looks like the painting my dad did of Judy Garland sings songs in French. Barney explains that Edith Piaf was a French torch singer and tells me about her life.

I can’t stop staring at him as he talks—it’s like watching a movie star. The word “elegant” comes to mind. I feel very grown-up and want to say all the right things but keep slipping and saying “yeah” instead of “yes”—and then giggling like I’m ten. Still, he asks me to spend the night and offers me $200. I tell him $300 and he winks.

“Smart boy,” he says, then tousles my hair and agrees!

I’ve never stayed with anyone outside of the Castro, and definitely never for money. Barney lives way down on the Embarcadero, in a condo on a top floor where you can see the Bay and the city both. All white furniture with bright red and orange paintings on the walls, and squat African statues of men with big dicks and women with boobs. We have brandy on his balcony and he tells me about growing up in Chicago, about how he got into his career in film location scouting, then we go to bed.

I wake up alone; Barney’s bustling about the kitchen. I love the feel of his sheets against my skin. The window curtains are drawn, patches of blue sky peek through the morning fog.

“Breakfast!” he calls. I slip on his shirt from the night before and find him the kitchen. He serves me an omelet with mushrooms and Swiss cheese. He is as elegant in his bathrobe as he was last night in a suit. We sit on the couch inside the French doors to eat and watch the fog drift daintily across the bay.

“Well, JJ, I like you. You’re a sweet boy.”

I smile like my face might break.

“I’m taking a few days off, going down to Carmel. I wonder if you’d like to come along?”

“Sure.”

“Not for money, though. I can’t afford three hundred a night. But I will show you a good time.”

“Oh, that’s fine. That’s just fine.” I float on air for the next hour. We pack up clothes for him, and stop by Macy’s to pick up a few things for me. The car ride down is heaven. He plays Edith and I try to take in this incredible turn of events.

Barney’s got a house on the beach. We shop for food and I love how he keeps me close, almost like I’m his son. We spend the next three days exploring the shore, cooking meals with food I’ve never even heard of, and being together. When he takes his binders and notebooks out to work, I sit quietly across from him, like I used to with my dad. The last night we’re there, I creep out of bed sometime around three in the morning to sit on the balcony, wrapped up in Barney’s pale yellow sweater. The rhythm of the surf could be my own heart. Each star shines brilliantly. I never realized there were so many. I never realized I could be so happy.

“Ah. Back to work.” We’re in Barney’s apartment on our first morning after Carmel. “Would you like to drive up to the country with me?” he asks. “I’m scouting a location.”

“Okay, yeah, sure,” I say, taking my last bite of breakfast, wondering how much better it can get. I’m glad I didn’t make up a totally different name; I’m looking for the best time to tell him JJ is short for Jason. We shower and dress and jump in the Corvette. He takes out part of the roof so I can look up and see the sky. Icy wind whips through my hair as we zoom across the Golden Gate Bridge. I stick my arms out and laugh. He plays jazz and smiles.

An hour up the 101, we exit. The roads get smaller as we head inland. Cows graze, and dilapidated old houses are scattered around. He finds the address he wants, parks the car near a barn and pokes around a bit. He takes several pictures with his Polaroid camera, makes notes, and climbs back inside. He tells me I’m good luck; he found exactly what he needed the first time out.

By the time we’re coming back into the city, I’m trying to figure out how to best get in touch with Tommy to let him know about Barney. Maybe he can come visit. I suppose I’ll be sleeping in Barney’s room, but I’ll be willing to go in the second bedroom too, when he needs his space. I’ll keep him company on his scouting expeditions. I’ll meet his friends, maybe even see a movie star or two when filming starts. I’d be cool with that. I can act right, not like some stupid little kid. Maybe I’ll even get my break and be on TV.

Just off the bridge, Barney pulls into Clown Alley at the corner of Lombard and Divisadero.

“Let’s get a little something to eat, shall we?” He buys us each a hot dog and we settle in at the little table on the side. He makes notes by the photos he’s stuck in his binder while I count colors on cars, nibble at my hot dog, and wait to hear his words.

“So—JJ,” he says, smiling. “You’re a swell kid. I’ve had a really great time with you.”

“Me too.” I smile, bat my eyes at him, ready to tell him yes when he asks if I’ll move in. He reaches for his wallet and I’m about to tell him don’t worry about it.

“Can you get back from here?” he asks, and holds out three bills.

“Back?” My smile freezes. A stone drops into my gut.

“You know, to your—street? I have an appointment; I’m going to have to take off.”

“Oh. Yes, of course, sure.” I finally said “yes” instead of “yeah.” Somehow I take the money and keep smiling, even though my face now feels heavy and dead. He pats my cheek and climbs back in his car. I finish my hot dog, wipe my mouth carefully, and toss the trash in the can. I’ve got to stop being so dumb. I wonder who will get to wear all my new clothes.

*   *   *

Tommy catches up with me back in the Castro, grabs me by both shoulders, sticks his face close to mine. “Where the hell were you?”

I explain.

“You can’t do that, Jason!” Adam jumps in. “You can’t just leave with some guy because he’s got a cool car. You gotta let somebody know where you’re going. Shit happens. Tommy’s been looking for you for days.”