by William Poe
“She’s wasted, dude,” Lyle said, having followed us outside.
“Go in and get a wet rag, will you?”
Lyle quickly returned with a bar towel.
“Will you wait inside while I take her home? I think she’s had enough excitement for one night.”
“Yeah, Scott will keep me occupied,” he said, intimating that they’d be doing drugs.
“I’ll be back before the bar closes.”
At that, Masako began pounding my chest with her fists.
“She needs a line of coke,” Lyle said. “It’ll make her horny. You might get some action when you take her home.”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “You don’t understand.”
“Okay, dude. I just thought we’d have a hell of a time later if you came back smelling of pussy.”
My disgusted look gave Lyle a good laugh.
“If you’re not back when the bar closes,” Lyle said, “I’ll have Scott drop me off at Okie Dogs.”
Okie Dogs was a hamburger stand on Santa Monica Boulevard where underage hustlers hung out. It was better than if he’d proposed waiting for me at Scott’s house, considering that hot-tub lure of the place.
I led a delirious Masako to the car, but as I opened the door, she demanded that we go back to the bar.
“Don’t treat me like child!” she insisted. Trying to make doe eyes at me, she looked up and said pathetically, “Don’t you want me?” Then she passed out in my arms. With some difficulty, I got her securely into the car.
“What’s your apartment number?” I asked, rousing her after I parked near the building where she lived.
“Second. Twenty-two,” she muttered, stopping short of the complete number.
The building had a security door, and I couldn’t find the key in Masako’s purse. I carried her to the intercom outside the front door and buzzed for the manager. A cranky Japanese man in a black robe let us in. He winced at the smell of the alcohol on Masako’s breath.
“I thought she nice girl, not like that,” he said. “You husband? She say she has husband was coming to town.”
I nodded, and asked, “Her apartment’s on the second floor?”
The old man eyed me suspiciously. “Second floor. Two twenty-three. Take elevator.”
At her door, I again dug through Masako’s purse while pivoting her on my hip. I finally managed to find her keys.
Masako locked her arms around my neck as I laid her on the bed. When I tried to pull away, she started wailing. “Please make love to me!” she cried.
“Don’t,” I said, pulling away.
The more Masako pleaded, the more I thought about Lyle. I was sure that he’d go home with Scott instead of waiting for me at Okie Dogs.
“Let me go,” I demanded, wrenching free of Masako’s grasp. “Lyle’s waiting for me.”
Masako flung her fists in the air. “I give you baby!” she argued. “What he give you?”
So, she understood all too well what was at stake and what was going on between Lyle and me.
As I headed for the door, Masako began unbuttoning her blouse. She tilted her head, eying me in a way she hoped would be seductive.
“It won’t work, Masako,” I said. “I should never have agreed to see you. I’m sorry.” I closed the door but couldn’t make myself leave. This would be final, and I knew it. I leaned my forehead against her door.
Masako’s wails echoed through the hallway as I raced down the stairs moments later.
As I began to drive away, Masako burst from the apartment building. I could see her in the rearview mirror, half-naked, trying to catch up with the car. I made a quick turn down a side street and meandered my way back to the Spotlight.
I pushed aside the noxious red curtain moments before last call. I didn’t see Lyle, Scott, or Sandra anywhere. Twiggy was wiping down the counter.
“Twiggy,” I hollered. “What happened to my friends?’
But he didn’t have to tell me. Lyle had not gone to Okie Dogs; he would be with Scott and Sandra up in the hills at Scott’s house. I could hear Lyle now—You went off with your wife, did you really expect me to wait at a hamburger stand until you came to your senses?
“Set me up, Twiggy,” I said, holding out three fingers.
Twiggy set down a row of shot glasses.
After the last sour lime, the final lick of salt, and the last shot of Boodles, I sat up straight to allow my stomach to settle. A bare-chested wonder boy sat down beside me.
“Aren’t you too young to be in a bar?” I asked.
The redhead grinned. I laid my face against his chest. He had an unwashed, sexy smell.
“Want to go home with me?” I asked.
The boy pulled away.
“I’ve got money, don’t worry,” I said, wrapping my finger through his belt loop and pulling him close. “Know where I can get some coke?”
“Sure,” the boy said. “Let’s go.”
He led me to a particularly seedy area, just south of Sunset Boulevard.
“Give me your money, dude. The guy won’t deal with no one but me.”
“No way,” I said. I was drunk, but not so intoxicated that I would trust money to a hustler. “I go with you, or it’s no deal.”
I followed the boy to a ground-floor apartment. A tough-looking man with a yellow bandana tied around his head opened the door. When he saw me, he whipped his arm behind his back and in a flash, I was facing a gun.
“Whoa, man!” the boy said. “He’s cool.”
The man motioned the boy inside, but put his hand against my shoulder when I tried to follow. “You wait here,” he said.
Moments later, the boy returned, placing a couple of folded papers in my hand. “Give me the money. You can check it out in the car.”
The dark hallway made me nervous. I did as asked.
We drove to Long Beach and snorted the coke well into a third day. It was the same Colombian Blue that Scott had scored, a drug so strong it neutralized the desire for sex while amplifying the need to talk. The redhead and I jabbered incessantly the entire time we were together. When the drugs ran out, we collapsed on the bed fully clothed.
All I could think when I woke up was that I had to have a drink of water. I stuck my head in the kitchen sink and drank straight from the faucet.
“Wake up, cutie,” I said to my companion. As much as we had talked, we never exchanged names.
The redhead grumbled but pulled himself up and got out of bed. He looked at his watch.
“Shit, man,” he said. “I got to go. I was supposed to be home before morning. Where’s that money you promised? Can you drive me back to Hollywood?” He looked out the window. “The beach? Fuck, where the hell are we?”
I was in no condition to drive, so I gave him extra money for a taxi. He left without saying another word. I ate pancakes soaked with molasses and, still famished, devoured an entire loaf of bread.
I telephoned Maury’s office and spoke to Sandra, hoping to find out what had happened. Lyle had not called the apartment since we parted.
“Honey, I’ve not seen Lyle or Scott since before I left the bar,” she said. “Maury’s really pissed that Scott hasn’t come in. I called his house, but his roommate wouldn’t tell me if he was there or not.”
Sandra put me on hold for a moment. “Sorry—Maury was snooping around. I’ll tell Scott you called when I hear from him. Um…you know, right, that Lyle left with him?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I don’t know anything. They weren’t at the Spotlight when I came back. Lyle said he would be at Okie Dogs, but I didn’t even look.”
I left out the reason why.
“Don’t be upset, love. I know I’m one to talk. But I got to know Lyle pretty well when you were in Arkansas. He’s fond of you. But it’s not love, and I think that’s what you’re expecting. Don’t be mad at me, okay, sweetie?”
“Never, Sandra. I’m not mad.”
Visions of the redheaded boy’s grin flashed throug
h my thoughts.
“There’s another thing,” Sandra continued. “Masako’s been calling here for two days. She insists on speaking with you. I told her I don’t know your number, but she accused me of lying. What do you want me to tell her?”
“I wish I knew what to tell her,” I said.
“She’s going crazy, and she isn’t going to stop calling.”
“I hear you, Sandra. You know, Masako left the church because of me.”
“Well, that’s her problem. She should have gotten hold of you first, not after.”
“That’s very eighties. It’s hard for me to think that way. I feel responsible. Can we get together tonight? I need to talk to someone.”
“Sure. How about the Princess Lounge? I was planning to go there after work.”
Sandra was able to go from work to the gym, exercise, and then transform herself into a beauty queen with just the few things she carried around in her bag. Sitting at the bar, she looked like a million bucks.
The Princess Lounge wasn’t as crowded as usual. We managed to get a booth near the windows, overlooking an atrium garden.
When we were settled, Sandra said, “I heard from Scott just before I left the office. He’s going to meet us here.”
“Is Lyle with him?”
“I don’t think so. He said he’d explain when he sees us.”
Sandra placed an order with the Slavic waiter. “I’d love a White Russian,” she said seductively, gazing up through her bangs.
I’d had a few shots of gin by the time Scott showed up. I thought I would want to slug him, but he had such a sheepish look on his face that I wondered what he had to say.
“I don’t know where Lyle went,” he said after giving Sandra a hug. “He came to the house with me. I thought you’d call or come by when you didn’t find him at Okie Dogs.”
“You could have left a message with Twiggy,” I said.
“You’re right. But I was drunk. I didn’t think.”
“So what happened? Or do I even want to know?”
“We sat around doing drugs, then it was morning, then the day went by, and then it was night again. You know how it goes. When I realized I hadn’t been to work in two days, I told Lyle we had to sleep. He blew up, accusing me of trying to get in his pants.”
“Well, weren’t you?”
“Come on, Simon. I won’t deny I’m attracted to Lyle, but I was so high I couldn’t even pee.”
“So if you hadn’t been so high, and you could have peed, you would’ve made a move?”
“Nothing happened! Okay? I went to bed. Lyle stayed in the front room on the couch.”
“Then what?”
“He was gone when I finally woke up. None of my roommates knew anything. He was out of there by the time they got home. That’s all I know.”
The bar’s pianist began an awful rendition of “Claire de Lune.” I wondered why a place as elegant as the Princess Lounge didn’t hire a better performer.
When the shift changed, and the blond Slavic bartender was replaced with an efficient but unattractive waiter, Sandra ordered Chivas Regal. Scott joined her. I started ordering Bombay Sapphire and tonic instead of straight shots.
“Lyle was my lover when I married Masako,” I blurted out in a bout of drunken self-pity. “He’s the reason I left the church.” My emotions overflowed, and I hugged both my companions. “You two know me better than anyone in this world.”
“Oh, honey,” Sandra said. “You are so melodramatic.” She threw back her hair and then took a sip from her glass of Chivas. A coy expression came over her face. “You know, I might have an idea where Lyle went. He told me about a girlfriend named Sandy. I think she lives in Anaheim. He’s known her since high school. You know he never graduated, right?”
“Lyle never told me much about himself. When we got high, he would tell me the gross things tricks wanted him to do to them.”
“E-ew,” Sandra said, “not while I’m drinking.”
“Anyway, he never mentioned a girlfriend.”
“They had wanted to get married. But her father was a problem. He got a restraining order against Lyle.”
This was a Lyle I didn’t even know.
“Lyle wants to get back with Sandy,” Sandra said.
“You’re certainly not pulling any punches, are you?”
Sandra was such a forthright person when she drank.
“Never, sweetie. Life’s too short.” I grabbed Scott and Sandra’s arms. “It’s the three esses,” I said.
“The three esses?” Sandra laughed.
“Sounds nice, doesn’t it? I just made it up.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Scott said.
“Definitely. That’s the worst Beethoven I’ve ever heard,” I said. The pianist was attempting the Waldstein Sonata but made it sound like a child pounding on the keys.
“Let’s go to Long Beach,” Scott suggested. “We haven’t seen where you’re living. And I want to view your art.”
“Driving there and back—it makes me dizzy thinking about it,” I said.
Sandra wasn’t thrilled with the idea, either, but she agreed to the trip. “I’ll follow you,” she said.
Once we were in Long Beach, I pulled into the parking lot of The Beach House, a bar about halfway from my apartment and downtown. It was the closest thing we had to a hustler bar in Long Beach. Sandra stepped from her Trans Am and came over to Scott to take his arm. Her high heels were difficult to manage on the sandy walkway leading from the parking lot to the bar’s entrance. “I’m so glad we stopped here,” Sandra said. “I’ve heard about this place.”
Scott and Sandra hit the dance floor, while I sat at the bar. The more I drank, the more my mind dredged up images of Lyle with that girlfriend from high school. A cute blond guy came on to Scott, and I saw him whisper something in Sandra’s ear. She joined me at the bar. We had to yell to be heard over the charging sounds of the Oingo Boingo track blaring from the dance floor.
“Why doesn’t Scott pay attention to me?” Sandra said, speaking with her lips to my ear.
“He’s gay, Sandra. What do you expect?”
Sandra put her arm around me. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“That Scott and I are having a thing.”
“A thing?”
“You know. An affair.”
“Scott would fuck anything, Sandra, don’t you know that? I’m sorry. Maybe I’m being too direct. But seriously. He tried to make it with me the minute I was back in Hollywood.”
Sandra giggled. “I’m not just ‘anything.’”
“I know, Sandra. You’re gorgeous. Haven’t I told you that before?”
“Tell me again.” She put her head on my shoulder.
Drunk as I was, the smell of Sandra’s perfume and the softness of her hair caused a slight stir, but only a slight one. The moment ended the second a young man in tight jeans walked past.
Around midnight, it was clear than none of us was in any shape to drive. We left the cars parked at the bar and made our way on foot toward my apartment, walking along the beach. The moonlight caused the saltwater minerals to fluoresce as waves washed across our path. Scott played tag with them, several times stumbling into the water. Sandra hung onto me for support, but I had little to provide.
“Wow, look at this incredible thing,” I said, picking up a rock that was pockmarked in such a way that it appeared to have been drilled into from all angles.
“You are so weird,” Scott said, tripping over a child’s sandcastle from the day before.
“That’s my apartment,” I said, pointing. “There, at the corner.”
“Who’s that on the landing?” Sandra asked, peering hard through the darkness.
“Probably Lyle. The fucker knows I’ll forgive anything he does.”
“That’s not Lyle,” Scott said ominously. “I think it’s Masako.”
We stopped in our tracks.
The figure began to descend the
stairs. The strange object fell out of my hand as I found myself face-to-face with my wife.
“Are you sleep with her?” Masako said, pointing at Sandra.
I was too high to take the question seriously. I started to laugh.
“You my husband,” Masako said angrily.
Whatever tenderness I had harbored toward Masako completely vanished. I had not asked her to follow me after I left the church, much less to chase me to California.
“You’d better leave, Masako,” I said flatly. My emotions were about to get the best of me, and I knew it. “Seriously, Masako. You better go.”
Her eyes flared. “I your wife, Simon Powell!”
“This isn’t make-believe,” I said forcefully. “We’re not following some crazy messiah any longer. This is the real world, and I didn’t ask you to come here.”
“I love you! That why I follow.”
“Masako. Don’t you get it? I like men.”
Masako fell to the ground, weeping.
Scott and Sandra had taken positions on the steps. Sandra’s face was buried in her hands. Scott was staring at the ground.
“It’s over, Masako. Just go. I’ll give you a divorce. No argument.”
Masako crawled forward and grabbed my leg. “Please love me! I be good wife.”
I tried to pull away, but Masako locked her arms around my knees.
“Get away,” I said, walking toward the steps, dragging Masako.
Scott and Sandra scurried to the landing. When I got to the bottom step, I pushed Masako away and ran to the door, key in hand. Scott, Sandra, and I rushed inside. I could hear Masako outside, whimpering, for at least an hour.
“I’m going back to The Beach House,” I said when Masako finally left. “I don’t have a drink in the house, and by god, I need one.”
Sandra found the phone book in a kitchen drawer and looked up the number for a taxi.
“I was an idiot for letting things go so far with Masako,” I said. “Why can’t I just face the fact that I’m gay?”
“Right now,” Scott said, “I’d call you a faggot.”
Sandra had the taxi take us to the bar, then she and Scott headed off for Hollywood in her Trans Am. I sat in my Topaz and tried to decide what to do next. I didn’t want to be alone, but by then, I didn’t much feel like going inside to face loud music and people even drunker than me.
