A Penny a Kiss

by Judy McConnell

  Margo emerged from the shower the next morning and poked me to get up, but I remained silent under the sheets. It seems strange that I didn’t confide in her, but I wasn’t in the habit of sharing my sexual experiences with anyone, even a best friend. Not that she would have condemned me or raised objections, but I wanted to guard my most intimate feelings. I wanted to hold my life of dreams, fantasies, and expectations within, safe and nurtured, where they couldn’t be punctured. With girlfriends there was a line regarding males that we didn’t cross. Besides, Margo and I played it pretty cool. She assured me that she found Ian fun but could take or leave him. I told her that Don and I would not meet again, as our territories were too distant. I kept my true feelings guarded, which was not hard since I didn’t know what they were anyway.

  The next day the tour left for the airport and I caught the Paris train for one last meeting with Jean Paul and the decks of the Liberté. I kept my word and wrote to Jean Paul, beginning a trans-Atlantic correspondence that trailed me faithfully during the next bumpy years to come.

  Chapter 13: Los Angeles at Last

  Perched on the radiator in my room, I stared dreamily out the window at the brick house across the street with its curved driveway and the familiar white dome of the Basilica in the distance. I was torn with indecision. Enrollment for the fall quarter at the University of Minnesota was about to start. I had to come up with something! My one aim was to reunite with Sylvia and pursue an independent life together. Nothing else was real. Sylvia was losing patience with my lack of action, and I had to take a stand. Her constant letters urged me to “get out here!”

  “I have just the man for you,” she wrote. “His name is Perry.” She had nearly knocked this Perry fellow down as her new MG-TD careened into the University of Southern California parking lot. Alighting from the car, she went up to apologize and learned that Perry Manheim was an associate professor in the psychology department, recently divorced. He invited her to stop in at his office in Founder’s Hall after her Western Civilization class, which she immediately did. The professor seemed to find Sylvia’s youth and non-conformist spirit a refreshing novelty. But she declared him a bit stuffy for her taste. She was grooming him for me.

  My friend’s ideas didn’t end there. She couldn’t wait for me to meet Paul Sanchez (later Paul Sand, star of the 1970s TV series Friends and Lovers), her longtime friend from Hollywood High. “He likes your picture.” Paul, an American with Mexican/Russian parents, had studied with Marcel Marceau in Paris and was now dancing in small clubs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. “He is tall and beautiful,” Sylvia wrote. “You two will get along like twins. We’ll have a grand time.”

  The next afternoon after returning from the university, I carried a newspaper clipping to the hall phone, cradled the black receiver under my chin, located an underlined phone number, and dialed. A male voice answered.

  “Is this Jeff?” I asked. “I saw your ad in the Minnesota Daily. Are you still looking for someone to share expenses? He was. As soon as finals were over he would be driving a new Plymouth from a Minnesota dealership to the owner in Los Angeles. The cost was minimal; expenses would be covered by the dealer. It couldn’t have been easier.

  I signed up.

  My parents were incredulous. Traveling across country with a complete stranger! They did not approve. Who was this Jeff person and had I even met him? Yes, we’d had coffee in Dinky Town to arrange the details. But Sylvia’s mother had invited me to L.A. for Christmas and I announced firmly that I planned to go. I also assured them I intended to finish college and reminded them that Dad had promised to back any reputable school of my choice. He pondered a while and finally wavered. My restless despondency at home had long been only too apparent. With a heavy heart he purchased a ticket for me on the Great Northern Empire Builder.

  * * *

  Finally I was on my way! It was December 1954. The train sped through the Badlands, across Nevada and into the Rocky Mountain ranges of California heading for Los Angeles. The scenes of dramatic rock formations, rich farmland, and mountain peaks rising one after another in waves of lavender blue, passed outside the window in a blur. I was wheeling with expectation, unable to focus. The whistle let out a long blast, as if to blow away the clouds and part every shadow barring the way west. The train flew through the mountains and across the desert, glued to the tracks, unstoppable, heading for distant shores and unimagined encounters. And a reunion with Sylvia.

  I was still flying when I arrived in the City of Angels. The figure dashing towards me lit up the platform with her youthful stride and bright expectant air. I watched as Sylvia threaded through the crowd, fetching in a Prussian-blue jacket and charcoal skirt, her auburn hair pulled back by a tortoise shell head band.

  “Hey, old bean!” Sylvia stood before me and her eyes took in my pressed wool suit, freshly washed hair, and the satchel of books and private journals I carried over one shoulder. “At last you’re here!”

  “Did you ever doubt?”

  There was so much to tell, but I could hardly get a word in edgewise.

  “Wait until you see my room!” Sylvia exclaimed. “Mother’s cooked a special lamb roast for you! Paul’s coming over and we’re going to China­town! I already have your Christmas present and you’re going to love it!”

  I could only get in a smile before she continued. “Was the train a big bore? Glad you brought a jacket, it can get chilly in December. Don’t you love the Spanish architecture? Very passionnant. I have so many places to show you! My new car’s in the lot, a two-seater, a dream to drive. Wasn’t Daddy a sport to get it for me?”

  We sped along the Golden State Freeway in Sylvia’s yellow MG with the wind sweeping our hair and a full gold sun pouring over the passing landscape of sprawling houses. A faint whiff of ambrosia blew into the window and along my cheek. The little MG careened by cars with a roar, and occasionally we received a wave from a grinning fellow MG driver. I’d never felt more alive—I was being transported on a wave of intoxi­cation I’d not experienced before.

  Leaving the freeway, we climbed up into the Los Feliz hills, curving around spacious lots with Spanish style houses set back at various angles among the plantings. Palm trees arched like peaceful sentinels on front lawns. The MG swerved into a driveway and stopped before a white stucco house. It was a diverse structure with a variety of walls and gables facing different directions. A path edged by bulging red fuchsias wound up to the front door. A staircase wound behind the porch and disappeared into the upper reaches of the house through a dark wooden door, which turned out to be the outside entrance to Sylvia’s attic room. The scent of lavender and gardenia sifted through a wrought iron railing as we walked up the sloping path.

  Besides two single beds, Sylvia’s room held a low wooden shelf lined with ruby candles in wrought iron holders, and in one corner three fringed hassocks encircling a low marble table. Oil canvases of various sizes covered the walls and I breathed in the intoxicating odor of oil paint.

  Here at last! I couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Newton rushed up to greet me. She was stunning, with brushed-back auburn hair, a gold mesh necklace, and a sparkling black sweater. In her presence the house breathed a simmering fragrance of warm wax and rosebud. In a few days it would be Christmas and the rooms buzzed with preparations. Sylvia and I accompanied Mr. Newton to a specialty store to select an East Indian brocade vest for Mrs. Newton. Evenings, we decorated the fresh spruce tree with silver tinsel and bulbs while Mr. Newman read the paper in front of the fireplace.

  On Christmas day, Sylvia and I helped Mrs. Newton serve honeyed ham and sweet potato soufflé in the lofty dining room. We were joined by a couple, long-standing friends, and a girl named Bonnie, a friendly girl with short buff hair and rather thick arms and legs whose parents were in Europe for the holiday. We made a warm party by the living room fire, sipping tea, opening gifts, and listening to choral music of St. Mart
in-in-the-Fields. Sylvia presented me with one of her charcoal drawings and a book of Emily Dickenson poems. I gave her a marble statue of Athena and a long silk scarf embossed with violet and vermillion swirls.

  Afterward, as we lay in bed, I stared sleepily at the ceiling. Soon I heard Bonnie’s breathing deepen to a soft purr. Suddenly, in the darkness, I felt a hand squeeze mine and heard Sylvia whisper, “Good night,” a gesture made more intimate by Bonnie’s presence. I was moved with a swell of emotion to reach over and squeeze her hand in return, a gesture that I had never made before in my life. I fell asleep in a state of contented fullness.

  The Newton family: Silvia and her parents, 1954.

  * * *

  The next night Paul Sanchez arrived. Tall and slender, his gentle face was surrounded by locks of magnificent black hair, and he projected a youthful amiability that I liked immediately. He and Sylvia wanted to show me the Mexican market, so we drove across town to Olvera Street, strolled along the stalls, sipped wine at one of the open bars, and listened to guitar music drifting from the bead-curtained doorways.

  Back in Sylvia’s room, I watched Paul’s tall form ease gracefully onto one of the hassocks. He looked simple and artless, even rather tender as he turned his soft hazel eyes from Sylvia to me. As we sat talking around the low marble table sipping hot tea, I was aware of Paul’s physical presence. We discussed the conventionality of the University of Colorado, Sylvia’s New York exploits, Paul’s latest dance engagements, and my tour of Europe the previous summer.

  “You like it here?” Paul asked me.

  “Yes, indeed I do. I like Sylvia’s parents, the Spanish houses, the rolling hills, even Tito, the Japanese houseboy.”

  “You’ve met Tito?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Very friendly,” I said.

  “He writes poetry,” Sylvia put in.

  “Tito surprised me one night,” Paul said in a low, confiding voice. “As I was passing through the shadows on my way to the car, Tito made a pass at me. You know,” he turned his eyes on me, “Tito lives in the apartment above the garage. He has been with the Newtons for years and no one has known.” Paul put him off. As a dancer, Paul was used to being taken as homosexual, a misunderstanding which, he complained, restrained girls from veering his way.

  Imagine! Homosexual! I had much to learn.

  As I lay in bed that night it occurred to me there was nowhere else in the world I would rather be than right here, right now.

  * * *

  The big question: what to do next? In the month since my arrival we’d driven with Sylvia’s parents to Santa Barbara to visit friends, spent afternoons at the antique shop where Mrs. Newton worked part time, frequented Paul’s favorite musical clubs, written poetry in the park, discussed Zen philosophy with Tito the houseboy, and spent hours holed in the attic room plotting how to achieve our artistic and educational pursuits in an enlivening environment.

  Finally, we registered for spring semester at the University of Southern California where Sylvia was already a student. My classes looked intriguing: Theory of Modern Criticism, Semantics, Philosophy, Introduction to Concert Music, and Ceramics. For now we would forgo exploring Guatemala, sharing a studio in Manhattan, or finding a bungalow in Taos. We would return to college and lose ourselves in U.S.C.’s park-like campus with its grey and pink Romanesque buildings and long paths curving through clouds of oak, palm, and bay fig trees. I would work towards my goal of earning a degree, Sylvia would major in art, and the two sets of parents, who were pressing for us to settle safely in college, would be satisfied. On the side we would indulge our creative talents.

  We located the perfect apartment within walking distance of campus. Part of an old clapboard four-plex, it was dingy and bare, and best of all, cheap. This fit Sylvia’s pocketbook, as she had to pay a portion of school expenses from her part-time clerical job. It fit my idea of living where things were happening, where things were different.

  We furnished the apartment with donations from Sylvia’s mother and purchases scrounged in Japantown and flea markets. For the living room we procured a faded couch spread with a fringed red Chinese throw, a desk fashioned from a long block of Formica supported by pumice blocks, an antique chair with curved wooden legs, and a side table of unfinished wood draped with a long Persian coverlet. A brown-and-maroon Navajo rug dominated the floor and the walls were covered with Sylvia’s paintings, drawings, and photographs taken when she’d modeled in New York.

  We wanted the apartment to convey our mottos: Art Before Function—Expect the Unexpected—Individuality Beats Conventionality.

  Apartment at the University of Sourthern California, 1955

  I took a job at the Union bookstore selling school supplies. I loved it. Holding a job gave me the feeling of being on my own. They dubbed me the most cheerful clerk they’d ever had. The thing was, even though Dad was footing my college expenses and seeing to my every financial need, I wanted to work. I had always wanted to work. Being denied the chance because of Dad’s prohibition—he thought attending to my studies and having fun while I could were top priorities for fleeting youth—had only increased the desire. No longer was I going to be kept from the adult world of responsibility and the satisfaction of earning my own way. I was on the road to self-reliance. So while Sylvia drove off in the MG to clerk at the music shop, I hiked to the bookstore; we were now included in the ranks of the employed, the dependable, and the producers of the world.

  Four months later, bored out of my mind, I quit.

  * * *

  One rainy morning I was peering out the back window, a window so blistered it was almost impossible to distinguish what was on the other side. Abruptly, a shadow landed on the pane, a shape emerging from the dis­tance. As the shape approached, it slowly transformed into the outline of a face. I stared as the form swept by at eye level and made out a pair of smoky dark eyes that leveled on mine for a quick instant before disappearing.

  “I think there’s a man living next door,” I said to Sylvia, walking into the kitchen.

  There were two. Several days later, we ran into them on the front walk as we were returning from campus. We learned they lived in the rear flat next to ours. One of them spoke up anxiously.

  “It must have been one of you!” the one with the full mouth said, looking from Sylvia to me. “I’ve been dying to know who you are ever since I saw a pair of saucer-like eyes at the back window, staring out at me through the glass. I thought I was being spied on by Audrey Hepburn.”

  “That was me,” I exclaimed, glad to have the mystery cleared. “The glass was deceptive.”

  “I’ve been haunted,” he went on with a smile that stretched across his freckled face. “Now at last we meet. This is Buddy and I’m Max.”

  After traipsing through what they called our funky pad, the two invited us over for tea. There was a unique quality about their apartment. Several nude male statutes rested on the tables, and blue candles etched with Greek floral designs lined the top of a tall ebony cabinet. I spied a large print of two scantily-clad men lounging on a sauna bench beyond the open door of the bedroom. As Max hustled out to the kitchen to steep the tea. Buddy told us that Max was employed as an orderly at a nearby hospital, and he himself worked on a commercial construction crew. Buddy was surprisingly frank as he described their early lives and how they’d come to the big city to find work and create a lifestyle unavailable in a small town. As we relaxed into the mounds of oversized pillows and sipped a second cup of tea, they began to confide in us.

  “Yes, to answer your question, we’ve been together a long time—six years, right Buddy?” Max leaned back in his chair, his knees pressed together and arms loose in his lap. “We’re a couple, you know,” he said with a direct look. “We’re gay.” Max then nodded toward the statue next to me. “How do you like our Greek Adonis?”

  I regarded the naked figu
re, an alabaster rendition of strong, sensual male youth. These boys’ lives obviously centered on their sexual orientation, but I wasn’t sure if the sensuality or the identity issue preoccupied them.

  Did Max and Buddy minded people knowing? I wanted to know.

  “Not our friends, but at work it’s a different story. We’re careful to play it straight there.” Max, the outgoing one, known as Maxine, had an expressive full mouth and blue eyes that never left your face. Buddy, or Bette, resembled a baseball player with a gruff face and reticent grin. He moved about with a shy shuffle. Before we left we had agreed to drive together the following Sunday to Japantown for brunch.

  One Saturday evening our two new friends escorted us to one of their parties. The apartment was crowded with males dolled up as gorgeous female stars and melodramatic queens. It was startling to hear a deep male voice emanate from a glamorous face dominated by scarlet red lips and blackened lashes. Nude male reproductions were every­where. While the drinks flowed and exotic music played on the stereo system, figures spread out over the couches and floor or danced seductively under orange lights. A crowd gathered around Sylvia and me, the only girls present. Through the din they flooded us with questions and then opened up about their lifestyle, which seemed to be focused on sexual encounters and relationships. Experimentation and exotic methods of sexual expression flourished. Max and Buddy described how they cruised Venice Beach on weekends, hitting the gay bars and splitting off with separate partners for the evening. Didn’t they get jealous? Yes, sometimes, but these flings were strictly recreational, restricted to one night stands involving no entanglement.