The Future Won't Be Long

by Jarett Kobek

  In the street, outside, Queen Rex and Baby smoked KOOL cigarettes.

  —It’s been ages, cried Baby, since I’ve had sex! Absolute ages! I’m an attractive, swish young man who haunts clubs full of drunkards and dope fiends! Why am I not having more sex?

  —Welcome to the new normal, said Queen Rex.

  —I am absolutely going to get fucked tonight, he said. I don’t care how or where! Let’s go to a club and find some stupid beautiful boy! Or else I’m going to burst!

  —We’ll go to Palladium. There’s always some young thing waiting to make a mistake.

  Walking along 14th Street, Baby looked up toward 31 Union Square West and wished, in a way that he could not articulate, a deep wordless wish down in the dank of his bowels, that he could move back into the building.

  There wasn’t a line at Palladium. Baby didn’t recognize anyone. The club was so passé, but that was its charm. All the outward trappings without any inherent pressures. Regina suggested that they skip the club and go upstairs to Julian’s Billiards. Baby said okay. Regina said that she was only kidding.

  Regina went to get drinks, leaving Baby against a wall. He thought about sex. He thought about fucking. He thought about screwing out someone’s brains. He thought about someone screwing out his brains. He wanted to give someone the time.

  Two kids came up to him.

  —Don’t you know Michael Alig? asked the one wearing a frilly white lace shirt, his bleached blond hair hanging from a red plastic bowler.

  —Michael who? asked Baby.

  —Obviously he knows Michael, said the other. He’s Baby Baby Baby! He’s an authentic club kid!

  —How fabulous, said the first. My name’s Polly.

  —And I’m Esther. How are you, Baby?

  —Uh, said Baby, I’m waiting for someone.

  —Honey, are you waiting for Michael? Is Michael here?

  —No, said Baby. I’m waiting for Queen Rex.

  —Oh my God, Queen Rex? How fabulous! I can’t wait to meet her.

  Club life. The world’s most self-obsessed people playing out their existences as if on an infinite stage, with every moment a performance. These people were delusional enough to believe that they had a secret audience, that they were always watched.

  In New York City, in the so-called Downtown Scene, everything was fabulous. Everything was always fabulous.

  Regina came back, visibly disgusted by Polly and Esther, examining the black letters on their identical white backpacks: ALCOHOL KILLS and STOP CORRUPTION.

  —Who are these people? she asked Baby.

  —I’m not sure, said Baby. They recognized me. They want to know if Michael’s here.

  —They recognized you? Why would anyone recognize you?

  —The article in Project X, I guess, said Baby.

  —They did an article about you in Project X?

  —Jesus, Regina, I wrote the article, said Baby. It was my first publication! Everyone’s read it. Even Adeline. Why haven’t you?

  —School, said Regina.

  —These little boys don’t have a clue about your identity, said Baby. You’re a complete mystery.

  —Something needs to be mysterious in this shithole, said Regina.

  Polly and Esther talked Baby onto the dance floor. He resisted, not wanting to be seen, but then decided, who cares? It’s Palladium. No one will know. He tried to follow the groove, but Polly and Esther stuck close and wouldn’t stop their terrible dance. Without grace, limbs wild, ignoring the song, inappropriate voguing, outrageousness being the full and only point.

  Baby shrugged off and went to find Regina. She sat at a table, drinking a Cape Cod. Polly and Esther came from the dance floor. Regina exhaled pure indignation, stood and left.

  Baby took stock. They weren’t cute but they weren’t hideous. He asked where they lived. They had an apartment on 11th Street. He said, let’s go. They said, okay. They said, do you think you could call Michael? Baby said, well, maybe, but let’s go to your place, you’ve got a phone, right?

  Inside the apartment, Baby told Polly and Esther to remove their clothes. They obeyed without haste. This is what it must be like to be Michael. To say jump and watch people leap.

  —Are we doing this in your bed? asked Baby.

  —We can do it here, on the floor, said Polly.

  —Wherever you like, said Esther.

  —Who needs a bed? asked Baby. Do you have any nose candy for Mama?

  Polly and Esther kneeled, their mouths on Baby’s penis. Then Esther’s mouth was on Baby’s testicles. Then Esther’s mouth was on Baby’s penis. Then Polly’s mouth was on Esther’s testicles. Then Baby’s mouth was on Polly’s penis. Then Baby pushed Esther onto all fours. Then Polly retrieved KY Jelly from the bathroom medicine cabinet. Then Baby covered his penis in KY Jelly. Then Baby’s penis pressed against Esther’s anus. Then Baby’s penis was inside Esther’s rectum. Then Baby told Polly to put his mouth on Esther’s penis. Then Baby told Polly to get behind Esther. Then Polly put KY Jelly on his penis. Then Polly’s penis was against Esther’s anus. Then Polly’s penis was in Esther’s rectum. Then Baby’s penis was in Esther’s mouth. Then Baby bent Polly over. Then Baby’s penis was against Polly’s anus. Then Baby’s penis was inside Polly’s rectum. Then Esther’s mouth was on Polly’s penis. Then Polly shouted out. Then Esther moaned. Then Baby’s hand was on Esther’s penis. Then Baby’s penis was in Esther’s rectum. Then Polly’s tongue was on Baby’s anus. Then Polly’s tongue was in Baby’s rectum. Then Baby groaned. Then Baby thought of James Boswell, of the man’s hidden journals detailing endless encounters with prostitutes in public places, of Boswell’s need to ejaculate after watching a public hanging. Not even the finest English writer of the 1700s knew such decadence as this, thought Baby. The twentieth century has democratized lust. Then Baby’s penis evacuated semen into Esther’s rectum. Then Baby told Polly and Esther to put their penises in each other’s mouths. Then Polly’s penis evacuated semen into Esther’s mouth. Then Esther’s penis evacuated semen into Polly’s mouth. Then Esther spit Polly’s semen onto Polly’s stomach. Then Esther sucked Polly’s semen back into his mouth.

  Baby lay on the dirty wooden floor. I hope I don’t catch AIDS.

  Esther rolled over, penis dripping seminal fluid down his inner thigh.

  —Are you going to call Michael? asked Esther.

  —No, said Baby. Absolutely not. Not now. Not ever. Not for you.

  *

  Then there was the time when Christina overdosed at the Chelsea Hotel. A rumor went around that she’d called Nelson Sullivan and asked him to film her death. Nelson refused. Five days later, the stench of her rotting corpse forced management to break down her door. The human form in such a state of advanced decomposition that identification required dental records.

  Another story went around, about a performance that occurred not that long before the overdose. Christina was on stage at the Pyramid, her top off, singing “I’ll Keep It with Mine,” a song written by Bob Dylan and recorded by Nico. I can’t help it if you might think if I am odd / If I say I’m not loving you for what you are / But for what you’re not.

  An audience member didn’t appreciate her rendition. He booed, he heckled.

  Christina picked up the microphone stand and threw it at his face. People said that she’d taken out one of his eyes. Baby could not believe it. Too outlandish. Many people said that she’d been brought up on attempted murder charges.

  She overdosed in June. Everyone said that Nelson Sullivan was broken up. Baby never had a chance to ask him about Christina. On July 4th, Sullivan died of a heart attack. He was forty-one years old.

  *

  Then there was the time when Limelight hired Michael Alig to put on a Wednesday night party called Disco 2000. How things change! Baby remembered this one time when Michael Alig was banned from Limel
ight for owing someone $700.

  The owner of Limelight was Peter Gatien, a middle-aged Canadian who wore a patch over his left eye. He’d owned a string of successful clubs in other cities before buying a deconsecrated Gothic Revival church at Sixth Avenue and 20th Street. Gatien’s previous clubs all had been named Limelight. The church took the same name. Opening in 1983, it limped through a few mediocre years before collapsing into the utterly passé.

  Gatien turned to Michael Alig. Go ahead, he said, you’re one of the young things making the most noise. Take the dead night of Wednesday. I’ll bankroll you.

  —I finally have what I’ve always wanted! said Michael Alig. All of my dreams are coming true!

  Michael Alig disappeared, entering into furious preparations for his premiere in late August. Rumors swirled. Something about costumes, the club as carnival, like Larry Tee’s Celebrity Club but on a whole new scale. Putting away of childish things. This would be different. This would be formalized. The real deal.

  On opening night, Baby received a telephone call, making sure that he’d go.

  —I wouldn’t miss it, Michael, said Baby. Regina’s going, too. Everyone’s going.

  —Even that bitch Musto said he’s coming, said Michael Alig. I hope he doesn’t spoil everything!

  —It’ll be fine, said Baby. Trust me.

  —Oh, said Michael Alig, what do you know? Why should I trust you? You’re nobody!

  Baby called Queen Rex. Her mother answered. Baby hadn’t met Regina’s mother, but they’d spoken countless times.

  —¿Aló?

  —Hola, said Baby. ¿Regina es allí?

  —¿Quién es?

  —Es Bebé.

  —Baby, said Regina’s mother, laughing. Baby! Baby!

  Children screamed behind her.

  —Baby, Regina no es home. Regina es . . . es . . . at . . . at . . . disco!

  —Gracias, Mami, he said, hanging up.

  Baby ate two tablets of MDMA. He went into his closet and gathered every belt that he owned. He asked Adeline if he could borrow all of her belts.

  —Why ever do you want them?

  —I’m going to make a costume, said Baby. For the first night of Disco 2000.

  —Are you high? she asked.

  —Yes, said Baby.

  —On MDMA?

  —Yes, said Baby.

  —I wish you could stand on the rock where Moses stood and take a look at yourself. Something has gone very wrong. You aren’t the young man that I remember.

  —Times change, he said. You can’t repeat the past.

  —What do you mean you can’t repeat the past? asked Adeline. Of course you can.

  Baby put on a base layer of black clothing and tied the belts over his arms, legs, and torso. In the mirror, the effect worked better than he’d imagined. He looked like a Rainbow Mummy.

  —I hope this isn’t too Leigh Bowery, he said to himself.

  Baby took a taxi up to 20th Street. Kenny Kenny was at the door. Baby skipped the line. Limelight was made anew. Michael Alig had rented live monkeys, which were scattered around the lobby, shitting and screaming in cages. James St. James had been given a cage of his own, wearing stage makeup and a sign over his head: WARNING: DO NOT FEED THE DRUG CHILD. He cried out for a bump! Just a bump! Any bump!

  And then there were the costumed characters. Clara the Carefree Chicken, an oversized yellow avian with a predilection for off-beat dancing, pushing people around in stolen shopping carts, groping their genitals. Hans Ulrich, the leather dog. I. C. the Bear. Handmade signs announced these creatures’ names.

  —Baby! I love your costume!

  —Regina! Darling!

  They hugged.

  —Isn’t it wonderful? she asked.

  —I’m really really really high right now, said Baby. Is it as amazing as it seems?

  —What did you take? she asked.

  —Ecstasy, what else?

  —A girl over there has Special K. I haven’t done it, have you? It’s all the rage. All the kids say it’s divine. Should I get us some?

  —You go enjoy, said Baby. I don’t like mixing pharmaceuticals. I should find Michael.

  —He’s upstairs, said Queen Rex.

  Baby made his way across the club. Michael must be pleased with the turnout. Baby darted around a pack of six or seven kids. One grabbed him by the arm.

  —Baby! said a female voice.

  He looked at the woman. She was petite, wearing a long silver wig, big ugly black boots, thick black belt, and a camo bikini. He sighed, not wanting to deal with another groupie.

  Having written several articles for Project X, Baby was experiencing increased visibility. He hated it. Honey, said James St. James, that’s the terrible price of fame! Baby didn’t want fame. He just liked writing.

  —Hellllooo, he said.

  —Baby, it is me, said the girl.

  —Who’s me? he asked.

  —Me, Baby. Jae-Hwa, Sally.

  Baby scrunched up his face. Beneath the makeup, beneath the wig, beneath the bikini, beneath the silver. He saw her. It’d been almost four years, the spring of 1987. Then she’d dressed sub-preppy, with no style. A lot of khaki slacks and pink sweaters and self-cut hair.

  —Sally! What are you doing here? asked Baby.

  —I am a real club kid now, she said. Ecstasy is in my blood. Do not call me Sally anymore. Call me Sigh.

  —Sigh? asked Baby.

  —It is my new American name, she said. I have been reading your articles.

  Baby asked Sigh if she’d graduated. She hadn’t, she wouldn’t ever graduate. She’d been thrown out of Parsons in her junior year. She’d struck up an interest in clubbing and stayed out every night, partying through the semester without producing any work.

  A portfolio review was scheduled in the final week of classes. Overcome with despair, Sigh roamed the Parsons building on Fifth Avenue, stumbling across a stack of paintings in the basement. She stole the artwork and presented it at her review. The scheme would have worked, she said, except that one of the faculty members happened to be the person from whom she’d stolen the work. Those are my paintings, he said.

  —Yet my father is rich, she said, so I continue to party!

  They danced together, for a while. Drugs making the music much better. As always.

  He said goodbye to Sigh, knowing that they’d run into each other again. She glowed with it, with the intangible aura of someone hooked on club life. The aura of an indigo child. Certain people were made for nightclubbing. But Sally! Who knew? He couldn’t wait to tell Adeline.

  Other people recognized him, stopped him, talked with him. Air kisses and hugs and declarations of how fabulous they found his belts.

  In the Chapel, beneath stained-glass windows, Michael Alig held court, surrounded by Michael Musto, LaHoma, Peter Gatien, and a bunch of kids that Baby didn’t recognize. Gatien turned toward Baby, unnerving void of black eye patch.

  —The attendance isn’t really what I wanted, said Michael Alig, but it’s close. We’ll get there. This is my moment, Peter. I’m sure of it. This is the big one. No one can ever take this away! Not even you!

  *

  Then there was the time when Baby went by himself to Red Zone. It was Saturday night and Baby ate two tablets of MDMA before taking a cab to West 54th Street.

  Getting out of the car, he spun on the pavement and bumped into this gorgeous guy. The guy smiled at Baby. Baby smiled back. They talked. The guy’s name was Erik. Baby told Erik about listening to an LP of the Shangri-Las’ Greatest Hits, a record that he’d bought for $2 at the Salvation Army. Oh God, thought Baby, why the fuck can’t I just fucking shut the fuck up?

  —There are the obvious songs, said Baby, like, uh, ‘Remember’ and ‘Leader of the Pack,’ but the one that I love the most is ‘Past, Present a
nd Future.’ It’s not even really a song, it’s more like a long monologue addressed to an unknown boy that goes through the three stages of the title’s temporality. But where she kills you, where she gets you so hard, is when she tells the boy, twice, ‘That will never happen again.’ It’s the finality of it. It’s the doom of relationships. It’s the human fucking condition. It’s so awful. It’s such a sad thing thinking of those girls.

  Erik reached out and touched the side of Baby’s face, fingers running along the line of jaw, thumb on cheekbone.

  —I’ll be your girl if you say it’s a gift, said Erik.

  And it was here that Baby, which is to say me, myself, it was here, after many moons, that I found my path back to personhood.

  JANUARY 1991

  Adeline Comes Back from a Trip with Jon

  Jon dropped me off outside of my 7th Street quarters. We exchanged pleasantries. Jon drove off to New Jersey. I unlocked the front door. Down the block, a drunken lout was vomiting his lungs into the gutter. New York City. Home.

  Climbing the stairs, I imagined Baby and Erik losing all sense of self, delirious with delight at having the space to their selves and indulging in a reckless carnival of homo acrobatics. My one hope was that they’d emerged from their lust and cleaned up the semen and lubricants.

  The apartment was untouched, spotless. Imaginate my surprise. The Captain rubbing his winsome against my legs. Louder purrs I have not heard. I dumped my bags on the kitchen floor and stooped low to pet his head, happy for the consistency.

  “Baby?” I called out. “Baby? Are you home?”

  My bed displayed no evidence of anyone screwing out anyone else’s brains. I lay down. The Captain climbed beside me, his left paw and head on my stomach.

  It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes of peace. The front door opened. I remembered my bags, and was about to warn Baby not to stumble over them, when there came the most wretched crunching sound of my adult life: “Adeliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine! Adeliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!”

  Sensation in the lower stomach, clenching with nervous energy, the shock of it. I wanted to hide, but where? I swallowed and trudged into the kitchen.