It was a Friday night. That much I remember well, probably because I was so looking forward to the weekend. Everything was in order, too, as I had done all my grading and had still found the time to plan for the following week. What a relief not to have to think about all that for the next few days.
I would have left even earlier except for the fact that Hillary Jancko, one of my students from fourth period, intercepted me just as I was gathering my things. Not that I minded. Hillary is one of my best students, and so bright. She was anxious to know how she did on her last paper. I told her that she had gotten an A-, but I could tell that she had other things on her mind. After some gentle prodding, she told me all about her boy troubles. I listened seriously and offered the best advice I could. It always disturbs me when I see my colleagues being dismissive of students, and I always do my best to be respectful of young people, aware that while their problems may seem silly to adults, they’re the most important thing in the world to them.
Hillary seemed relieved by my advice about boys and then maybe as a way of testing my credibility asked impulsively, “Miss Johnson, why aren’t you married?”
I was taken a bit off guard and for a moment just looked at her. She quickly looked away, obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Miss Johnson. I shouldn’t have asked you that.”
“That’s okay, Hillary.” She was staring at the floor, and I walked over and put my arm around her. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s normal to wonder about these things,” I continued. Then I led her gently to the door and added, “I’m actually going with someone, by the way.”
Her face brightened, and she looked at me. “I’ll bet he’s very nice.” She smiled.
I smiled back. I should have left it at that, but there was something in her eyes. They were so full of hope. “Yes, he is,” I said.
Hillary looked relieved. Perhaps at the idea of not having an adult chastise her after being so personal. Or was it her relief at the prospect that maybe I wouldn’t end up an old lady schoolteacher after all? Or maybe it was something else. I wondered what the other kids at school thought of me. Or the faculty for that matter. Mid-twenties, blonde, attractive—by most accounts anyway, nice figure, smart dresser. What’s wrong with this picture?
I felt very curious, gossipy, and guarded all at once. I so wanted to ask her what the kids at old L.A. High thought about “old” Miss Dorothy Johnson. But, of course, I couldn’t.
“Have a nice weekend, Hillary,” I said.
“Have a nice weekend, Miss Johnson!” Hillary said, schoolbooks in tow, her hair bobbing up and down as she skittered away.
After I left school, I stopped by a girlfriend’s apartment to change my dress and fix my hair. I couldn’t leave quickly enough and when I arrived at Eddie’s, I was excited to be meeting Barbara. I guess by that point we’d been seeing each other for around nine months, but I still always loved that first glimpse of her; that first look after having not seen her for a while, and the way she smells—all her, only laced with just the subtlest, delicate mist of Arpege. We always have a terrific time together, and it’s amazing how well we hit it off. I’m from Los Angeles. She’s from Brooklyn. I’m middle class. She’s working class. But we really make it work.
We always joke that I’m the rose and she’s the thorny stem. I’ll admit she’s rough around the edges, but to me she’s wonderful. I love the way she talks, moves, everything. And she’s so smart. She’s the only female attorney at her law firm. If she were a man, I’d introduce her to my mother. Of course, I don’t think my mother would ever believe it. Barbara’s parents are different, however. They would believe it. As a matter of fact, she told them about her lesbianism when she was seventeen. By that point, she figured they already knew, and it wouldn’t be any great surprise. Well, whether they already knew or not, they didn’t want to hear about it, and they kicked her out of the house. But not before her father slapped her around. Practically no one in her family would accept her after that. It’s very sad. I guess the one good thing about it, if there’s a silver lining, is that she eventually ended up moving to Los Angeles, where we met.
Eddie’s Place was surprisingly empty when I entered. There was an eerie feeling, as well. Who died? was the thought that went through my head, and at the same time sure that that’s what Barbara would have said in the situation. Come to think of it, Barbara did not seem to be there. I hoped everything was okay. I looked to Frank, the bartender, for answers. He gestured over to me. I clutched my purse tightly and approached the bar.
“Barbara called. She wants you to meet her at her place,” he whispered. Then his eyes glanced toward the men’s room door. It was all very mysterious.
By the time I made it to Barbara’s apartment, I felt anxious. Before I had left Eddie’s Spot, Frank had whispered that there had been some excitement earlier but not to worry; Barbara should be fine. I had felt very aware that on the way over to Barbara’s place I had noticed every little thing around me. The click of my heels, cats slinking by, the swoosh of my dress, and every car that passed.
The door swung open, and I wanted to do everything at once—ask if everything was okay, give Barbara a kiss hello, search her face for clues, see if anything felt out of the ordinary.
“Hiya, kid!” she said with a grin. She jerked me inside and planted a nice kiss on my willing lips. When I opened my eyes, I could see a man over her shoulder. I’m sure my eyes must have widened, and I felt my defenses rise.
“Oh, pay no attention to him,” she said. “That is just a cop. He is here to entrap us! Oh boy, you should not have kissed me back, Lover,” she said shaking her head with scorn, and tsk, tsk-ing at me.
That last line did it. I knew she was kidding. And a little intoxicated I might add.
It was then that she burst out laughing and finally introduced me to the man who stood looking at us, a playful smirk painted on his face. His name was Cliff.
She twirled me around. “New dress?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.” Barbara—God love her. She has the eye of a woman and the confidence of a man.
“It’s swell, kid. Here, hit me.” She pointed to her cheek, and I kissed her.
“Come on, take a load off,” she said.
And together, she and Cliff told me all about what had happened at Eddie’s with the “Hollywood Reject” and all.
“Well, I am proud of both of you,” I said when their story was over. But I could not help feeling horrified by it all. I had never heard of anyone ever fighting back the way Cliff had against that police officer. I also felt angry that anyone should have to.
“What’sa matter, kid?” asked Barbara.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to smile.
“Well, have a drink for God’s sake,” she said.
“Yeah, you’re making me feel like a lush,” said Cliff.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll take one.”
“One?” said Cliff.
I smiled. “Well, that’s all I’m committing to right now.”
“Well, like A.A. says, ‘Just have one and then, you know, play it by ear.’ Of course, I may be paraphrasing.”
I laughed. “Probably.”
“I’ll get it. The usual?” he asked me, looking my way.
I’m sure I must have raised my eyebrows. Then I glanced at Barbara. She was looking back at me while Cliff stopped in mid-stride, a little smirk on his face.
Next, I put a little comedic melodrama in my voice and said, “Yes. Why don’t you bring me the usual.”
“Gin and tonic coming right up,” Cliff said making his way toward the liquor cart.
“Not even close,” I said, powdering my nose. He was fun to play with.
After a little more chit-chit, a few drinks and cigarettes, Barbara put on “Secret Love” and asked me to dance.
I always loved that song and we danced close, only breaki
ng so I could look into Barbara’s eyes. Pools of golden-brown elixir.
When the song was over, Barbara looked over at Cliff who, I have to admit, I forgot was there. She called over to him. “This must be boring for you, when girls dance together, I mean.”
“Not at all. I’m what you might call bipartisan.”
Barbara nodded. “Really. Not us.”
Then she dipped me—fast. I felt my insides flutter, and I let out an involuntary gasp.
This made Barbara smile. “You want to cut in, Handsome?”
His smile faded, and his face hardened. “Handsome? You barely know me.” He sounded so serious I wasn’t sure what to think. I was afraid maybe he was a mean drunk. And then with perfect timing he added, “And yet you already have me pegged so well.” And the smile was back.
And we smiled back at him.
“So, do you wanna dance?” Barb said.
Cliff stood up. “Nah. No thanks. I’d like to use your bathroom, though, if it’s okay.”
Barb told him where it was and gestured.
“Hey, watch out for cops in there,” I yelled after him, probably a little too loudly. Yes, my drinks were definitely taking effect.
Barbara put up her fists and started jabbing. “Yeah! You want me to go with you? A little backup?”
“Nah, I think I’ll be fine as long as you have a nice long toilet paper holder in there,” he said, fading down the hall. We laughed and nudged each other gaily.
And so the evening went. Jokes, drinks, smoking and dancing. Cliff told us about his job in advertising. And the way he talked about it, it didn’t even sound like a job.
“Why, I’m probably responsible for that perfume you’re wearing right now,” he said to Barb.
Barbara, God love her, just looked at him and said, “Nope, she is,” and pointed at me.
By the end of the night we were all old friends and I couldn’t be happier. I remember thinking that night, when a moment came where I could actually be alone in my head, Dot, enjoy this while you can. Situations and circumstances will change, but your level of happiness, if such a thing is quantifiable, cannot get much higher that it is right now. And I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Jerry Ripley
When I first moved to Los Angeles a couple of years ago, it was the most exciting thing I had ever done. It’s also been the scariest. When I was a kid back in Kansas, I honestly could never have imagined such a world existed. The nightlife here is amazing. As a teenager I had heard rumors of a few gay bars existing around where I lived. I was fascinated by the very idea. Early on in my childhood I knew I was attracted to certain boys, but even the idea that I could feel about males the way one is supposed to feel about females, and one day actually act on those feelings, seemed, frankly, unfathomable. And I was too scared to ask too many questions about bars, my feelings, and so on, simply based on the idea that being too eager or detailed would make me feel very uncomfortable and make me look awfully suspicious.
Like most wonderlands, however, “Gay L.A.,” while exciting in its own way, is also the victim of a double-edged sword. The sheer number of gays here makes the whole experience incredible, but at the same time the sheer number of gay people here puts L.A. in the spotlight and makes gay men—and women, but mainly the men—the victims of harassment, entrapment, the works.
From the grumbling I hear around town, a lot of this is due to Police Chief Parker. “Wild Bill,” they call him in the bars. He encourages pretty aggressive enforcement and from the stories I hear, it sounds like arrests are way up. Why, just last week, I had a problem myself, and I guess you could say that it’s left a strange pit in my stomach ever since.
It was a Friday night, and I had had a pretty long day at work, and all I really wanted to do was get something to eat and go home and hit the hay. So I made a quick stop at the drugstore so I could get a hamburger at the counter and maybe pick up a few things. Well, it may have been the hamburger, or the chocolate malted talking, but for some reason I really got a second wind. By nine o’clock I had already been at home for a few hours and I still wasn’t the least bit tired, so I decided to take a walk. Well, the next thing I knew I was on Melrose Avenue, and I was staring up at a sign that read The Windup. I had heard about this place, so it was interesting to kind of happen upon it.
Like I said before, a lot of gay bars cater to different crowds and from what I had heard, The Windup had an interesting owner. She’s supposedly a grandmother in her sixties, straight and very protective of “her boys.” My understanding, too, is that she frowns on overt homosexuals and treats them rudely until they take the hint and leave.
Always eager to see what L.A. has to offer, I figured I’d go in and see what it was all about. The first thing I noticed was how quiet the bar was. It had a respectable feel to it. It really could have been a regular corner bar like you see in the movies. There were no women. And as I had heard, there was nothing flamboyant about the place, including the customers themselves.
Not wanting to linger for too long, I approached the bar and took a seat next to a nice-looking guy who struck me as a bit conservative at first. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, but nevertheless still in good shape. He had a pleasant smile and nodded at me.
“What are you drinking?” he said.
And that’s when I saw her. The owner, I presumed. She was really looking me over, up and down.
“I think I’ll have a beer,” I said. I guess I never considered myself sophisticated enough to order those hard drinks you always see guys like Cary Grant ordering in the movies. And I guess I always feel kind of self-conscious ordering a beer, especially since I always order beer yet try to sound like it’s something I’m carefully thinking over.
“A beer for my friend here, Michael,” the forty-something stranger said to the bartender, with a smile and a light tap on the bar.
“Thanks,” I said. I’m still having trouble getting used to the idea of people buying me drinks. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was in fact paying for me or not. And, of course, it would have been a little mortifying to ask.
After that, we introduced ourselves and shook hands. I couldn’t help but notice that the owner was still looking my way.
“What do you do, Jerry?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Do you have a card?”
It took me a little off guard. “Um, yes I think I do, in my wallet.”
This stranger, whose name was John, continued looking at me in such a way that I almost felt obligated to take out my wallet and show him my card, which I did.
He looked at it, smiled and turned to the owner of the establishment, who was standing at a wall near the bar. He held up my business card in a subtle way. Then he said, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Helen. He’s an attorney for a private firm.”
She cocked her head and smirked. “Yes, I understand it takes years to get cards like that printed up. And that you have to know someone important.”
I laughed. I liked her.
“Don’t worry,” said John. “She’s always suspicious of new fish.”
“Well,” I said, getting into the act. “I’m flattered that she thinks I’m good looking enough to be a Hollywood Reject.” It was a term I had only recently picked up.
John laughed and slapped me on the back. We shared a few more drinks and a couple of cigarettes and made small talk. He worked at M-G-M as a writer which I thought was pretty exciting. After a while he suggested we head back to his place for “a game of gin rummy or something.”
When we got outside, I asked about his car.
“I never bring my car to places like these,” he said. “Cops have been known to jot down license plates.”
So we walked, which was fine by me, being that it was such a beautiful Los Angeles night. Besides, I’m new to all this, and gee,
I guess I still get pretty nervous about, you know, being with a new guy for the first time, so I didn’t mind if it took a little while to get there. I even stopped myself from asking how far it was because I thought that might sound too anxious.
“So, a lawyer, huh?” he said, smiling. “I guess you must be very aware of the penal codes in this state.”
“Yes, to a degree, but remember, I don’t practice criminal law,” I said seriously. This made him smile even more. I didn’t even get what he meant until a moment later. Gosh, I felt stupid.
“Of course, I’m always willing to learn more about new penal codes,” I added. I’m sure it sounded clumsy.
“What’s it like to write for the movies?” I was eager to change subjects.
“It’s all I ever really wanted to do. Most of the men I work with are just doing it for the money, which is actually quite good. But what they really want to do is pen the great American novel. Me? I’d like to do it for the rest of my life. And the thing is, I’m always writing, even when I’m not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean little exchanges and situations I have with people in grocery stores, parties, bars. Anything could end up in one of my pictures. The only thing, of course, is that I have to make my scenes, at least the mushy stuff, about a man and woman versus two men.”
“Gee, you think anything that happens between us could ever end up in your writing?” I smiled at the thought of it. I guess that would be a sort of immortality. I also wondered if being with John would feel like a lot of pressure. Almost like I had to keep all my “dialogue” entertaining.
“Well, I don’t think anything that’s going to happen between us could ever make it past the censors.”
I felt my face flush.
A half a block later we arrived at a nice little bungalow-style house on Waring Avenue.
“This is it,” he said.
“Nice.”
“Well, it’s around the corner.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but I didn’t ask. I just followed.
He led me around the corner through an archway that was bordered by a wall and the garage. We proceeded along a very pleasant pathway adjacent to the side of the garage, which was covered in ivy, until we reached a small cottage which connected to the back of the garage.
The Duplex Page 2
