The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  “Well, be it ever so humble…” John said, smiling.

  We entered, and I have to say that it was humble. But I mean that in the nicest way. Quaint, quiet, and neat. It seemed to be a smaller version of the main house and made me think of that old Frank Sinatra song, something about a cottage and moonbeams and tulips or something.

  “Well, sit down,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.” He turned on his hi-fi and walked over to a small kitchen. “So, you sticking with beer, or are you ready for something a little stronger?”

  I told him beer would be fine. Then I felt a little involuntary shiver. It had nothing to do with being cold. It was my nerves, I guess. I looked over at John who didn’t seem to notice, which I was grateful for. He took out some glasses, and just as they clinked together, I heard another sound. A tapping. John froze, and I immediately felt my heart revving up.

  The sound came from outside. “Open up. It’s the police.”

  “Shit!” John said, his hand slapping against his forehead and then running over his head, all the way to the back of his neck. He sighed, and I visibly saw his body deflate in resignation as he headed toward the door. I felt like crying as I watched him go. He looked like a scared little puppy about to be swatted on the nose with a newspaper. Then he seemed to get an idea and gestured wildly to me to get in the bathroom.

  As I was closing the bathroom door, which was next to the front door, I noticed that he had changed. He was standing tall by now and had put on a look of guiltless concern. “Yes, officer. Anything the matter?” I heard him say through my door.

  “Never mind, Bub. Where were you tonight, and where’s the fella you picked up? And don’t lie, or you’ll only make things worse.”

  I was trapped. I looked at the small window and didn’t see how I could possibly make it out of there quickly and without a lot of noise. I’d also wondered if that’s why he sent me in there, with the hopes that I’d climb out. Sort of the old lawyers’ maxim: No body, no crime. So to speak.

  “I was in a bar.”

  “Yeah? What’s it called?”

  “I don’t remember, officer.”

  I heard the policeman’s voice get a little fainter, and I figured he must have been looking around as he talked, although you really could see the whole place practically from the front door. Maybe it was my chance to go for the window, I thought, and then I heard a tap. It sounded like a nightstick.

  “Come on out of there, you. You can powder your nose later.”

  What choice did I have? I had no idea if it would help or not, but I flushed the toilet and wet my hands in the sink before I opened the door, holding a hand towel.

  He scoffed at the towel in my hand, which I realized was now shaking. It’s hard to fake indifference in a situation like that. I felt like a little kid caught by the principal and I didn’t know what was going to happen.

  The officer was a tall man. He was in uniform and had broad shoulders and a hard face. He was no Hollywood Reject, that’s for sure. He never would have made it on the lot. Even in his hat, which he hadn’t removed, I could tell his hair was cut short. Probably an ex-marine. None of this made it any easier.

  “All right, ladies, it’s late so let’s cut to the chase ‘cause I ain’t in the mood to fuck around. I know what you’re up to, and you know what you’re up to. Now this is a respectable neighborhood and—”

  “Officer, listen, this is all a big misunderstanding. This is just a distant cousin of mine from out of town. He’s just in from Kansas.”

  I was afraid that cop was going to hit John right there for interrupting him, but he just grinned and shook his head.

  Then his grin disappeared. “Shut up and cut the bullshit and don’t waste my time. Now listen, I’m not with the vice squad, but I still believe in following the law. I followed you two fairies back here so don’t waste my time.”

  “Officer, look,” said John.

  I wanted to die. Please be quiet, John, I thought. Are you crazy? My heart never beat so fast. My whole chest was throbbing.

  The cop took a step forward and got almost nose to nose with John. Oh, God. “If you interrupt me one more time, I’m going to shove this club down your fucking throat.”

  Then he pulled away while adding, “Of course, you’d probably like that.” John put his head down, and I could hear him exhaling hard out of his nostrils.

  Barbara Penczecho

  I am not a big believer in wishing and hoping for things. I really do believe that change of pretty much any kind, large or small, takes deliberate action. If I did not, I do not know that I ever could have made it as a lawyer. And now I am the only female attorney with the firm, though not the most feminine necessarily, if you know what I mean.

  But it was my father, maybe ironically, who told me to think for myself, to do what is right, and to never follow the crowd—especially if this crowd is composed of a bunch of knuckleheads. And in this vein, he and my whole family really, including me, held Jesus up as an example. The ultimate martyr. The bottom line is that it is not easy to go against the crowd. This, of course, was the same man who slapped me across the face when I decided to go my own my way when I told him how I felt about women. I will never forget that look of seething, burning anger in his face, his eyes bulging, bloodshot, the veins in his neck, the purple aura, I guess you would say, that replaced his normal soothing olive complexion. Every time I thought his anger had reached its zenith, he would ratchet it up for the next round. He came at me like a cyclone, his hands flying, along with the shouting of profanity and a few paraphrased Bible verses, interweaving the words in two different languages, but both fairly dripping in venom. And my mother, through my own tears and defensive hands, I saw her crossing herself, her head down, muttering, praying, and crumbling in the corner of her kitchen where she had so many times hugged me and soothed me after a difficult day at school and whatnot. I do not remember ever crying so hard. I was wailing and could not believe I stayed on my feet. Training probably. My father always taught me to never go down. Anyway, the pain of my father’s blows felt like nothing. They were like a dream. It was my heart. It shattered that day after feeling as though it had been squeezed—strangled by the hands of my father and obedient mother. I knew in that whirlwind of anger I would never see my family again. No more dinners every Sunday, the sounds and smells of my mother and all her sisters cooking and talking and laughing in the kitchen. But like my father had always taught me, I had to do what was right. And what was right was not living a life of misery and one that was filled with a denial of who I am and what I want. And, of course, my father did what he thought was right, too. My first girlfriend once asked me if I hated my father. “Absolutely not,” I told her. “He made me who I am.”

  I cannot tell that story without crying. Let me just…Anyway, getting back to change. I was saying that change doesn’t happen because of wishing and hoping, but sometimes I have to say that I do wish I had been born earlier. From my time out here I have learned that things have become tougher to deal with when it comes to Los Angeles’ Finest. It should not be this way—I mean the way the laws are and so on. My knowledge really began on this subject indirectly through my career.

  A couple of days into my employment, one of the secretaries at my office comes up to me during my lunch break. Her name is Agnes Pruitt, and she is an older woman, maybe early fifties, I would say. She is the head secretary and has been with the firm for over fifteen years. So, I am eating lunch outside on one of the benches in the courtyard of our offices, and Agnes walks up to me and says, “I know about you.” It sort of sent a chill up my spine. Obviously, I wondered exactly what she meant, but, of course, being a lesbian, that is the first thing that comes to my mind. Besides, there is nothing else to “know.” Well, it is pretty reflexive now, and my high school drama classes sure help, and I just right away shift into a character. Self-preservation, I guess you would call
it. My heart is beating. I can feel it, but I exhale in a way no one can tell, and on the outside I make myself completely calm.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. It is like the director has yelled, “Action!” I am performing now, and Agnes is the camera. Take one. I shrug my shoulders, narrow my eyes a little, like I’m tired and could yawn any moment. I smile very calmly as if I am a little confused but, of course, not the least bit worried about it. My speech is a little slowed down so as to not sound defensive. Bottomline, whatever I am feeling, if I do this the right way, will look the exact opposite on my body and on my face.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s a horrendous way to start a conversation. Please relax. I shall reveal my cards first.”

  With the exception of her Katherine Hepburn-like Society Sally accent, this could have been a conversation someone might have back in my old neighborhood. And these are not ones that go well. I mean when someone tells you to ‘relax’ that is usually your cue to do the exact opposite.

  She continued. “My name is Agnes Pruitt.” She looked around. Here it comes, I thought. “And I am a homosexual.” I guess they do things different here in California. Wow!

  She shrugged. “You may close your mouth now, dear.” I did.

  “How did you know about me?” I said. I felt like I was talking in code, as if some cop was listening to our conversation, and I still had not said anything incriminating. At least not yet. I guess I am a born lawyer.

  “Oh, don’t ask. I can just tell. But don’t worry, no one else can. You are not the least bit obvious. And, and I must say, that when I began our conversation so horrendously, you did a wonderful job of maintaining perfect calm and balance.” Then she laughed rather loudly, causing me to smile, and from her reaction, I must have had a look of curiosity on my face.

  “Oh,” she continued, trying to explain. “I’ve never been wrong, but I was just thinking, what if I had been wrong? How queer—oh, whoops, how strange, it would have sounded to you if you were straight, to have me walk up to you and just blurt out, ‘I’m a homosexual.’”

  We both laughed, and I wanted to hug her, but, of course, I did not.

  I could have talked to her for hours. And I did. But seeing as we both had to get back to work, those hours have been spread out, pretty much every day, on that same bench for several years now during lunch.

  And let me tell you, you can get a real education sharing a meal with a human encyclopedia, five days a week. Agnes or Mrs. Agnes Pruitt, as she is more formally known at work, became a missus at the age of sixteen when she became grief-stricken over her feelings for girls and overcome with worry that she might end up an old-maid one day. Two months later, after Mr. Pruitt died sometime during The Hundred Days Offensive during World War I, she became a widow at the age of seventeen. But she kept the “missus” as a perfect cover. She has never remarried, and, while she is essentially an old maid, she is not at all overcome by the idea and has had grief completely stricken from her life when it comes to girls now. Her words. What a wonderful person and dear friend she has become. And it all started with her “horrendous” comment.

  It has been great getting to know Agnes on a personal level, but I have also really enjoyed learning about Los Angeles and its gay subterranean culture. It is kind of amazing how much things have changed—for the worse—around here. Agnes has told me how many more people have come to Los Angeles since the war ended. Maybe that has something to do with it. More people, more activity. But it seems that homosexuals were far less harassed ten, twenty, thirty years ago in this city. There were fewer clubs for lesbians back then, but they were more open. Women could be more demonstrative with each other back in those days. You had your Marlene Dietrich types. Fancy. Women in upscale nightclubs, some in tuxedos and some in flowing gowns like at the Gypsy Room on Sunset Boulevard, where you could dance all night and publicly hug your partner with little to fear. Entrapment is something that men have to deal with constantly today, or at least with the fear of it. Women have it better in that respect, but we still face plenty of harassment. And there are raids on bars for both sexes.

  Over time Agnes has filled me in on everything about her life. All about the girls she has lost to husbands. And how lonely she feels sometimes without anyone. And how she just does not enjoy going out much anymore. She used to love to dance. And as I have learned about her life, I’ve also gotten an education about life in The City of Angels, which seems to have become less angelic. I guess. All this good old days horseshit.

  Every twenty years or so people bring up the good old days when they are talking about things that happened twenty years earlier. Sometimes about the very era they were knocking at the time when they were actually living it. Who knows, maybe one day people will talk about this decade as some kind of fabulous golden age. I don’t know. But anyway, you always gotta make the best of things no matter what. Forget the past. Don’t put it on some pedestal. That is what my father always said, and he never had an easy life, that’s for sure.

  I knew right away it was her. Agnes and I were having lunch together a few months ago, as always, but this time somebody else would be joining us. Her name is Michaela, but she prefers to be called Mike. Mike is an old friend of Agnes’, and they had not seen each other for a while. According to Agnes, Mike did not mind my being there too. Anyway, I’m no detective, but she was easy to spot. Short hair. Men’s slacks, shirt, and shoes.

  “That must be her,” I said.

  “Yes, yes. She looks terrible,” said Agnes, and she made that “tsk, tsk” sound.

  I did not know what Mike normally looked like, but she did look terrible. She was very skinny and looked as if she could have used a good meal. Her skin was awful, and she appeared to have some sort of nervous condition. She wore no makeup, which was not surprising. To tell you the truth, she conjured up images, to me, of those cons you see in those old gangster pictures—like she was on the run.

  “Hello Agnes. It’s nice to see you,” she said as she sat down next to us.

  “It’s wonderful to see you too, Mike.”

  She looked at me.

  “Hello. Barbara. Nice to meet you.”

  We exchanged not so special pleasantries, and Agnes and I ate our respective lunches. I could see that Agnes had packed an extra lunch for Mike, but she did not seem interested. Instead she began talking right away.

  “Well, things are getting worse,” she began. Then she glanced toward me and kind of gestured with her chin. “Are you sure she’s all right?”

  “Yes, Mike, I told you already,” said Agnes.

  “Well, things are getting bad. I’m being arrested almost every week now. The usual charge of masquerading, only now it’s like I’m on the LAPD shit list.” She looked right at me, I guess to see if I’d be shocked by the sailor talk. I didn’t blink, and she went on. “I’m on their list now, and I guess I’ve become a regular with them.”

  “Oh, you’re anything but regular, Mike,” Agnes said, smiling.

  “Tell me about it. Cripes. You know, sometimes they don’t even book me official. That way my friends and family have no idea where I even am for two days.”

  “Well, listen, dear,” Agnes continued. “Barbara and I checked the codes like you asked me to, and I’ve got some good news. The courts already ruled on this in 1950. Women are not breaking the law just because they’re wearing men’s clothing. Impersonation is no longer illegal.” Then Agnes handed her a piece of paper.

  Mike took the paper and sighed. She looked a little relieved. But her expression did not change much. “Okay. Okay, good. Now we just have to tell those goons on the beat.”

  Agnes looked at me like she expected me to say something so I grabbed the ball. “The fact that we got this information is a great start, Agnes. But listen, ladies, the law is one thing. Enforcement, that is another. Mike, basically you are probably going to have to wait to be arrested ag
ain, go to court, and present the judge with the penal codes.”

  “That shouldn’t be long. Until I’m arrested again, I mean. I’m surprised I made it through lunch.” I saw a faint hint of a smile.

  “Do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I wonder how come he didn’t know about this ruling. This is bullshit, ‘scuse my language. That law’s been on the books for five years now, and I’m jumping behind trash cans every time a black and white goes rolling by.”

  “Maybe he does know about it. But anyway, you will make sure he does now.”

  The problem is, there are not too many lawyers who are willing to specialize in this type of thing, especially not something as specific as masquerading. And from what I have gathered, those who do represent gays are often shyster-types who charge an arm and a leg to take the cases of scared homosexuals who are then raked over the coals because they are petrified of losing everything. Some of these lawyers are gay themselves and from what I hear, are often in cahoots with crooked cops who get a kickback for recommending them after a bust. A classic racket.

  When lunch was over, we said our goodbyes and wished Mike luck. I also gave her my card and told her to call me if her lawyer did not work out. It is not my area, but poor girl. I thought she could use someone on her side.

  Anyway, I guess it is stuff like this that makes me sometimes think I was born too late. And I do not know if there is such a thing as the good old days, but if there is, I do not think this—today, I mean—will ever be it.

  Jerry Ripley

  “All right now. It looks like you two faggots are in luck tonight. I just checked a little while ago and the fruit tank is at maximum capacity.” He shook his head in disgust and exhaled loudly. “Oh, God, this fuckin’ town.” He almost whispered this last part.