The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  “All right, girls,” the officer continued. Please let us off with a warning, I thought. I promise I’ll go back to Independence and try to turn my life around. “Let’s go,” he said. He pushed us in front of him and out the door and down the same ivy-covered walkway that had seemed so gentle and harmless just a short five, ten minutes ago. I wondered if we were going to regular jail, but I didn’t dare ask. It also occurred to me that if the jail was filled up, this guy might mete out his own form of punishment with his billy club. I wanted to make a run for it, but I was terrified at what might happen if I was caught.

  None of us said a word. Sometimes I’d feel the officer’s hand against my back. We just walked toward the corner. The one that John had led me around when we first arrived at his place. I noticed the officer’s car parked at the curb, but we walked right past it. I didn’t know what was happening, but I didn’t like it.

  It probably only took thirty seconds from the cottage, but it seemed like forever for us to reach the corner, which we turned. We stopped at the gate of the main house. The bungalow that I had originally thought was John’s.

  “Open it,” the officer said. I wasn’t sure which one of us he was talking to, but John opened the gate and swung it open.

  The officer nudged us down the path toward the front door. My first thought, for some reason, was that he was going to call headquarters and ask for backup. Pretty dumb, huh? If anyone could handle this job by himself, it was him. It wasn’t until he knocked on the front door that I realized what was going on.

  It took about a minute and a half before there was any kind of response. And while we waited, I couldn’t help feeling like the truant officer had tracked me down and was now about to break the news to my disappointed folks. Then the porchlight came on and a face appeared in the glass in the door.

  It was barely audible but I heard a woman behind the glass say, “Oh” as her eyes widened and the door was quickly opened.

  The officer removed his cap. “I am so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Cummins.” I guess he got her name off the mailbox. “But it looks like we have a bit of a situation here, Ma’am.” His face looked different to me now. It was sympathetic.

  Mrs. Cummins cinched the top of her robe at her neck. She looked to be about eighty. “Yes?” Her voice was shaky.

  “Ma’am, is this man a tenant of yours in the back cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, Ma’am, but unfortunately your tenant here is a homosexual and he invited this man over to stay the night with him.”

  “My word. My word. William, I can’t believe this. Is this true?”

  William? I thought.

  John, or I guess, William, could barely look at her. “Yeah.”

  The policeman put his hand on William’s shoulder and jerked it. “Speak up!”

  “Yes,” William said. He was staring at the ground.

  “Oh, officer, please, he’s such a nice young man, please, there’s no need for that,” said Mrs. Cummins.

  I noticed the officer purse his lips.

  “William,” said Mrs. Cummins. “I’m so sorry to hear about this. I’m very surprised and, I must say, appalled. You’re a wonderful tenant, but I’m sorry, I just can’t abide this. Not under my roof. You’re going to have to leave.”

  “Ma’am, if he gives you any trouble at all, please call us, and we’ll be happy to help.”

  I cannot remember my heart beating faster. William and I walked away from Mrs. Cummins’ house about as low as two guys could get. The officer walked several feet in front of us, having given us one last disgusted glare and a few choice words to remember him by.

  “I guess we got off pretty light,” said William, whispering. I sensed his feet slowing down, and I followed suit. “It could have been a lot worse. And you, you really got lucky.” We had almost stopped walking by this point.

  I couldn’t help but feel guilty.

  “You know,” he continued. “I write all this fast-talking, sui generis prattle for the movies, but it’s pretty tough stuff coming up with that babble in real life when you’re being jerked around by some thug with a badge.”

  I really didn’t know what to say especially since he had gotten the worst of it. I wanted to say “sorry,” but it just didn’t seem like he’d want to hear that, and nothing else seemed right.

  Then he stopped and shook my hand. He sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll take tomorrow off and look for a new place.” I heard his voice crack a little at the end.

  “Will you even have a job tomorrow?” I blurted out without thinking. I wanted to kick myself. Dammit.

  “Yeah. I don’t think that flatfoot over there is going to take this any further. I’m telling you, we got lucky. Lu-cky. Besides, Hollywood doesn’t have morals clauses, I mean not for writers. Unless they’re commies. They’d have to fire half their employees.”

  “All right, Ladies, that’s enough,” the officer called from his patrol car. “Kiss and say goodnight. Then you go that way, and you go that way.” He jerked his thumb, hard.

  I turned to start walking right away, but I guess William couldn’t resist. Backing up, he whispered, “I wonder how in the hell that big jerk actually thinks he made this city a safer place to live.”

  “Goodnight,” I said without stopping. I lowered my head.

  “Nothing good about it,” he muttered.

  As I walked home, I thought to myself how horrible it is to be gay. What an existence. What a way to go through life. I let the tears spill over and run down my cheeks, branding me, if only temporarily, and thought about how straight guys never have to go through this kind of thing. They just live… I don’t know. Maybe they have their own problems. Angry fathers wondering why you’re bringing their precious daughters back so late. Grilling you about how you’re going to support their daughter, should things come to that. Eh, it was crap. I couldn’t even convince myself. It just wasn’t the same. Overprotective fathers. That’s normal stuff. It’s nothing compared to prison, job loss, humiliation…I don’t know. I wished I was straight. I really did.

  When I finally made it home, it was about midnight. I looked around. I was in a daze. You better be careful, boy, I told myself. You could lose everything.

  Dot Johnson

  I could tell right away from the moment the conversation started that it was going to be an unpleasant one. That’s probably because we’ve had virtually the same conversation for several years now. Probably longer, actually. Oh sure, the names change. The circumstances and the specifics change. But in all its incarnations, the crux of it always remains the same: when am I going to settle down and get married? Of course the fact that I live with my mother—the driving force behind these conversations—doesn’t help matters any.

  In fairness, it’s not as if we talk about marriage all the time, but it’s always brewing, right there under the surface, ready to scald me at any time. In addition, over the years, I’ve developed a real sense for when that conversation is about to commence. And I’ve even gotten better at it lately, shall we say, as the topic seems to be surfacing with an ever-growing frequency, giving me plenty of practice, and how.

  To the outside observer it begins very innocuously. Like last night’s conversation.

  “Hello, Mother, I’m home,” I called from the foyer.

  My mother came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She had a big smile on her face. This scene—the whole scene—is so familiar to me. After all, this is the house where I grew up. 376 N. El Molino Avenue, right in the middle of Pasadena. And most of the neighbors from when I was a child are still living right here. And along with my mother, I guess they all watched me grow up too. I think that’s what I love about it so much. But at the same time, it’s what I hate about it as well.

  But please don’t get the wrong idea. I love my mother very much, and
I’m so grateful to her for all she’s done for me. She’s been a one-woman show from the time I was five years old. That’s when my father died.

  I don’t remember much about him, but my mother always reminds me that I was daddy’s little girl. I know he sold insurance and apparently he was quite good at it. And naturally being in that line of work, he was well insured himself, so Mother and I, thankfully, have never really faced much financial hardship.

  “Hello, dear,” said Mother, kissing me on the cheek. She handed me my small stack of mail, and I followed her back into the kitchen to keep her company as she prepared dinner.

  “So, how was your day?” she asked as she continued peeling her small pile of carrots. Mother had always wanted to become a teacher herself and is always very interested in my work. I enjoy teaching well enough, but I suppose I’ve never found it as wonderful as it seems to be in my mother’s imagination.

  I guess she was never prouder of me than on that first day when I went off to begin my new job at L.A. High School. I would be teaching four courses in history and two in English. I think in some ways she felt like she was doing it with me. And in some ways she was since she had been with me every step of the way, from guiding me into the right college, to helping me with my classes, and even finding me my job at the high school. Not to mention a lifetime of correcting my grammar.

  As a matter of fact, I think Mother was so determined that I teach school for at least a couple of years, that, unlike most of my girlfriends and their mothers, she was actually secretly afraid I might earn my M.R.S. before my B.A.

  I told her all about my day, and as usual she listened with great eagerness. And, of course, she was never shy about sharing her feelings and opinions with me.

  As we talked, I helped Mother chop celery. We were quiet for a moment, and she finally said, “Oh, you’ll never guess who I ran into today.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Dunphy. You know, Walter Dunphy’s mother?”

  I lit a cigarette and nodded. Mother continued.

  “Well, it seems Walter has just been made assistant manager at Thompson’s Appliances. Mrs. Dunphy says he’s doing quite well. And, you know, he still asks about you!”

  I blew smoke into the air and watched it dissipate into nothingness. “Mother, I don’t know what you’re so surprised about. He chased me all throughout high school.”

  “Well maybe it’s about time you let him catch you.”

  I turned my back, and stared at the sugar bowl, tracing its embossed design with my eyes.

  My mother’s voice softened only slightly, and I felt her hand stroking the back of my head. “Sweetheart, it doesn’t have to be Walter, but…honey, you’re almost twenty-four for God’s sake. It should be someone.”

  I felt my stomach tighten. I didn’t turn around. “I’ll be twenty-four in eight months.” I knew it wasn’t the point, but I said it anyway. I just hate when people’s arguments lack accuracy.

  My mother sighed. I felt her hand drop from my head. I could hear her walking away. “Sweetheart, I just want you to be happy.”

  “What makes you think I’m not happy?”

  I heard the smile in Mother’s voice. “So, there is someone? Oh, sweetheart, tell me all about him.”

  “I didn’t say there was someone.” I still couldn’t turn around. I continued to trace that silly embossed design on that, that G.D. sugar bowl with my eyes. “Mother, can’t you understand?”

  In my mind I saw my mother leaning against the kitchen counter, wringing her hands and shaking her head. I wasn’t her little girl anymore. She wanted to tell me what to do but knew in her heart she was powerless to do so. Maybe this made her even more resolute. More forceful. Frustrated by her clear-cut decisiveness and will that no longer had any real authority.

  Mother, can’t you understand? The words echoed in my mind, hanging out there like a wedding bouquet in mid-flight. No one, but no one, was going to look away until the darn thing was caught. But for me, it was like that bouquet was a ball of fire. And I was too close to the flame. I didn’t want her to understand. Not yet. And so I spun the conversation.

  “It’s Walter. I just don’t have feelings for him,” I finally said, tamping out my cigarette.

  “Feelings? Is that all you’re worried about? Good God, Dorothy. I know we’re women but you’re going to have to grow up sometime. You can’t let your whole life be ruled by feelings. If I had a doughnut every time I felt like it, I’d weigh two-hundred and fifty pounds. And what if people only paid their taxes when they felt like it? Why, the government would go broke.”

  I heard the click of her heels and felt her soft, warm hands on my shoulders. All of a sudden I was aware that my cheeks were wet, and I turned around and embraced my mother. It felt snug. Like when I was a little girl. I hoped she was done talking, but I knew she wasn’t, so I buried my head in her neck and held on.

  “Oh, my baby. Feelings are nice, but they’re no substitute for doing the right thing.”

  Tears flowed down my cheeks, and I made no attempt to stop them. One of us was missing the point.

  Jerry Ripley

  I felt pretty shaken up by my recent experience with William or John or whatever his name was. At first L.A. felt like an amusement park to me. You know that feeling when you’re a kid and one of those traveling carnivals comes to town and you’re running all over the place wondering what to do first? And the only bad thing about going on that ride is that you can’t go on those three other rides over there, and have a hot dog and cotton candy and look at the sideshow acts all at the same time? Well, that’s how I felt at first. The adrenaline was pulling me in ten different directions all at the same time. I guess I knew eventually I’d get to everything but was too anxious to know what to do at any single moment. Then I ran into that brick wall with William. And that’s when reality hit, and brother, it hit hard. Without warning, that amusement park, which I seemed to be experiencing through the eyes of a child, started throwing up “out of order” signs on their rides. They were out of popcorn. And soda. The lines were too long. The prices were too high.

  At least that’s how it felt. Suddenly I was no longer welcome. I can still see all the faces in my head. William’s, that cop’s, William’s landlady’s. She seemed like a sweet old lady. I want to hate her almost. But I can’t. I mean I don’t like the condemnation, but is it really her fault? Or that big cop’s fault? I guess you could say he was just doing his job. I don’t know. Maybe I’m sick. I must be. Even the Psychiatric Association says so. These are doctors. Trained professionals, after all.

  At the same time, though, this seems to be who I am. My reality. It’s like I’m a blind man. I know I’d rather see, but I can’t.

  Anyway, feeling as low as I did, I decided to take in a movie. Forget about bars awhile. So what do I do? I go downtown to the Paramount right on the border of Pershing Square. Not in my own neighborhood, but Pershing Square. You know where gay men cruise at all hours, hidden by all the overgrown vegetation. I don’t know why I picked this theater, but I did.

  Sabrina was playing, and I guess I figured I could use a laugh or two. It was around four in the afternoon, and I had a little time before the picture started, so I decided to take a short walk after purchasing my ticket.

  “I heard this is a gay little picture.”

  I didn’t have time to form an image in my mind before turning around to see who was talking to me. What my mind did seem to have time for, though, was worry. A sick jumpy feeling came over me. It was a hollow feeling and one that I probably wouldn’t have had just a few weeks ago.

  He was a good-looking man, but in a rough, unpolished sort of way, and I was attracted to him immediately. He was around six-feet tall and had dark hair and light eyes. For some reason William Holden popped in my head, maybe because I had Sabrina on my mind. Anyway, this guy and Holden did look a little similar, espec
ially the smile, which was prominently displayed.

  “Huh?” I said, not knowing what else to say. I think I was just buying time.

  The man nodded toward the film poster. “It’s supposed to be a gay little movie. I like gay pictures myself. Nice way to forget your troubles, if you know what I mean.”

  He stopped and looked at me, and I looked back. I guess it was my turn to talk, but before I could, he pushed the point. “Do you know what I mean?” He smiled again and stared at me. It was a devilish smile. Like he cared but, I don’t know, like his ego would carry on triumphantly no matter what I said.

  I felt a shiver, and not because it was cold out. I wondered if I was picking up his meaning correctly, or if there even was a meaning at all to pick up. Maybe he just thought this was a gay picture. You know, the way most people mean it. But he sure was using the word a lot.

  Thoughts started bursting in my head like he’s too good-looking to be a policeman. While another thought quickly reminded me that that was the stupidest thing I had ever thought. I had turned into a mess in a matter of seconds. Then the obvious hit me—the banter of a Hollywood Reject and a gay man really is indistinguishable. By the time you find out which one he really is, it could be too late. I told you it was obvious. But whatever it was, the notion didn’t help any.

  And so a part of me wanted to say goodbye right there, and another part of me wanted to see what he was going to say next. And I didn’t know which of my voices to listen to.

  I must have made my decision because I kept on talking. Just don’t say anything stupid, I told myself. “I guess I do. Are you going to see it? The picture I mean.”

  “Only when my eyes are open. Sometimes I get a little distracted during movies.”

  I didn’t know if he was a cop or not, but either way I did not feel more relaxed. Anyway, we decided to enter the theater, and he suggested we sit in the balcony. There were only a few other patrons scattered around, and he picked seats way in the back, and I felt myself following like a lost puppy.

  His speech seemed to come naturally and I found him interesting, even when we were just making small talk. I guess I did okay, but the butterflies seemed here to stay, and I was extremely aware of everything I said, scared to death that the slightest slip would land me in jail.