by Zack
“What, with your parents around?”
“They won’t care. It’s a big house. Anyway, my dad’s a cellist with some famous string quartet, so he’s not often at home. My mum spends whole weeks at our other place in North Wales, and my little brother is at boarding school. Honest. It’s not like you got tons of luggage with you. And it won’t be for long. I’ll call in on this guy with the flat tomorrow first thing.”
Gil said, “You never told me you had a brother.”
Mike gave a sly sideways glance. “He’s off limits.”
Gil spluttered. “I never—”
“Don’t get ruffled. Just kidding.”
Gil subsided. “Did you go to a boarding school?”
“For a bit, but I hated it, so my parents let me go to the local grammar… er, high school… But little Will’s been happy as a snot-nose there.”
Gil nodded, but his mind leaped to a new thought.
“Can we afford the rent?”
“After the wrap bonus and Union location overtime extras, we’ll be okay for a month or so, and I bet we’ll pick up some work before then… at least I will. You might have a tad more bother with sorting out the British Film Union, although you got your U.S. card, so it should be all right.”
“Okay, I’ll relax.”
Even in the short time the two boys had known each other, they had begun to develop a private language of their own, the shorthand of shared experience and common interests—not that they liked all the same things. Nevertheless, this exchange proved to Gil that there was still a great deal he did not know about Mike— witness the surprise of a young brother—and it was probably mutual. It had never arisen in chatting that Gil was an only child.
He knew what kind of movies his friend liked and the movie theaters he frequented (or “cinemas, because in England a theater is a place you put on stage plays”). Mike preferred art house fare, the films of the European nouvelle vague, or the movies of directors like Joseph Losey. Gil generally went for the more commercial stuff churned out by his native Hollywood.
He also knew that Mike loved dogs—he had stopped to talk to any rangy mutt that crossed their path in Rome—but would not own one (“too much trouble”). Still, there was obviously a lot more to learn, and Gil looked forward to doing so.
About two hours after leaving Rome, the plane began to descend over the sprawl of London. The city lay under a strong cross-light from the evening sun which had found a hole among the clouds shrouding much of the land below. Gil strained from his seat belt to look over Mike’s shoulder at the city passing below. Mike pointed out to him the silver thread of the Thames, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament, then the blocky scattering of factories along the Bath Road as they swept in ever lower. Suddenly the plane flashed over a narrow road and the Trident reversed its engines, slowing dramatically in mid-air. And then the runway was below, flashing white lines and a gentle touchdown, followed by the roar of the three jets as they reversed again to brake them quickly to a slow roll out.
The jet trundled along the taxiways and finally stopped adjacent to a sprawling terminal building. After a few minutes the door at the front opened and everyone grabbed their carry-ons and shuffled forward. By the time they exited at the top of the steps, the fugitive sun had vanished behind clouds and a chill wind blew across the airport ramp.
“Bugger me, but I’ve forgotten how cold my homeland can be.” Mike rubbed his arms vigorously as they stood at the top of the steps waiting their turn to descend to the waiting bus below. “I should have thought about traveling in something a bit warmer.”
Gil shivered in the breeze. “Surely summer’s barely over?”
“Summer? Shit, you really don’t know England, do you.”
The bus dumped them at a nondescript doorway in the belly of the terminal. At least it was warm inside, stuffy even. As they made their way with the other passengers, following signs to passport control and baggage claim, Gil had a sudden thought. He had confessed his run-in with the customs officer in Rome. “You Brits aren’t like Italians when it comes to customs searches, are you?”
Mike gave one of his irrepressible grins. “You should be so lucky, sunshine.”
“That’s not encouraging.”
“Oh, wish on!” Mike laughed cheerily. “This is where we part, sweet love, for a bit. You’ll have to go through the Aliens line.”
Gil looked up at the signage. United Kingdom Citizens covered a simple line toward a distant lectern guarded by a suited man. Mike gave him a brief wave and headed for the desk, while Gil joined the shorter but slower line under Non-UK Passport Holders. When he reached the small desk the man standing beside it took the passport Gil held out, glanced briefly through it, then looked up with a professionally neutral expression.
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“Erm, I’m not exactly sure, sir. How long am I allowed to stay?
“Up to three months. If you intend to study or work after that period, you’ll have to report to Lunar House in Croydon.” He reached under the desk and produced a small leaflet. “Details all in here. How to get there, what they will require, and the different kinds of visas you might be entitled to.” He took the passport behind his desk, stamped it and some papers which he tucked into it, and handed it back. “Next!”
It was with some relief that Gil found Mike waiting for him just beyond the screening walls of the passport control area. They made their way down the stairs to the carousels, joining others of the sound crew waiting for their suitcases to appear. Gil overheard Alan telling Mike that he was also waiting for the oversize items to come through, as they contained all the back-up film recordings. Mike looked alarmed.
“Haven’t they gone back to Hollywood?”
“No, no. Rosen and Mitchener opted to cut the film here in London cos it’s cheaper. He’s already got an editing team settled in cutting rooms at Shepperton. You didn’t know?”
Mike huffed. “No one tells me anything.” He turned to Gil. “We’d better keep our heads down. I don’t want to go bumping into that shithead. Still, Shepperton’s well out of town, so let’s hope he hasn’t any need to come into London. Oh, that’s mine—”
He grabbed at a passing suitcase and dragged it down. Gil’s battered offering came down the rollers a minute later. As Mike said his fond farewells to his friends on the sound crew, Alan drew Gil aside. “Don’t forget what I told you… about the lad in the sound transfer department. And if you’ve got any left over for me you can always find me in the Nellie Dean of an early evening.”
The first bit he got, the second was a mystery. Something else to ask Mike.
CHAPTER TWO
A Night in Paradise
In spite of what Mike had said about his parents often being away, when he phoned ahead from Heathrow he found they were at home, and they were there to greet him and Gil when they finally concluded the Underground haul from the airport to Swiss Cottage.
Mike led the way across a traffic-clogged intersection. “Just a short walk down the hill to Aberdare Gardens.”
Gil’s head was swimming from the unfamiliar dusky scenes that had swirled past on the tiny “tube” train before it plunged under the earth into a round tunnel barely larger than the carriage they were in. Then the chaos of the interchange at a station called Green Park, where they switched from the Piccadilly to the Jubilee line.
He couldn’t help comparing the London Underground rather unfavorably with the sparkling new Rome Metro, although the trains on the recently opened Jubilee line were better quality. But on the close of a weekday, the carriages became unbearably packed. Gil, however, recognized the benefits of having come from so far out of the city on the Piccadilly line. It meant they had seats and, as the train filled up the nearer the center
it got, he was rewarded with eye-level delights of the bulging pants and jeans of a group of standing youths. One almost thrust his package in Gil’s face. Mike caught his eye and grinned happily.
It was a relief to climb up the steps out of the stuffy Underground at Swiss Cottage, although with the stalled traffic across the large intersection, the air could hardly be called fresh. But to a born and bred Los Angeleno, used to that city’s smog, it wasn’t so bad.
They strolled down the hillside beyond into a district of quiet, tree-lined, three-story terraced houses, built in red brick, with ornate bay windows in a style he recognized as Victorian. Autumnal night was falling and although Gil had become a little more used to the chill, he looked forward to changing into something a bit warmer than the short pants and T-shirts they had left Rome in.
It was easy to see that his friend had inherited his looks from his mother and his sense of ever-ready humor from his father. Both the elder Smiths made him feel welcome as he ate his very first English meal.
“When Mike told us you were American, Gil, we thought we’d make you feel at home with something familiar.” Mrs. Smith smiled at him warmly as she placed a large bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken on the table. “Adrian went up to the Finchley Road to get it specially.”
“And it’s made from specially imported American chicken,” Adrian Smith joked. “And what do you boys want to do with yourselves, hey?”
“Grab a quick shower, Dad, and then I thought I’d take Gil into town to see some sights.”
“And take in a discothèque or two, no doubt, knowing you…?”
“Disco, Dad. The ‘teck’ bit went some years back.”
“I’ve put towels out on the camping bed in Mike’s room for you, Gil,” Mrs. Smith broke in. “The green ones are yours.”
“Gee, thanks, Mrs. Smith.”
“Don’t wait up,” Mike told his parents as they prepared to leave an hour later. Over a black T-shirt Mike wore a short lightweight black leather jacket, what he referred to as a “bum-freezer.” Gil watched Mike’s well-revealed ass as he swung out of the gate onto the street, firmly snuggled into a pair of black jeans. He hadn’t often seen Mike in long pants while in Rome.
Gil was back into what he thought of as his traveling Levi’s. He wondered idly whether there were still any cum stains on them from his unexpected encounter with the customs officer on arrival in Rome. Still, he hadn’t worn them since, and they had been freshly cleaned before he left L.A. Given his lack of wardrobe, he wore his pale fawn shirt over the white undershirt and the brown velvet jacket he had dressed in for his tryst with the Swiss businessman Grünli. I’m a walking sex-fashion victim, he thought with some amusement.
“Where are we headed?”
Mike consulted his watch. “Just gone nine-thirty. I reckon we’ll go into Soho for a quick pint in the Nellie Dean, then onto Paradise. You’ll like that. It only opened late last year and it’s supposed to be the biggest in Europe, big as any New York disco, they say.”
“Uh-huh, there it is again. What’s the Nellie Dean?”
“Pub in Dean Street. Quite a few of the film people hang out there after work… and often into the night as well. Thought we might put out some feelers for any work going.”
“Oh, right. It’s just that Alan mentioned it to me. I didn’t know what he meant.”
As they dipped down into the Underground Gil had a sudden thought. “Won’t we bump into Rosen or some of his goons?”
“Nah, mate. The Nellie Dean’s for working folk, not assholes like Rosen.”
“And Paradise…?”
“Gay, of course, and he won’t go there either, though he might send someone in to pick up some kids for him. Rosen doesn’t dance.” He paused to pay for tickets. “Just likes others to dance for him. We’ll have to cab it back. The tube shuts down before we’ll want to come home.”
The Nellie Dean was an experience. Gil only had a hazy idea of what an English public house would be like and he was fascinated at what, in his limited experience, seemed similar to a bar in Los Angeles and the great differences. One of the latter being the British beer. Mike got him a pint of bitter.
“Jeezus, it’s fucking warm!”
Mike shrugged. “How it comes.”
“And sour. Wow, that’s awful.”
“They don’t have Bud. Get you a Coke instead?”
“You’re laughing at me.” Gil grimaced and took another experimental mouthful. “Maybe I’ll get used to it…”
“You can have a cold lager, if you’d prefer, but…” he leaned close to whisper. “Bitter gives your cum a really good taste.”
Before Gil could find a suitable riposte, Mike turned away to greet Alan. The sound man squeezed through the noisy crowd with a youth who was evidently tagging along. Mike acknowledged the boy familiarly as he and Alan closed up to hear each other over the rowdy atmosphere.
Gil found himself drawn to the boy, who shyly returned a slight smile over a glass of something transparent, which he held up close to his chest like a shield. He looked an inch shorter than Gil, probably younger too, he considered. What Gil thought of as English peachy cheeks framed a slightly upturned nose. His thick hair, shading from fair to darker streaks, was cut in a semi-pageboy look. Widely spaced cat-like eyes of a striking green color gazed back at Gil for a long moment before sliding away. Freed of the disconcerting gaze, Gil snuck a glance lower down at the off-white cord pants, loose on the lower leg but tightly fitted around the upper thigh and hips. Good package.
Gil realized Alan was speaking to him. “Sorry?”
“This is Trevor,” he shouted over the noise. “Said I’d introduce you.”
“Oh, right…”
“I’ve told him all about you.”
Trevor compressed his jaw in an apologetic gesture and threw another startlingly frank look at Gil. He hunched down slightly in his canvas jacket, as though making himself appear shorter would disassociate him from anything Alan might have said.
“Hey, Trevor.” Gil held out his hand, which the boy took in a strong grip that belied his somewhat fragile appearance. He just nodded his greeting and let Gil’s hand go.
Not interested, Gil thought with a slight stab of disappointment. What am I thinking of? I’ve got Mike now. And nothing would break that up. So he thought.
The loud chatter made conversation difficult but Gil managed to join in when Alan recalled some of the funny things that happened on the set in Rome. Trevor said nothing, just gazed at Gil with an unblinking stare that only occasionally flicked away.
“Right, we’re off, guys,” Mike announced, downing the last of his beer. With some relief, Gil placed his three-quarter-full glass with its silly little handle down on the nearest table, where it skittered on a pool of spilled drink. (He’d been quick to spot that the handle was redundant; all the drinkers held the mug around its scalloped circumference, with just one finger through the diminutive loop.)
“Where to?” Alan demanded. When Mike told him, he said, “Oh not for me, Paradise is too bloody noisy.”
“What about you, Trev?” Mike asked, but the answer came from Alan.
“Oh Trev’s got his boyfriend to go home to, haven’t you, mate. And what’s more, you’ll cop it from him if you don’t get going soon.”
“You’re right, I’d better. Bye.”
Well, Gil thought, at least it speaks.
It took them about fifteen minutes to walk down through Soho to a bustling open space with a tree-lined plaza in its center and restaurants, stores, and big movie theaters on every side. Gil read out the street sign above his head.
“Li-cester Square.”
“Lester,” Mike corrected. “Leicester Square.”
They walked through the crowds to the right side and Mi
ke led him to an unobtrusive doorway squashed between a fast-food joint and a movie theater emblazoned with giant advertisements for Fame. He pushed against the door and led the way into an extensive but narrow foyer, with a long reception desk on the left, behind which sat a guy taking entry fees.
Standing infront, a colleague checked to see all those coming in were of the allowed age. On the wall above the desk a discreet pink neon sign read PARADISE. Gil heard the faint discharge of electricity from its connections. Two sets of double doors took up the space at the far end. The pounding base resonance filling the hallway blared into brassy noise as someone came through the right-hand pair.
Gil suddenly felt nervous. He might be from L.A., but in truth he had little experience of clubbing. Most of his adolescence had been spent in movie theaters and working with his Super-8 camera, then attending courses on movie technique after leaving high school. Nightlife didn’t really come into it. He loved dancing, but that had been a mostly onanistic pleasure, shut away in his bedroom. If he’d ever thought much about the British, he had assumed they largely lived in quaint villages around a green space with a pond in the middle, and were a shy and retiring people. Meeting Mike had dented that view quite a bit and he looked on his friend as the urban warrior, swift with the quip, at home among crowds, and evidently a tried and true clubber.
The guy behind the table nodded in slight recognition and issued two passes in return for a bill, which reminded Gil that he had to arrange a bank checking account and, more immediately, exchange his roll of Italian lire for some English money. As they walked toward the doors he saw a slogan announcing that only persons over the age of twenty-one were permitted on the premises. He glanced at Mike, questioningly.
“It’s okay. They know me, and anyway they don’t care that much, so long as you don’t look like a complete chicken.”
The booming disco beat blossomed as Mike pushed through the twin doors. Gil saw a dimly lit flight of wide, factory-style stairs of perforated metal descending into the noise and flashing lights below. The stairs stood free of the basement walls, which widened out as they went down. The diminutive entrance to Paradise gave no indication of the size of the club, which looked immense.
