I was just about to send some money to the Gay Community Services Center—the outfit run by Kight and Kilhefner—when something made me call Bill Legg at One Incorporated. (Actually, I had a reason for calling him, I wanted to know how to make the check out to One so that it is tax deductible.) In the course of our conversation, he told me that he and Troy Perry have lately been seeing Yorty24 and also the District Attorney, and have arranged to consult with them on gay problems. “Some people tell me, ‘They’ll use you politically,’ and I answer, ‘Why not, we’re going to use them,’” Legg said. So then I asked him about the Gay Services Center, and he said that, whenever anybody applies to them for help, they try to make him into a revolutionary activist; they are radical about this and declare that anyone who isn’t with them is against them. Of course Legg is prejudiced. He sees all other gay groups as johnnys-come-lately, trying to grab the credit away from Veteran Warrior One. But what he said was just what I suspect about Kilhefner—Kight I’m not so sure about, but he’s certainly slippery. So the result of talking to Legg was that, rightly or wrongly, I didn’t send the Gay Services any money, after all. I must go down there, though, and see for myself.
To return to December 12 in New York: That evening we went to a party, given by some rich guys for a mural which had been painted for them by a friend of Mary Louise Aswell25—I can’t be bothered to go into all this more explicitly. Our reason for going was entirely that Vera Stravinsky, Bill Brown and Paul Wonner were coming also. Vera had to leave soon—she was as wonderful and stylish and gaily worried as usual—but we stayed with Bill and Paul and had supper with them later. From them we gathered that their retreat to New Hampshire is already a disaster, at least in Paul’s eyes. They are cut off from their friends, the snow is a bore and the neighbors are hostile and dishonest. While I was out of the room, they asked Don if we would come up there for Christmas. Don replied tactfully that I simply couldn’t stand the cold. Paul later told Don that he hates Vera. Don says this is quite natural, because he feels that he isn’t welcome when they entertain Bill Brown. Probably Paul’s resentment is really directed against Bill, but he finds it easier to vent it on Vera, whom he doesn’t live with.
The next day was the day I hurt my ankle. We had a lively wordy lunch with Glenway [Wescott], full of compliments to both of us and Proustian digressions which would have been pages long in print. Really, he seems unable to stop talking and perhaps hardly aware of what he is saying. In the afternoon, there was another rehearsal, at which we learned that Barton Heyman, the potential troublemaker, had been obliged to give up his part and fly to the Coast to see his sick mother. The substitute was an unimpressive-looking balding actor named Tom Tarpey,26 who turned out to be excellent and a true professional; he had mastered the whole of his part including the chant by the next morning.
From the rehearsal we went to the Oak Room at the Plaza, where Truman Capote was waiting for us, planted in a corner with his stomach in his lap. He didn’t look well but he was very cheerful. He told us about his great problem, should he give a reading of part of his new novel in Carnegie Hall? If he did, all his enemies and all the people he had put into the novel would be sure to be there, and perhaps he’d be involved in libel actions. . . . But we felt that he had already decided to give the reading, for he already knew exactly what he would wear, a dark grey sweater with a black bow tie, tuxedo trousers and black pumps. The real object of the reading, as he presently admitted, was to prove to the world that this novel does indeed exist, or at any rate large bits of it.
We came out of the Oak Room and left the building by the side door which opens onto Central Park South. I don’t think I was the least bit drunk; I had had two dry vermouths, nothing more. But I slipped on the bottom step. (People told me later that it is well known to be dangerous because too narrow.) I fell quite tidily, without dirtying my suit or cutting my hands or scraping my knees. But there was this horrible feeling—more than just pain—as if I had twisted my foot off. I felt I was going to faint. I nearly did. Then I was all right. Don held me, and Truman came out of the Plaza and made a tremendous demonstration, “Oh, poor Baby!” etc. He wanted to take me to a hospital but I wouldn’t go. We went back to the hotel and the house doctor was phoned to. He advised us to get a bag for ice cubes to put on the swelling, and I lay there and felt the pain drain away, and the adrenalin start to give me a big positive lift. That night, I slept perfectly, without having to use any pills.
(It occurs to me that I left out two very important things, when writing about our lunch with Glenway. First, that he told us he believed he had had a stroke, a few days previously—this might account for his slightly incoherent ramblings. Second, that he said he had had to face the fact that his journals weren’t nearly as comprehensive as he had imagined they were. One of his prospective publishers had announced quite brutally that they weren’t interesting enough to print. So poor old Glenway, heroically, is sitting down to go all through them and fill in the gaps.)
December 25. A very dry hot Santana27 is blowing. We went down on the beach and the sun was nearly too hot to lie in. Don went in the ocean. I paddled. It was absolutely beautiful, except for the little gusts which blew handfuls of sand over us every few minutes.
Last night we went to a movie, The King of Marvin Gardens (wonderfully photographed, but that was about all we could say) and two parties. The first was given by Garys Essert and Abrahams. There were very few people there when we arrived, because it had been going on since midday and was to continue till midnight. But peace was tacitly made, which had been our object in going; and I had a long conversation with an attractive boy in spectacles named Rick San[d]ford, who told me that one of his youthful daydreams was to be drowned in the Titanic. He is going to send me some stories he has written about his earliest sexual experiences. The other party was at Joe Goode’s, with the usual gang—Billy Al, Penny, Bob Grah[am] etc. It was intimate and snug and Joe and Mary Agnes served a Fortnum and Mason Christmas pudding and Dom Pérignon. Like Billy, Joe is rather fond of these little displays of luxury living.
I asked Don this morning where he would most like to spend Christmas. His unhesitating answer surprised me a bit: with Salka, Peter Viertel and Deborah Kerr. Second choice, Marguerite [Lamkin], David Hockney. Third choice, Dodie and Alec Beesley.
My weight is now down to 151.
Early on the morning of the 14th, the hotel doctor, Dr. Joseph Pincus, finally paid us a visit. His chief concern was with my medicare coverage—he merely glanced at my ankle. He was like an insurance agent. He made me feel I was about to be processed— ambulanced, x-rayed, put into a cast and reduced to invalidism. Don became desperately depressed and suggested that we leave for Los Angeles instantly. He saw the accident as the start of a repetition of my sickness during our visit here last January. “We’re even in the same room,” he said grimly. From his point of view, the spraining of my ankle was psychosomatic; I did it because I hate being rushed and hate New York because it is the city of haste. I wanted to slow everything, including Don, down. As for myself, I couldn’t confidently tell him this was nonsense. I think it may well have been true, or at least as true as any other explanation. However, as I pointed out, we had to go to the orthopedist first and get me fixed up; I couldn’t travel as I was. And the orthopedist, Dr. Fred Hochberg, was young and efficient. He x-rayed my ankle, said it wasn’t broken—at, least not in a major way; a small bone might be cracked, but he didn’t think so. He taped it up in a compact manner, so I could get a shoe on. (The ankle was swollen and discolored because a ligament was torn.)
So the psychological clouds lifted. We decided to stay. In the evening, Don went to see Joe Brainard and I hobbled across the street to see sex movies. The hotel porter provided me with a weird aluminum contrivance, fitted with four small feet. It took the weight off my ankle but threatened to put so much strain on my wrist that I could easily have sprained that. (The next day I exchanged it for an ordinary walking stick.)
The
two sex movies were The Boys in the Sand and Bijou. I had seen the former already, at that same theater, on February 2. I found the blond boy in it more attractive this time and I jacked off while watching him being fucked by the black telephone linesman. The only really imaginative moment in the film is in one of the other episodes, however. The blond boy is lonely. He sits beside his swimming pool playing with his cock or runs with his dog on the beach. Then, one day, he sees an ad in a newspaper—we aren’t shown what the ad says, only that the newspaper is gay. He comes home, writes a letter. Then he waits. Days pass. He calls at the local post office and picks up an envelope containing a small box. He returns to his swimming pool, opens the box and takes out a large pill. He throws the pill into the pool. The water foams violently. Then a big black-haired boy with a muscular brown body pops up out of the foaming water, grins at the blond boy and swims over to him. They have each other, every which way, beside the pool. Later, we see them walking along the road to the post office, fully clothed, with their arms around each other. As they pass the post office, a rather absurd-looking queen comes out of it. He is eagerly reading the same gay newspaper. The blond boy and the dark boy grin at each other. I wonder if the idea for this came from something in The Arabian Nights?
Bijou has an extraordinary opening. We see a young construction worker returning home from his job. He is being cruised by a man in a car—at least, it looks that way at first. Then it begins to seem that the driver of the car is really interested in a girl, whom we pick up walking in the opposite direction, toward the construction worker. At length—and all of the opening of this film is told at length, with the slowness of an Antonioni—worker and girl arrive on the opposite sides of the same street; they will pass each other as they cross it. But now the driver’s car swerves into the intersection and knocks the girl down, apparently by accident. The driver gets out and bends over her. She is unconscious, maybe dead. The shock of collision has flung her purse some distance away from her. The worker picks it up surreptitiously and hurries off, hiding it under his jacket. He gets to his room and opens the purse. Among the various objects in it is a card with the name Bijou on it and an address. The card says that one must go there at a certain time. After this, there is at least one reel of pointless dawdling, while the young worker showers and plays with his cock; it is established that he is thinking entirely about fucking girls. Then, finally, he goes to the club Bijou. An old woman, probably a man in drag, signs to him to enter. He gropes his way along dark passages, sees a lighted notice telling him to take his clothes off. He takes them off, walks farther until he finds himself in a room full of guys, all naked. They handle his body. He doesn’t seem to mind a bit. And soon he is taking part in a slow-motion stylized homosexual orgy which lasts until the end of the film. You never see what happened to the girl and the driver of the car, and you never know why she had that card for the Bijou in her purse.
December 26. Two more parties last night, one given by Jennifer and Norton Simon, a catchall affair, in which his relatives and friends, rather than hers, seemed to predominate. At least two of Norton’s relatives appear to be retarded, one of them probably dangerous; she went around clutching a small red box. Ben Weininger, Jim Charlton’s analyst-guru, is a [. . .] false-innocent, in my opinion.28 Jennifer was in a party daze and took very little notice of us. Norton ditto. Later we went on to see Leslie and Michael Laughlin, where we were much more warmly welcomed. But oh thank God Christmas is now over. One should always spend it in China.
On the 15th, we had supper with Vera Stravinsky, Bob Craft and Ed Allen, at the apartment. I didn’t enjoy it very much. There is a bad atmosphere. Bob was bossing Vera, telling her to have the drinks at one table when she wanted to have them at another. She told him, “I shall do what I like, this is my apartment.” She laughed at Don and me as she said this, but I felt friction, perhaps even some hatred. Vera I shall always adore, but I feel myself becoming estranged from Bob. He is full of cleverness and contempt. And, when Vera had been showing us her paintings and we came back into the living room, we found Bob and Ed whispering together like two sneering courtiers of an aged queen.
On the 16th, there was a frighteningly strong, icy wind. We saw Julie in The Last of Mrs. Lincoln. Julie was just about as good as she could possibly have been, considering the play. Actually, the play isn’t nearly as bad as the critics have said; it is very informative, and the tragedy and comedy of it are well balanced. What is lacking is the admission that Lincoln must have been largely responsible for his wife’s madness. He looms in the background, but merely as the usual political plaster saint. In the evening, we had one of those duty dinners with Virgil Thomson. The food was delicious. And I am sort of fond of Virgil. But being with him is such a terrific production; you have to work at it every instant. Among the guests was Lorna Levant, one of Oscar’s daughters, who has grown up to be a rather attractive bachelor girl in the music world; she works for John Houseman.
December 27. Don drew Jim Charlton, yesterday morning—a gesture which pleased and touched me and also impressed Jim, who later told me that he had felt very flattered. Then Jim and I had a goodbye lunch at the Bellevue—goodbye for a long time, probably, since Jim says he isn’t coming back here next Christmas; he doesn’t want to see Hilde and he feels that his ties with former friends here have weakened. We talked of his getting me an invitation to speak at the university, so I could come and visit him over there. He has definitely opted for Hawaii, or maybe for Japan. He feels that he has a life in Honolulu, but he declares that he would much rather not live alone. I still feel that there is strong affection between us. It was sad to see him go.
Later, Don and I went to the vigil of the Holy Mother puja, at Vedanta Place. The singing was wonderfully sweet. Jim Gates played his violin and Peter was at the hand drums. Didn’t get to speak to either of them. Asaktananda, for all his seriousness, conducted the ritual with complete informality. There was a lot of laughter from the monks and nuns inside the shrine; I don’t know what about. When it was my turn to be touched with the relics, Asaktananda said, “Chris, I thought you were still in New York!”, in a tone which seemed more suitable for a tea party. This sort of behavior on sacred occasions is so characteristic of the Hindus at their best and most lovable. Swami came into the shrine, but only briefly. We saw him later. He was complaining of giddiness again.
On the 17th, Bob Regester took us out to lunch at a restaurant called The Monks’ Court, with George Cukor and three others. I guess the lunch was chiefly in honor of George, who has been touring the lecture and T.V. circuit, talking about Travels with My Aunt but chiefly trying to boost the sales of Gavin’s book on him; he is indignant because they have been so poor and because, he says, his publishers have done so little to help. Bob was breathlessly aware of the importance of this social occasion and anxious to be a perfect host. He had rented a limousine and provided champagne for us to drink on the way to the restaurant (where the waiters were all dressed as Catholic monks). Bob himself looks ill, and admits that he has been told by his doctor to lay off liquor; but he did take some, nevertheless. I found his eagerness and anxiety far more touching than it was tiresome; we just had to do our best to be appreciative. It was a hellishly cold, miserable day, and the restaurant was plunged in gothic darkness but otherwise quite snug. When the sun shone weakly into it for a few moments through a grilled window, it looked like a Piranesi dungeon.
In the afternoon, we went on to see Sam Waterston in Much Ado About Nothing, which was played in the style of a musical, with a brass band and 1910 costumes. A car drives on stage and backfires. Balloons fall from the ceiling. Sam played Benedick, coming back from the wars in a moustache and a Teddy Roosevelt uniform. He was loud and hammy and confident and the audience just loved him and the whole show. I think it would seem like a miracle to Londoners, after the respectfulness of the Old Vic.
In the evening we had supper with Hugh Wheeler. I find him fascinating, chiefly because he seems so enigmatic, alw
ays withholding something, and yet he is warm, not in the least cagey. He talked a lot about this musical, Irene, which Gielgud is directing and which may or may not be a thundering disaster. Hugh’s indignation, as he tells these stories, is peculiarly British. He revels in it.
On the 18th, we had our dress rehearsal in the afternoon. Anita Loos and Paulette Goddard came to it and loyally laughed and applauded. No one else did (I think many of them were from the New Phoenix Repertory Company, so they were being dis-loyal.) Jacqueline Brookes and Robin Strasser were even worse than usual. The lighting had been done only that morning, very carelessly. Sam Waterston, after the speech which ends, “I’m all alone,” was left grovelling in front of the seat, brilliantly lit. We waited, sweating, for the light change. It didn’t come. So poor Sam had to hoist himself up onto the seat, sit there with egg on his face, and count up to a hundred before starting to describe his vision. We were in despair.
And then the classic thing happened. The evening performance was—well, not marvellous but infinitely better than we could have hoped. Larry and Sam were in their best form. Gordon Hoban was excellent. So was Stephen Macht. So were the Swamis. Jacqueline Brookes managed to get a few laughs—though she was still wretchedly inferior to Florida Friebus. Robin Strasser didn’t altogether disgrace herself. We had only one bad moment. In order to correct the afternoon’s goof, we had asked for a total blackout when Oliver gets up onto the seat. But the audience took this as a signal that the play was over, and many of them applauded. (This incident was referred to by the critics.) Nevertheless, the play was very well received, with laughter in all the desired places and real enthusiasm at the end.
The evening audience included Julie Harris and Jim Murdock (who now calls himself by his real name, David Baker), Virgil Thomson, Paul Cadmus, Glenway Wescott, Myrna Loy, Hugh Wheeler, John Houseman, Hal Prince. We had recklessly invited between forty and fifty people. (A bill arrived today from the Phoenix Theater for half the amount of the tickets, seventy dollars; we are splitting the cost with them.)
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