Rubyfruit Jungle

by Rita Mae Brown

I walked down northeast 14th Street to Route 1 and there I parked my suitcase on the ground and stuck out my thumb. Nobody seemed to notice me. I was beginning to think I’d have to walk to New York when a station wagon with Georgia plates pulled up.

  A man, woman, and child sat inside looking me over. The woman motioned for me to hop in. She started right up. “My husband thought you must be some stranded college student. Came on down here for a break and your money run out, did it?”

  “Yes ma’am, that’s exactly what happened and you know I couldn’t tell my parents I was down here. They’d have fits.”

  The man chuckled. “Kids. Where do you go to school?”

  “Oh, I go to Barnard up in New York City.”

  “Oh, you do have a long way to go,” the woman said.

  “Yes ma’am. And I bet you all aren’t going up that far are you?”

  “No, but we’re going as far north as Statesboro, Georgia.” She laughed.

  “You got spunk hitching,” her husband admired. “I’ve never seen a girl hitch before.”

  “Maybe you’ve never seen a girl broke before.”

  They both roared and agreed that the days of flaming youth were back in style. They were nice people, homey, suburban, and boring, but nice all the same. They warned me not to get in a car with more than one man in it and to try to hold out for a car with a woman passenger. When they left me off at the Gulf station in Statesboro the man gave me a ten-dollar bill and wished me luck. They waved goodbye as they drove off into the sunset of the nuclear family.

  I took up under an aging tree drenched in Spanish moss. After three or more hours a car finally pulled over. The driver was near my age, clean-cut, and alone. Well, if he tries anything, I have a fighting chance.

  “Hi, how far are you going?”

  “All the way to New York City.”

  “Come on in, you hit the jackpot. I’m going to Boston.”

  I slung myself into the low Corvette and prayed he wasn’t recently released from a mental institution. Maybe he should be praying: I was the one just out of protective custody.

  “My name is Ralph. What’s yours?”

  “Molly Bolt.”

  “Hi, Molly.”

  “Hi, Ralph.”

  “How come you’re hitching? That’s dangerous, you know that?”

  “Yeah, I know that, but I didn’t exactly have a fat choice.” I launched into my rap about running out of money. Ralph was short, muscular, and had blond, curly hair. He went to M.I.T. and majored in nuclear physics. He was a friendly young man, interested in me, but too polite to lunge. I had latched onto a lucky ride. All I had to do was talk, keep him entertained, and take a turn at the wheel. He was in a hurry to get back so we skipped a potentially gruesome motel scene. The glove compartment was crammed with dex so there was no danger of flaking out. We talked nonstop all the way up the Eastern seaboard. Finally I understood the quantum theory and Ralph understood the rise of Joseph Stalin. At last, when we came through the Holland Tunnel, I understood that there never was a city like New York. I was coming into a foreign land without one friend and very little money.

  “Molly, let me drive you to your door. I don’t mind at all.”

  “Thanks, but I’d like to walk around a little. Sounds corny but I really want to do it. Why don’t you leave me in Washington Square?” I had read somewhere in some trashy book that the Square was the hub of the Village and the Village was the hub of homosexuality. Ralph dropped me right in front of the arch. He gave me his address, a kiss, and a cheery good-bye and drove off in a puff of carbon gas. I had to fight back an urge to call him back and tell him I didn’t know one damn thing about this monstrous city and why not switch schools to New York and be my friend.

  The temperature was in the thirties and all I had was a thin jacket with a crew neck sweater on underneath plus $24.61 in my pocket. The Square was not teeming with flashy gay people as I had hoped. I started up Fifth Avenue and tried not to cry. Faces were coming at me in all directions and I didn’t know one of them. People were pushing and hurrying and no one smiled, not even a little grin. This wasn’t a city, it was some branch of hell, the Hanging Gardens of Neon burning into my skull. Hell or not, there was no place for me to go so this would be my place.

  I got as far as 14th Street. The mad shoppers rushing for Mays and Kleins nearly trampled me. I turned around to go back to the Square, at least it was quieter there. It was getting late and an acid drizzle was coming down. Already I could feel the pollution caking in my nostrils and my eyes burning from the fumes. Hunger hit like a semi since the dex wore off, but I was afraid to spend any money on food. I knew I couldn’t spend any on a room either. It looked as though I was going to curl up in the fountain in the park and freeze to death. My hands had begun to crack and bleed from carrying my suitcase in the cold. My toes were ice cubes. I didn’t have any socks. Who wears socks in Florida? The Square was deserted save for a few couples strolling through and a drunk down by the chess tables. Now what the flying hell am I going to do?

  I turned toward New York University and studied the buildings, dimly perceiving they were some type of institution. Maybe I can sneak in there and sleep. I went to the main entrance but it was locked. Then I trotted around to a side entrance on University Place. That door was locked too. Well, I could run around the block all night to keep warm. As I turned, I noticed a wrecked Hudson car. Faded red and black, crumpled up in front with all the tires robbed from its wheels, it slumped in front of the Chock Full O’ Nuts. It looked beautiful to me and it was home.

  I went over to crawl in the back seat only to find it was occupied but the front seat was empty and the steering wheel was busted so it wouldn’t get in the way. I opened the door and slid in. The young man in the back seat lifted his hat off his head with a flourish. “Good evening, Madam. Are you going to share these accommodations with me?”

  “If it’s okay with you I am.”

  “It’s okay with me.” He tipped his hat back over his eyes, pulled his heavy coat over his shoulders, and fell asleep.

  The next morning I woke up with him leaning over the front seat poking me. “Hey babe, come on. We gotta get out of here. Time to hustle.” I sat up and looked at him in the light. He had the longest eyelashes I had ever seen on anyone. His skin was the color of coffee after you put the cream in and his eyes were clear, deep brown. He had a bristling happy moustache over a full, red mouth. In short, this guy was gorgeous. I was trying to remember where I was and trying to find out if my limbs had dropped off from frostbite.

  “Come on. Grab your suitcase and let’s go to Chock Full. There’s a sister in there who will feed us for free. Up!”

  Knots of sleepy students were rushing to make their nine-o’clock class. The revolving door to Chock Full was spinning like a top, and I was so tired I went around twice before I could get myself out. We sat at a counter toward the back and a waitress in a blue uniform served us coffee and donuts. She wrote out a make-believe slip and winked at my roommate. “Got yourself a new girlfriend, Calvin?”

  “Not me, I don’t go in for girlfriends.” He winked back at her.

  I looked at him with grateful eyes. “You gay?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say I was gay. I’d just say I was enchanted.”

  “Me too.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Right on. I was afraid you’d be some straight chick up here for an abortion, something like that. Then I’d have to take care of you.”

  “Why, do you usually take care of the results of unchecked heterosexuality?”

  “Every now and then.”

  “You’re not doing such a good job of taking care of yourself if you’re sleeping in that car.”

  “Saves rent. Actually you were lucky to find me at home last night. I usually sleep at the house of whoever I go home with. You get breakfast that way too. But you’d better not plan on that. Lesbians don’t pick each other up on the street. I know a couple bars we can try out tonight and
maybe you’ll get lucky. You shouldn’t have trouble, you’re good looking and young, two priceless attributes.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pass that by.”

  “Oh, I know. You only do it for love.”

  “Uh—well.”

  “Do you want to keep sleeping in that car and freeze your ass?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’d better hustle a little, sweetheart.” He gave me a pinch on the elbow.

  The rest of that day Calvin showed me the subway systems, how the city was laid out, and how to steal food from supermarkets, delicatessens, and even hot dog vendors on the street. We walked all through the Village and he introduced me to the street people—well-dressed numbers runners, hookers, and a few pushers here and there. I liked them. They were the only people who smiled at me.

  “Molly, you got any money?”

  “$24.61.”

  “If you aren’t gonna hook, babe, you aren’t getting no apartment on that dustpile. Now I happen to know how you can make a simple $100 in a half hour and you don’t have to fuck or even take your clothes off. Can you dig that?”

  “Tell me the deal first.”

  “There’s this guy, Ronnie Rapaport, the grapefruit freak. This cat gets his kicks out of being blasted with grapefruits.”

  “Come on, Calvin.”

  “No shit, that’s how he does his thing. All you gotta do is go up to his apartment and throw grapefruits at him and he’ll pay you $100 in cash. See, part of his thing is he has to have a new person do it every time. Too bad because I’d be up there every night throwing yellow curves at him.”

  “How can he afford it?”

  “They say his old man owns a big department store somewhere out in Queens. Who knows. You ready?”

  “Ready-o.”

  “Did your cheerleaders do that too?”

  “I think everybody’s does.”

  “Were you a cheerleader?”

  “Nah. I just dated one.”

  “Oh wow, I used to date a football player.”

  “Well, we’re just All-American queers.”

  Calvin laughed and danced his way over to a red phone booth filled with the day’s collection of papers, cigarette butts, and fresh urine. He called Ronnie and the deal was set. Tonight was fine with him.

  “Old Ronnie was practically coming over the phone when I told him you were 18, sweet, and all that good shit.”

  “Great, maybe he’ll give me a bonus for my age.”

  “Too bad he’s a man, too bad for you I mean. Maybe if it were a woman you’d get a little buzz off it, you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t think Greta Garbo’d give me a buzz if I had to pelt her with citrus.”

  Ronnie had a huge duplex on Hudson. Skylights covered the ceiling and the furniture was stainless-steel-chrome expensive. By looking at him, you couldn’t tell he was into grapefruit. He didn’t wear any fruit symbols around his neck or have embroidered seeds on his shirt. He shook my hand and took me into the next room. Calvin waited in the big living room and ate pears. I entered another huge room that looked like a photographer’s studio, except that it was completely bare except for an enormous pile of grapefruit piled on top of one another like cannon balls. Ronnie took his clothes off. He was well muscled with a patch of curling hair between his breasts. He walked over to the end of the room and stood there quivering. I waited for Carmen Miranda to burst through the door in a giant banana hat. Seeing my hesitation, he said in a gentle voice, “Okay honey, I’m ready.” So I picked up a grapefruit and threw it at him. Shit, I missed. It splattered against the wall. This is going to be harder than I thought. I picked up another one and carefully took aim. Squish! I got him square in the middle. He squealed with delight and got a hard on. This isn’t so bad. I like throwing things. By now I was into hitting Ronnie. I aimed for his cock. Bulls-eye. He loved it. I aimed for his left shoulder. Only grazed him. I started firing grapefruits like Stonewall Jackson’s artillery at Manassas. Blam, blat, splat. Ronnie howled like a wounded dog and I threw the grapefruits even harder, concentrating on his thighs and pulp covered prick. I was down to the last round of grapeshot and began to worry that maybe I’d need more to finish him off. Ronnie knew himself very well because as I picked up one of the remaining four grapefruit he came in an arc of sticky liquid and collapsed on the floor a lump of spent pleasure. I felt as though I had single-handedly won the Battle of the Bulge. I went over to pick him up. “Molly, you have a wonderful arm.” Covered in pink and white pulp he whispered of the delights of my accuracy. Too bad I don’t like grapefruit or I would have licked it off of him I was so hungry.

  “You okay, Ronnie?”

  “Fabulous. I’m simply fabulous.”

  “Uh, I’m glad to hear that. If you don’t need me further I think I’ll roll on.”

  “Oh, of course. Let me give you the money. It was worth every penny. Last person I had with an arm like that throws for the Mets.” He got up and walked into the next room where Calvin had wiped out the entire bowl of pears. Ronnie handed me five twenty-dollar bills, new. “Calvin, thank you for bringing me this love. She was too, too perfect. Come back sometime, Molly. I can’t do it twice with the same person but come back and talk to me. You look like a nice kid.”

  When we hit the street, the cold seemed twice as bad probably because I was so hungry. “You ate all the fruit, pig. I’m starving. Where can we go eat where they won’t take all my hard-earned cash?”

  “I know where we can eat for free. Come on.”

  We went to The Finale. Turns out Calvin used to have a thing there with the waiter so he slipped us steak. My stomach had shrunk so much that I couldn’t eat but half of it. We put the rest in a doggy bag and returned to the cold.

  “I’m not ready to go back to the car and freeze. Let’s go to that bar you were telling me about?”

  We went over to Eighth Avenue and turned in at a quiet-looking place with a black-and-white-striped awning. Inside, the room was packed with women and a straight john here and there. We pushed our way to the bar.

  “Two Harvey Wallbangers,” Calvin yelled. “Is it okay if we spend some of your loot?”

  “Sure. You got me the job, so you ought to have part of it.”

  “No thanks. All I want is a drink or two, then I have to go out and hustle for a place to stay tonight. Too damn cold in that car. First let’s see if we can get you set up. Who knows, maybe some lady will be kind and put you up without having you put out. Oh, here comes a bull and she’s heading straight for you. Christ, go to bed with her and she’ll crush you.”

  Sure enough this diesel dyke barrels down on me, slams on her brakes, and bellows, “Hi there. My name is Mighty Mo. You must be new around here. I’ve never seen your face before.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’m new.” God, the Mo must stand for Moron.

  “Ma’am? Why honey, you all must be from down South. Ha. Ha.”

  If she weren’t so damn big I’d belt her one right now. Yankees are compelled by some mysterious force to imitate Southern accents and they’re so damn dumb they don’t know the difference between a Tennessee drawl and a Charleston clip. “Yes, I’m from Florida.”

  “You must be crazy. Why did you ever leave that sunshine to come up here to this cold witch’s tit?” More laughter.

  “Guess I like cold witch’s tits.”

  She thought that was a witty reply and nearly knocked me over with a bellylaugh. “That’s a good one. Speaking of tits, sugar, are you butch or femme?”

  I looked at Calvin but there wasn’t time for him to give me a clue for this one. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Now don’t be coy with Mighty Mo, you Southern belle. They have butches and femmes down below the Mason-Dixon line, don’t they? You’re a looker baby and I’d like to get to know you, but if you’re butch then it’d be like holding hands with your brother now wouldn’t it?”

  “Your tough luck, Mo. Sorry.” Sorry my ass. Thank God she spilled the
beans.

  “You sure fooled me. I thought you were femme. What’s this world coming to when you can’t tell the butches from the femmes. Ha. Ha.” She slapped me on the back fraternally and sauntered off.

  “What the flying fuck is this?”

  “A lot of these chicks divide up into butch and femme, male-female. Some people don’t, but this bar is into heavy roles and it’s the only bar I know for women. I thought you knew about that stuff or I wouldn’t have sprung it on you.”

  “That’s the craziest, dumbass thing I ever heard tell of. What’s the point of being a lesbian if a woman is going to look and act like an imitation man? Hell, if I want a man, I’ll get the real thing not one of these chippies. I mean, Calvin, the whole point of being gay is because you love women. You don’t like men that look like women, do you?”

  “Oh, me, I’m not picky as long as he has a big cock. I’m a bit of a size queen.”

  “Goddammit. I’m not either one. Now what the fuck do I do?”

  “Since you’re here, you’d better choose sides for a warm bed.”

  “Shit.”

  “Ah, come on, it’s not that bad for one night.”

  “It seems to me that if I say I’m femme then the Mighty Moes of the world will descend upon me, but if I say I’m butch then I have to pay for the drinks. Either way I get screwed.”

  “The human condition.”

  “Oh no, here comes another one. Well she looks like a woman so that’s a point in her favor. She also looks like a good forty if she’s a day and totally wasted. Damn, son of a bitch, hell—I can’t hack this. Come on, Calvin, let’s split.”

  Back on the street again, I felt myself getting used to the city. “Look, I’m going back to the car. You go on and pick up a trick. Don’t worry about me. It’s too cold for rapists to be roaming the streets. Anyway at least they won’t ask me if I am butch or femme.”

  “Nah, I don’t feel much like hustling anyway. I think I got the clap. Let’s go on back to the car.”

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll find an apartment and we can both live there. No more cars. Okay?”

  That night it was so cold I took the few clothes out of my suitcase and covered Calvin and myself with them but it didn’t work very well. We finally gave up on sleep and huddled together in the back seat waiting for the sun to come up and Chock Full to open so we could warm our guts on hot coffee.