by John Rechy
In Lance’s life—as I was to hear it from the whisperers—in Lance’s life (which, measured by the conquests that equal Success in that world, had been a meteoric, blazing ascent), there had been one very significant incident which in that tight-knit world was now being recalled with vindictive delight. The trap was being set, and this incident was chosen to mark the beginning of the downfall. Although it had happened many years before, during the time of Lance’s unquestioned reign, it was the point which the whisperers chose to focus on.
In Hollywood, Randy is a well-known figure—a still-good-looking, masculine homosexual who, the whisperers have it, pushes narcotics. His thicklashed lids are always about to close, when he reveals his eyes from behind the familiar dark glasses. Once, he had played the drifting scene—the wanderer into the world of the active homosexual, all the more desired because he did not yet belong to that world—then. Because that was Yesterday. Now, in his 30s, be had crossed the line. And Randy, in the expression of the whisperers, Had Been Had. He had shifted roles. He was now a hungry searcher. Nightly youll find him, high or almost high, in one of the queer bars. Whereas once he had drifted into the lives—and masturbatory dreams—of others, now others drift in and out of his life. Randy had long acknowledged the hunger: His life was the cramming of night experiences. In recognizing this, Randy had acknowledged his fate and now hurled himself willingly into it.
I was walking into the Pirate’s Den one night with Randy when a lisper gushes: “Randy-dear! You just missed Lance.” Randy didn’t answer. He moved hurriedly to the back of the bar. “Still not talking to him?” the lisper called after him. “Well, youre too much. Cant forget Laguna Beach, can you, sweetheart?”
Randy and I sat at a table, near the jukebox—its bright colors splashing courageously into the dark bar. Suddenly Randy said bitterly: “That fuckin Lance! Why doesnt he go away and stay away, or die—anything; just so I wont hear about him any more, wont know hes even around.” He removes the sunglasses, squints at the people at the bar, puts the glasses on disgustedly. “Same fuckin faces, night after night. Man, if I pin the scene with you, you can still get out before it’s too late. And I dont give a damn how cool you think you are, youll get Caught and get Caught royal. Shit, man, I wasnt queer when I came on this scene. Sure, I’d make it with the fruits, take whatever I could from them—but I wouldnt put out. . . . Then I met that fucker Lance. . . . But I got one big satisfaction: If that son of a bitch had stuck with me at Laguna, he wouldntve got into that mess. Thats what that silly nellyass queen was coming on about when we came in.”
In a world as ingrown as that of the bars, it is not rare for two people who have just met to pour out the intimate details of their lives; and Randy says: “See, man, I was going with Lance—more or less going with him, thats about the only way you can describe it with Lance. And we used to go out to Laguna Beach that summer. Well, man, someone told him something about this Esmeralda Drake—this old auntie whod kept him. Someone told him Esmeralda Drake had just had a heart attack or some other fuckin thing; got taken to the hospital. Well, hell, Lance never gave a damn about that poor old bastard—he took that auntie for every cent, then he threw him out of the house he’d given him. Well, we were on the beach with Chick and them, and Lance had a great tan—always in the sun—but when he hears about how Esmeralda Drake just had a stroke, he turned yellow, like he was painted or something, and he says, ‘Ive got to go to him right away.’ I said what the fuck’s the matter with you? that poor old sonofabitch doesnt want to see you, after what you did to him. Man, Lance locked that bastard out, called the cops that he was breaking in. Anyway, Lance says: ‘Youre right, he wouldnt want to see me.’ And thats when it started—like suddenly it wasnt Lance any more. He began cruising up and down the beach like some hung-up fairy that hasnt had any dick in months. He went in swimming, splashing around, showing off. He’d never done that—he didnt have to show off. He was so greatlooking, man, everyone came to him; he didnt have to say a word. He could be in a bar, alone—not talk to anyone, just glance at who he wanted and sit there and wait, and you couldnt take a bet in that bar that in five minutes he wouldnt have the cat he was after. But, Christ, that day, at Laguna, hes talking to everyone, rushing into the bar by the beach, drinking. And Lance didnt drink, man—thats the truth. I said, ‘What the hell’s wrong, you wanna get drunk?’ He says, ‘Yes, I wanna get drunk.’ I said, ‘Why?’ To celebrate,’ he says—he actually said that: To celebrate! And, man, all this cruising is bugging me. Like I say, I hadnt been strictly gay then, but Lance is a charmer—he was bringing me out fast—wowee! . . . Now there I was with him, and that motherfucker is cruising up a steaming storm. Well, it got real late, the sun was going down, and it got cold, and we went into the bar—that queer bar on the beach. And Lance is still drinking. I tried to get him to come back to the hotel. But he wouldnt, he kept saying, The celebration isn’t over!’—and, yeah, he keeps saying something about his new life is starting. . . . Then these two wise-ass marines walk into the bar—they werent queer, they were straight; just pinning the queer scene for kicks. And Lance says, ‘I want those two.’ Well, hell, I told him get the fuck away from me. And Im watching him coming on with those two wise-asses. Finally I split, didnt even go back to the hotel. I went back to Hollywood. And the next day I read how this actor (you know how the L.A. papers play things up: if a guy’s in the movies, they call him a moviestar—well, Lance never was that tough in the flix, but the papers played it up like he was—and it must have been some bitching gay editor anyway)—so the papers say how this moviestar nearly got killed out in Laguna, how he jumped off a cliff, broke both his arms. It didnt give the details, but it was clear what happened, man. You didnt have to be there to know. Lance is coming on with those two, and those two straight studs like: ugh-uh, no-sir, much-later, not-having-any. And this is putting Lance on—hes got this high opinion of himself—and he says he’ll drive them to the base, starts to put the make on them—in the car (which wasnt like him, then—I have to say)—and they still: not-having-any. So Lance says get the hell out of the car. And they come on mean with him—like clip the fuckin fairy. And Lance gets out of the car—he was drunk, anyway—and those two try to roll him. But he was broke—I know because I’d been with him—and they throw him over the cliff—like some common, helpless queer getting rolled. . . . Well, shit, I know you hear other stories—how they tried to make him, and he fell over by accident Bullshit! What I told you is The Truth. And I know it, because I know that sonofabitch. . . . Anyway, I havent said a fuckin word to Lance since that night, and thats been years, and I dont even wanna see the bastard. . . . And, man, like I say, I still havent pinned what the scene is strictly with you—but I wanna warn you: Thats one cat to keep away from—that fuckin Lance O’Hara. . . .”
“I saw you talking to Randy the other night at the Pirate’s Den,” says Chick to me. I ran into him at the Green bar. “Babe, let me warn you about Randy, hes one of the most dangerous people to know in Hollywood. The cops watch him all the time. Everyone knows he pushes—and takes the stuff himself. Hes always high—and he was probably trying to get you to push with him. Well! Hes trash! He uses marijuana—and worse!—to make his tricks—hes that low—at least I buy them Food. . . . And by the way, have you eaten yet? . . .” He was maneuvering me toward the corner. On our way there, he catches sight of Jamey standing by the bar. This time Jamey is dressed like a motorcyclist, and this time he looks like a slightly masculine female motorcyclist, but not as rough. “Oh, my God!” says Chick, covering his face in pretended horror. “Isnt she a sick girl?—the bitch. I dont even talk to her any more. Shes evil. . . . Anyway, I was telling you to keep away from that Randy—For Your Own Good—no matter what he promises you; hes a liar. I know this cute kid he told he was going to take to Las Vegas and spend all kinds of fabulous sums on him (which he hasnt got)—and thats how he made the kid—and then he gives him a phony phone number, after he’d already made him. . . . Do vou have my phon
e number babe? . . . Now listen to me, baby; listen to your mother—shes older and wiser, shes been around much longer than you have, and she knows what shes saying: That Randy’ll get you to push for him; hes ruined more fine trade that way, and then all theyre interested in is that dirty marijuana and everything, which makes it very difficult on we girls who havent got any—I mean, not that I’d ever resort to such vulgar tricks—because, like I always say, whatever I do in Bed doesnt harm anyone, but those narcotics—well!. . . Besides, hes been spreading all kinds of stories about Lance, since that time at Laguna Beach, and you know, whatever thev say about Lance, I love the guy—always have, always will. Hes done some pretty horrible things in his life, Im the first to admit that. Still, theres something about Lance that makes him Special. . . . Anyhow, it was Randy who started that story about how these marines tried to roll Lance at Laguna Beach (actually, when it happened, they were out toward Malibu)—and how they threw him over the cliff, and lemme tell you thats a beachy—I mean, bitchy—lie. No one ever even tried to roll Lance—no one could even think of it! He had too much Dignity, baby—he was like a King, and you knew it. But Randy goes around talking all kinds of dirt—like that those marines were straight. Babe, let your mother tell vou: Thev were as queer as I am. And they put the make on Lance—whod been drinking anyway, and Lance hardly ever drinks. Well, something happened on the beach that day, someone whod just come in from Hollywood told Lance how Esmeralda Drake the Third was dying or something, and Lance started drinking. It surprised everyone—Lance never gave a damn, and like I say he never drinks—but maybe he was just expecting he could get more money from the poor old bastard before she’d die—or maybe it was something else—who knows?—and Esmeralda didnt die, then—though someone told me the other day she got run over by this car crossing Hollywood Boulevard, and all I can say is: If shes still cruising the Boulevard, at her age, well, baby, she couldnt expect otherwise. . . . Well, when Lance heard about Esmeralda in the hospital, he tries to leave—and all we kids talked him out of it. Lance was great fun to be with, he would make a party. So Lance stays, but hes getting drunk. And these two marines at the bar start insisting they want to make it with him. Well, babe, I dont blame them: Lance was Famous from here to New York!—he’d been Pierce Flint’s lover, and he had affairs with Bruce Storm and Kipp Rugged—all those big Movie Stars. So, anyway, Lance keeps saying no to those two marines, he wouldn’t stoop that low—and they were common. But, remember, he was drunk—high! high! High! . . . Hi, Teddy! (Isnt that funny?—Teddy thought I was saying ‘Hi’ to him.) . . . Anyhow, I kept saying, ‘Dont go, Lance, youve been drinking.’ But he wouldnt listen to me. So they went off together, all three—and Lance was just trying to get rid of them without a public scene, I can tell you—because Lance never showed any Interest in them, he never showed any Interest in anyone, really—or he never used to,” he adds wistfully, then quickly: “Not that I believe all those rumors about him. Of course, Randy got real bitchy about that, and he started spreading stories like how he was straight until Lance brought him out—and, babe, that Randy was born sitting in the mensroom with the door open, thats how straight he ever was!. . . Not that I blame him being annoyed at Lance; he was with him at Laguna—after all! . .. Anyway, from what I know—and I know it like it happened to me—those marines start putting the make on Lance—in the car!!—and, babe, drunk or sober, Lance doesnt go for that common stuff, he puts them off. They tried to force him to stay—and thats when Lance jumped out of the car, and they chased him—drunk themselves and hot after him and I dont blame them—and Lance didn’t know he was on a cliff, and he jumped. An accident. Thats all it was. He broke his arm. And, babe, those evil jealous faggots went wild spreading stories. But everyone knew they werent true. Lance propositioning anyone! Thats Ridiculous! Ive known him for years—better than anyone else—and Lance just doesnt proposition anyone. Well, anyway,” he sighed sadly, “he didnt then—but I wouldnt know Now. Everyone changes so. . . . Look at me.” (Sigh. . . .) “You want? to go? to eat, babe? . . .”
4
The Chorus chooses sides, the Fates prepare to cast their lots: And when It happens—if It happens—will they allow Lance a graceful fall? Or will he topple from the heights on the debris of crushed egos?. . .
The Chorus waits for news from The Cliff.
Jamey was bursting with excitement at the Leopard bar. “I just saw Lance!” he announced to a large group. Tonight he is wearing beachcomber clothes. “And let me tell you!—hes stinking drunk!”
“Not Lance,” someone protests.
“Lance O’Hara—I just saw him. He looks like hes been drinking all day. Hes a mess!”
“Ive never seen Lance drunk,” said another.
“Except that time at Laguna Beach,” someone remembers.
“Hes been drunk all his life—with himself.”
“Well!” said Jamey, “Hes worse than all that. He almost collapsed at the Pirate’s Den, and they wouldnt even serve him a drink. They had to bounce him out! But thats not the best: He started fighting with Eddy—that cute bartender—and you know Eddy’s not too big and Lance is, and finally the three bartenders had to push him out, and Lance yelling—guess what he was yelling? Well! He says hes looking for someone! Isnt that: Too Delicious?”
“Did he say who he was looking for?” someone asked eagerly.
“Yessssss. . . .”
“Who?”
“Who?”
“Who!”
Jamey looked smug for a silent moment, like a messenger bringing the news of a battle won. As if spitting out poison, he blurts: “Dean!”
“Dean!”
“That little tramp?”
“Everyone’s had him.”
“He’s a thief.”
“Is that the guy that clipped Eddy?”
“Hes tust a kid—”
“Honey, hes a Mess.”
“I’d be ashamed to be seen talking to him!”
“And Lance
O’Hara was looking for him?”
“Thats what I told you, isnt it?” snapped Jamey, and the buzzing continued. Delectably aware of the excitement he’d created, Jamey slithers away, pretends surprise at seeing me nearby, and confides to me: “Ive got to talk to you, babe. I saw you the other night with Chick, and Ive got to warn you about that mad fruit—For Your Own Good. Shes vicious. Let me tell you what she did to this cute kid I know. She promised to take him to Las Vegas, spend all kinds of money on him if he’d let her make him—and then she gives the kid a phony phone number—. . .”
I left the bar—later—with Jamey and someone named Tim whom Jamey had just picked up. Alternately coming on with him, then with me—about how much Influence he still had at The Studios, Jamey, I figured, was taking no chance tonight: He would make it with the more readily available. As it turned out, though, Tim and I ended up together at another party—much later: toward early morning—in a house somehow like Death—or like that house in the Gloria Swansea movie where she went Mad: the death-house has bear rugs and crossed swords, a leashed monkey jumping on the stuffed velvet chairs. From somewhere, weird organ music is being played. On the floor, male couples danced holding tight to each other. I was getting high, and the figures on the dancefloor, hardly moving, gliding over the waxgleaming floor, were like shadowy sailboats on a frozen black lake. Beyond the tall wide windows, a garden slides into the side of a hill; and figures that I took at first to be statues would move occasionally, come together, separate like dark clouds. A youngman stormed in from the garden, tears streaking his face, yelling hysterically. “Im through with him, hes out there with Rick—I Am Through With Him—This Time For Sure!”
“Isnt it a drag?” I heard Tim say drunkenly—although obviously new to all this, he stares around him in fascination.
The host came to us. Appropriately, he looked like Dracula, with piercing unclothing eyes and red red lips. “You two dont seem to be enjoying yourselves. Come on, boys. . . . Still new at this? Well, I ad
ore you for it!”—tapping us understandingly on the back. “Would you two like another drink?” He faded away, returned with two small cups topped with whipped cream. “This will make you Happy,” he said. His eyes are like darts aimed between our legs. “Come on, lets get drunk! . . . Or would you rather take a rest, maybe? No one is using my Bedroom, Ive locked it up For Just Something Like This (arent I naughty?)—and we three could—. . .” But he was getting nowhere. With a sigh Dracula moved away, melting, disappeared into the garden. . . .
Suddenly I was on Hollywood Boulevard. The bright early sun crashes on me, colors burst like tiny rockets. It was Saturday. Vaguely I remember Jamey telling me last night that he would be at the Rendezvous Room this morning. I walked down the Boulevard, turned on Cahuenga.
And behind me I hear the screeeeeeeeeching of a car out of control: Brakes jam!—the car swerves jerkily into the opposite lane. The motor: Stops! I saw the driver’s head sway toward the steering wheel; he seemed to pass out momentarily, recovers. I recognized Lance O’Hara.
Then the motor started uncertainly, the car sped away, around the corner, into Sunset Boulevard, as I entered the Rendezvous Room.
On weekends the Rendezvous Room begins to fill early: Those who hadnt found someone last night are still trying—their faces drained of all color from the night-long hunting. Others, still unsatisfied, still sexhungry, are beginning the endless pursuit early. Most have come from parties lasting into the morning, parties often still going on; and they comb the bars for new, possibly fresh recruits.
The parting of the drapes at the door, announcing the entrance of someone possibly interesting, acts like a kind of electronic device pulling all alerted units in its direction. The heads swivel as the light darts frightened into the dark bar, scurries, rushes out again. . . .
