by John Rechy
Why?
What “reason”?
Yeah! . . .—one more to make up for the one in Lafayette Park the night the car rammed in! Sure!—that’s what’s been bugging me! he tries to explain his franticness. That’s all it is! I’ll make it up and then I’ll leave! he convinces himself, suddenly alarmed. Just—one!—more!
The sad ugly round man still waits forlornly before the Forest. Alone.
Back to the Arena. The Labyrinth. Standing on the Cliff, Johnny looks down at a bird smashed on the road. Johnny’s body tenses at the sight; he walks away—to a tree that blocks that area of the road.
In his mid-20’s, a youngman, goodlooking—and slightly swishy (and therefore somewhat out of place here since the effeminate, Johnny has noticed, generally stay away from the park)—stands very near him. But he’s taking too much time! Johnny rubs his own prick, outlining it in his pants.
“Want to come to my place?” the swishy youngman asks quickly.
Engulfed by anxiety, Johnny almost gasps: “I can’t! I’m in a hurry!”
“Oh, I don’t live far,” the swishy youngman says, “and I got a real nice apartment. I furnished it myself. Scarlet velvet drapes. I even got a statue of the Greek God Apollo in my garden. I’m going to have a fountain put in—. . .”
I’m wasting time! Johnny thinks urgently. Time, time, time! I can move away, there’s another man I saw hunting nearby—but then all this time’ll be wasted!
Finally, the swishy man gropes him.
“Suck me!” Johnny hears his own voice say, although he doesn’t even know if he can get hard.
“Well!” says the swishy youngman, getting giddy, pretending innocence—although his fingers are on Johnny’s prick. “I don’t do that sort of thing. . . . In public.” Sensing that Johnny is about to move away, he qualifies his statement: “Generally I don’t” As he unbuttons Johnny’s fly, he continues talking: “In fact, the first time I ever did it, I was forced.” From his tone of voice and the way he rolls his eyes, it’s quite clear he’s evoking some kind of fantasy for himself, as he goes on: “This real butch number—cute, too, looked like you, come to think of it—well, he just grabbed my head in the steambath and said suckmebitch—kind of like you did except he said bitch. Well! What could I do? There I was with—. . .”
Johnny’s urgency is boiling savagely. Time! He reaches for the man’s head, forcing it down. It offers only token resistance.
Still indulging in the charade of inexperience, the swishy youngman gags—though Johnny’s cock isn’t even hard.
“Suck me, bitch!” Johnny utters the fantasy words: and instantly the swishy youngman swallows Johnny’s barely stiffening prick to his balls.
Johnny breaks away—without even attempting to come—knowing suddenly he’s got to leave the park.
Near his car and evidently waiting for him is the kid he drove down the hill earlier. Johnny ignores him. Ignores the man with the two X’s—driving by slowly, staring at Johnny. Ignores men sitting in their cars, others drifting like phantoms into the dusky green of the Arena.
Speeding away—cars multiplying along the road—Johnny has a feeling of having been involved in a ritual whose temple is Griffith Park.
It’s 5:17.
NINE
JOHNNY RIO RETURNED to Griffith Park the next day. This time in the morning. Ten minutes after 11:00.
He had thought there wouldn’t be much traffic in the park this early, but the funereal procession of slow-cruising cars had already begun; and when he parked before the Arena, there were five cars there already. It’s summer, the season of indolence; and the subterranean reputation of the park draws people from everywhere.
Once again last night Johnny lay by the pool until he went to bed. And then it was as if sleep were a craggy, steep mountain he had to climb. . . . Eleven, eleven, eleven, his mind kept insisting—until, finally, he faded out.
It was still dark when he woke, startled, thinking he was in the park and it was night. . . . He got up, turned the lights on—to reassure himself. In the imagined night the park had looked like a graveyard, the bushes like stones.
I won’t go back!
In the morning, he knew he would.
Long ago, Johnny saw a movie in which misty ghosts rose from their graves to prowl a foggy cemetery. He wasn’t so much frightened as saddened by the silence and remoteness of it all—though at times the ghosts did fuse. Now, in the Arena—still struck by the sense of entering a separated world, and seeing the men here cruising the misty greenness—he’s reminded of that movie—and of the awake “dream” he had last night. It’s as if he’s interrupted the walk of somnambulists.
As if to assert his aliveness, Johnny walked in like a warrior certain of victory.
The blond youngman in the bikini isn’t here today, though he could be “sunbathing” somewhere else—his usual place is smothered by shadows.
Farther inside, Johnny encounters a very goodlooking youngman wearing a crazy sailor cap pushed back over masses of sandy curls that tumble down his forehead. (He can’t possibly be a sailor, though, with hair so long it licks at his collar.) Cocky as hell, he’s what queens refer to as “a real cute butch number.” He too is dressed in Levi’s, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves lopped off unevenly. Perhaps slightly shorter than Johnny, he’s clearly competition.
In one sharp look—and only one—they became rivals, declare war. I’ll show the fucker up! each obviously thinks.
Two other men in the area look from Johnny to the other, as if trying to decide which one to pursue (and it’s clear both Johnny and the curly-haired youngman expect to be pursued). Of course, a clear-cut victory for Johnny would be for the two men to follow him to the Cliff, toward which he’s swaggering.
Here comes one of them. And another!—a new one. Two on Johnny’s turf. Only one on the other’s. No, two; Johnny just saw a second one edging toward the curlyhaired guy. Two and two—a draw for now. (But not really, because that other man cruising him hasn’t seen me yet! Johnny points out to himself.)
Like in that movie in which ghosts materialized, new people keep appearing in the area—too many to divide into two camps. Others will be taking up different sections. Despite that, Johnny and the guy wearing the sailor cap are keeping track of each other—pointedly staying in sight, like generals gauging each other’s maneuvers.
Okay then, thinks Johnny, I’ve got to make it before he does!—and let him know it—somehow!
From somewhere along the upper level of the Labyrinth, a youngish athletic man in a checkered shirt, like a lumberjack’s, emerges. Johnny might have suspected him of being a vice cop if, ignoring the others preparing to approach Johnny from the other side, the man hadn’t walked up boldly to him and said, “There’s too many here, kid, I know a place down the path”—taking it for granted that he’ll agree—which he does, admiring the other’s to-the-point approach, especially since Johnny’s in a hurry to make it before the curly-haired guy in the sailor’s cap.
Ducking to avoid the snagging twigs, they hurry along the path. But Johnny’s not sure the curly-haired guy saw him going in here with the other. So: “Not here,” Johnny insists—moving (distinctly within view of the curly-haired youngman—and he saw them) down the path in a curve to the Grotto. There, the man in the checkered shirt is about to bend down before Johnny when two men, one from each side, move in to watch. The man in the checkered shirt straightens up. Obviously he doesn’t want spectators.
Exasperated—especially because as they moved away Johnny saw that the curly-haired youngman was about to be approached—Johnny slides down an incline—the other following—heading for the Cave. About to go in, they back out. Two men are in there already.
“I’ll bust it up!” the man in the checkered shirt says.
“Naw, don’t, man!” Johnny protests democratically. Too late!—the man is in.
Johnny decides to move away, when two men come out of the Cave mumbling angrily. Their anger doesn’t keep them
from looking interestedly at Johnny, who discourages them.
“It’s okay now,” the man in the checkered shirt announces. “I just let them know I’d outlast them,” he explains inside the Cave.
Now did the curly-haired guy see me coming here? Johnny wonders. If so, he knows I’m making it. But maybe he’s making it somewhere, too! So a victory is questionable.
The man in the checkered shirt barely squats before Johnny when: footsteps!
It’s the curly-haired youngman!
Oh, wow!—does the fucker really think the guy I’m with’ll dig him better! Johnny thinks in outrage—nevertheless experiencing an awful apprehension. A groundless apprehension: The man crowns Johnny the victor by pointedly looking away from the curly-haired youngman (after the first glance)—to send him away—while winking at Johnny, clearly preferring him. Trying futilely to swagger, the curly-haired youngman walks out in irrevocable defeat.
After he’s come in the man’s mouth (“Umm—that was good,” the man said), Johnny Rio moves back up the path, feeling jubilant. (I won, and that cocky bastard knows it!) He looks around for the curly-haired youngman, spots him, goes out of his way to strut past him—and smiles dashingly to announce his triumph. When the other pretends not to see him, Johnny can’t help saying: “Later, mano!”
In his car, he glances at his watch—although he resolved this morning before coming to the park that he wouldn’t keep track of the hour as he did yesterday (time running out without action makes him panic too much) and that he wouldn’t stay in the park long. But it’s almost noon. And I’ll just drive around till 12:00, he decides. Then I’ll eat, really see a movie later—or go to Laguna Beach. But maybe the City Authorities have invaded it, too.
Now I’ll just drive around the park. Till noon.
The Beehive. Two cars.
The Arena. Six.
The Forest. Three.
The Outpost. One.
The Summit. One.
Back again. Several other cars cruising both lanes.
The Summit. Three cars.
The Outpost. None.
The Forest. Six.
Johnny gets out.
The man in the checkered shirt does a double take when he sees him. Whatever he thinks about his still being around after just having come, the man wants to make it with him again: “How about it?”
“No, man,” Johnny says quickly, thinking: Not him twice. “I’m just killing time now,” he offers feebly.
“Well, if you get stiff again, kid . . .” the man extends an open invitation as he heads hopefully toward the Nest.
Johnny explores the interior of the Forest. The silence is almost physical. A gray shroud. The near-noon sun creates filigreed patterns here and there. Otherwise the thick trees choke the light savagely. . . . Johnny turns back when uncomfortable thoughts threaten him.
The curly-haired youngman with the sailor cap! (Did he recognize my car? Johnny wonders.) And another man approaching. The rivalry flares again: to see which of the two this man—important only because that rivalry—will prefer. Watching the man moving toward him, Johnny feels twice as cocksure—but prematurely. Because: Catching sight of the curly-haired youngman, the man entering turns abruptly away from Johnny and goes to the other.
Johnny feels the world collapse.
Now—as he goes off, with the man following—it’s the youngman’s turn to swagger (and he does—in long, tough strides)—glancing back and smiling triumphantly at Johnny. The bastard even strutted back a few steps to call out, “Later, mahn,” to Johnny.
Your fat loss, motherfucker! Johnny puts that other man down in his mind.
Typically he grasps for support. It rushes, tumbles to his rescue like this: Okay, so the man chose him, but the man in the checkered shirt didn’t—and what about that man who was cruising him when I first came into the park?—he preferred me—and anyhow we’re different types entirely (not so), and that guy just happened to be more this man’s type, that’s all—so it’s not that that guy with all the screwy curls is sexier than me, for chrissake—he can’t be!
Johnny is floundering badly. None of these “reasons” has satisfied his deflated ego. He wishes, so much, that he’d left after the smashing victory of the Arena. He’s never been able to reconcile himself to the fact that no one in the world, no matter how desirable, will always be preferred.
He drives to the Observatory. To the Mirror. It’s becoming part of a Ritual. Is the face back? No. He’s handsomer, more desirable every day. (How the blind hell could that mothering son-of-a-bitch prefer that other guy to me!)
Without preparation—as unexpected as the first bolt of lightning in a sudden storm—this thought strikes:
Why am I here!
To stop the flow! A stasis in time! A pause! The liberation of orgasm! Over so quickly! Only in retrospect!
Johnny is grasping for an important “reason” in his sudden chaotic and contradictory thoughts.
Pushing those thoughts away, he surprises himself in the Mirror. He’s caught a glimpse of another face. Not the distorted one that grimaced at him so hideously three years ago. Not the lean, sensual, dark-angel face either. Another face: a face he’s never seen before.
A face marked by enormous, bewildered sorrow.
By the time he finished lunch he was feeling great again.
His spirits began to rise when, leaving the park, a man followed him determinedly for blocks along Los Feliz Avenue, probably to find out where he lives. Johnny finally dodged him. In addition, at the coffeeshop where he ate, three youngmen kept turning to look at him with giddy interest; and the waitress (and that’s really something!) flirted with him and asked him insinuatingly is there anything else he needs. Johnny gobbled the admiration. He even found the perfect bandage for his scratched vanity: That cheap bastard went after the curly-haired guy because he was sure I was hustling and the other guy was for free!
Okay. That’s that!
After he left the restaurant, he took a drive to Hollywood. Either he’d forgotten what it looked like (or never really “saw” it)—or the Boulevard too had changed: unbelievably trashy and shabby, like a blocks-long remnant store in smog-tinted technicolor. And Selma Avenue in the afternoon looks like a skimpy movie set. (So much of my life buried in these streets . . . late alert nights . . . early dazed mornings.) Back on the Boulevard, even without getting out of his car, he got cruised at stoplights. That much, then, hasn’t changed! (And something else which pleases him: the tribes of hippy “flower children,” young men and young girls in beautiful costumes. . . .)
Feeling as desirable as he does now, he has to return to the park. (Just one more!)
The blond youngman in the bikini is back in his spot. “Hi!” he calls out, to indicate his undimmed interest.
“Hi-yuh!” Johnny says. And pauses. Why not? Why not let that guy come on with me again? After all, he didn’t suck me, just held it for the other guy, remember? If I let him blow me now, it’ll be like two different ones. No, he decides; that’s cheating.
“Cheating”! That word weighs heavily—disturbingly—in his mind—just as the word “count” did the night before last.
Now: a still-vague game—but with vague rules . . . and in a clearly designated arena.
Along the Labyrinth, a man follows him. Johnny immediately decides: Not him.
The Cliff. Another. No.
The Grotto. Two men playing with each other.
To the Cave quickly. A pair of legs, pants at the ankles; two knees on the ground. Johnny flees.
He drives to the Beehive, gets out. No one there except him. He waits among the shadows. Minutes. No one. The feeling of isolation. Trapped so that the thoughts he avoids are threatening him. They scatter: Johnny is no longer alone.
Two men flank him, entering almost simultaneously from opposite sides. They must have recognized his car from earlier because they came toward him with a certainty that implied they knew who was here.
One says quickly, “Let
him, I’ll watch out for you!” He means he’ll look out for intruders—but he’ll also be watching, of course.
Bugged for a second (“Hell, I don’t care,” he answers), Johnny finally figures what the hell, the guy prefers looking.
Perhaps the other man overheard because he acts quickly, lowering Johnny’s pants, going down on him. After staring raptly for several moments, the man who spoke to Johnny abandons his role as watcher. He eases the other one away, and now he sucks Johnny’s cock devouringly. The other watches for a few moments, and then he squats and rims Johnny, who comes in a quick eruption.
Outside, the two men get into one car. They were together all along.
Johnny returns up the road. He’s about to get out at the Arena (though he’s just come—and twice today)—when a heavy, square camper autobus drives up. Out comes a youngman and his girlfriend, laughing, carrying a lunch basket as they run into the treed section. Because of the many cars there, they must think this is good picnic ground! Johnny waits in his car to see what’ll happen—amused as he imagines the startled men inside the Arena when they see the man and his girlfriend preparing to: picnic!
Here they come!—the youngman and his girlfriend: rushing out!—driving away as fast as the lazy lumbering camper can go.
Johnny laughs aloud—laughter which is partly released tension, partly genuine humor—and a fleeting sadness, disguised.
He decides to drive to the Forest. As he nears it, he sees a parked red car. The red convertible! But no; it’s a hardtop—not new. Just thinking of the man with the dark sunglasses angers Johnny—the way he looks at him but won’t approach him; the way he seems to follow him around. He’s glad the bastard isn’t here today; he’s probably at work.
Seeing the man in the checkered shirt in the car behind him, Johnny drives away from the Forest, somewhat embarrassed. Approaching the sandy Outpost, he immediately notices the curly-haired guy again!—standing there with his shoulders hunched, fingers looped inside the waist of his pants: trying to look hoody and tough. Shit! And two men cruising him. (So what? Johnny asks. I’m not there; if I was, they’d be after me!) Johnny slows down, about to stop and get off—absolutely sure he can easily bust up the guy’s scene with those two (who would certainly prefer me, Johnny repeats): but he decides not to, figuring the guy’s so cocky he might think he’s trying to come on with him! . . . Why the hell is he still here, anyway? Didn’t he make it with that guy in the Forest? (Cheap son-of-a-bitch!) But then I’ve made it with three guys and come twice—and I’m still here, he reminds himself.
