Numbers

by John Rechy

  The blond youngman says, “Will you screw me?”

  “Suck me!” Johnny says.

  “I don’t do that!” the blond youngman protests indignantly.

  And so all that time and no scene.

  God damn!

  “Don’t you ever wear out, man?” asks the wise-assed young guy who’s built like a very solid wrestler. “Jeez, you must’ve made it a dozen times today!”

  “So what, mano?” Johnny asks. They’re in the Arena, and he figures the guy resents him as competition because those who were cruising him began cruising Johnny as soon as he came in.

  “You’re a conceited bastard, aren’t you?” the squat youngman says. “You think everyone’s after you.”

  “They are,” Johnny says cockily. “Including you,” he adds, but only because he’s sure that’ll bug the guy enough so that he’ll leave him alone and he can make it five to go.

  “Shee-it,” the squat youngman says contemptuously.

  Minutes later, in a momentarily secluded part of the Arena, the squat youngman, surprisingly, became number 25, though he only attempted to jerk Johnny off—unsuccessfully, because, pulling himself off at the same time, he came before Johnny even got completely hard.

  Five to go! Johnny counts.

  And he remembers another of the “lost” numbers: the man who licked him all over, who wanted to see him again, who hinted—. . . that he too, like Tom, might make him feel like a prince.

  In his car. The radio. And Donovan slurring acid-head images about Superman, Green Lantern, and a velvet theme.

  It’s become a gray, progressively darkening afternoon that hints of rain. The shadow of a heavy black cloud smears the Park ominously.

  In the Forest: A man insistently wants to know how big Johnny’s cock is. Selective as he is, Johnny wouldn’t have made it with him anyhow; but his questions and remarks turn him off even further, since he wants to be desired for his whole appearance—not the size of his cock. The man is going on like this: “I met this guy here . . . week ago . . . like a stud horse . . . bigger’n my fist . . . thought I’d never get it out—. . .” Johnny leaves him talking.

  Later: Standing by the Trail, he bounces a key ring in the palm of his hand—a reminder of Laredo, because on that ring is the key to his apartment there.

  Very quickly he has attracted three men, almost simultaneously: and so the small islet is crammed with cars. Even so, a fourth man parks almost on the road. Although he won’t make it with any of them, rejecting each for one reason or another, he allows himself to bask in the obvious adulation of the four—until, finally—suddenly wanting urgently to make it four to go—he dissuades them, one by one—or tries to. The one who parked on the road moves quickly into the place on the islet vacated by another who gave up.

  Johnny is still bouncing the key ring in his hand—impatiently.

  “I bet those keys belong to just a part of the many hearts you’ve broken.”

  Hustling, Johnny would have spotted the man who said that as an easy mark—the kind who gets an instant crush and is a pushover—though Johnny never took as much advantage of the type as he could have. The man is very insipid and unattractive. Johnny won’t encourage him. He doesn’t want to hurt him, either.

  Finally, “How much?” the man—apparently used to asking this—wants to know.

  Though Johnny has no intention of going with him, he can’t help feeding his own vanity by asking, “What makes you think I’m hustling?”

  “You’re too sexy to be giving it away,” the man said.

  Johnny had expected something of the sort. “Thirty bucks!” he tells the man.

  “Whew!—you’re awfully nice and all that—but that’s simply too much for me! I’ll give you ten,” the man barters.

  “Naw. Thirty,” Johnny says.

  This is how he planned it, and it worked. Before he drove off, the man said, “Hope you get your 30”—startling Johnny, who at first thought he meant his goal rather than 30 bucks.

  Suddenly he remembers another of the “lost” numbers: the man who drove up with the woman. Only six unremembered now.

  Driving past the Beehive, he sees a man, who just came out along the path, get into a car where a little boy—about five years old—has been waiting. The man’s son? Johnny feels an outrage that almost nauseates him.

  Ten cars outside the Forest. But inside, Johnny sees only two men—one, tall and well dressed, coming toward him. It’s much too open here. Johnny retreats farther into the Forest.

  Number 26: The tall, well-dressed man licks Johnny’s balls while his hand works Johnny’s cock to the point of shooting. Johnny’s about to come, when someone—who looks very much like a vice cop is supposed to look—approaches. The tall well-dressed man begins to withdraw. “Take it!” Johnny says urgently. Ignoring the man advancing, whether or not he is a cop, the tall man takes Johnny’s cum in his mouth. But if the other is a vice cop, it’s his day off and he likes to watch.

  Four to go!

  Clouds glower blackly.

  In his car once again, Johnny swerves to the left at a twist of the road to avoid hitting a squirrel running across. A car approaching on the opposite lane barely manages to squeeze past. Brakes! Honk! . . . Sounds of panic.

  Jeezuss! I could’ve smashed into that guy! I’m really getting nervous!

  Large drops of rain on the windshield.

  Rare for this time of year, the rain can’t last long. It’s not the season of the long, dreary Los Angeles rains—when it pours during eternal, infernal days.

  Johnny parks off the road.

  The rain ncreases.

  Scattered by the shower, men drive up and down in their cars in that exhilarated mood generated as if electrically by sudden rain. Some wait along the road to see if it will pass soon.

  Through the rain-smeared windshield, the top of the highest hill (distorted to Johnny’s vision as he sits in his car) seems to tremble in wrath. Crazily, Johnny imagines God perched with his heavenly rifle on just such a height to “catch” those whose numbers are up:

  Pingggggggg! God shoots!

  And Number Infinite-billion, Six Million, Eight Hundred and Sixty-six Thousand, Three Hundred and Seventy-two crumples over.

  And now Number Infinite-billion, Six Million, Eight Hundred and Sixty-six Thousand, Three Hundred and Seventy-three runs for cover!

  But God—the expert sniper who never misses—aims his rifle. Unswervingly.

  Pingggggggg!

  Another’s number coming up!

  Suddenly depressed by these images, Johnny drives to the Mirror at the Observatory, to be ritualistically dazzled by himself. But the rain has brought several tourists there for shelter. He can only glance at himself. But even that glance is enough to reassure him.

  Slowly, he drives back down the road and parks before the Forest.

  His lefthand window is open; rain splashes on his bare chest and shoulders.

  “Hi!” A man stops his car beside Johnny’s. A handsome man—like the hero in a historical movie.

  “Hiyuh,” Johnny answers. Three to go, three to go, he counts ahead impatiently.

  “Lotta rain!” the man calls through his open window.

  “Yeah—lots!” Three to go.

  “Why don’t you come sit in my car till the rain stops?—better than being alone!” the man says.

  Three to go, three to go, three to go.

  Now Johnny sits beside the man in the man’s car. The man is rubbing his own cock. Johnny looks out the window to indicate his lack of interest in the other’s motions; he’s getting ready to return to his own car. But again he needn’t have been concerned. The man has reached over and cupped Johnny’s cock.

  Three to go! Johnny counts.

  As the man goes down on him in the car, Johnny looks out the rain-waved windshield, again to the uppermost part of the Park. The hill still seems to tremble angrily. (Pingggg! The Heavenly Sniper strikes!)

  Back in his own car (he didn’t com
e just now—too cramped—and he hadn’t felt like running out into the Forest as the man suggested), he can’t help feeling a measure of pride at the realization that he’s made it with six in one day—more than on any one of the previous days. (And if he could have counted the same one twice, it would have been seven!)

  The rain hasn’t stopped.

  As he’s about to drive away, in his rearview mirror he sees the cocky, curly-haired youngman of Wednesday’s disastrous interlude dash from his car into the Forest. Today he’s not wearing the sailor cap. But there’s no confusing the exorbitant mass of curly hair, even wet and at this distance. And Johnny recognized the car, too.

  Instinctively, Johnny begins to get out—despite the rain, telling himself: There’re lots of sheltered places, and I could make it two to go. But he knows the real reason he’s about to get out is because the curly-haired youngman is there.

  But why do I wanna see the guy? he asks himself. . . .

  All he knows is that he’d like magically to “set things straight.” Not by reciprocating—no, of course not. But just by—. . . being friendly, he explains to himself; by making the guy feel less bad about the scene in the Nest the other day.

  Even now, though, he’s not entirely sure what’s goading him on; but deciding that the rain is relenting anyway (it isn’t), he gets out of his car and rushes into the Forest—past the startled look of the man he’d just sat in the car with.

  The rain penetrates the Forest only in streaks, as if through a leaking green roof.

  Scanning the area, Johnny notices several men leaning against trees as if to escape the falling drops of rain; but he doesn’t see the curly-haired youngman—and he’s as much relieved as disappointed. Then he spots him standing deep in the Forest. Not knowing what he’ll say to him, Johnny approaches, his heart threatening to escape.

  “Howdee, mano!” Johnny says cheerily to him.

  But the youngman misinterprets Johnny’s friendly approach—perhaps even thinks Johnny has come to gloat: Johnny deduces this because, as he nears him, the curly-haired youngman turns pale, then red—and he immediately walks away, very quickly, out of the Forest. There wasn’t even the slightest swagger to his walk.

  Okay. So that’s that. Period, Johnny thinks, not knowing what he feels.

  Then he remembers another of the “lost” numbers: the man in MacArthur Park who ranted about love and then blew him.

  All at once, he decides definitely to leave the last three numbers for tomorrow.

  By the time he reached the motel the sky had cleared as suddenly as the storm had come up.

  And that night, on the eve of his victory over the Park, stars are visible and the air is pure as Johnny Rio, exultant, completes this day’s ritual by going to the corner of 7th and Broadway.

  The Negro woman is there.

  Only—. . . Only she seems even more listless than before. Her eyes droop mistily. And as Johnny Rio moved away, she seemed to see him for the first time.

  THIRTEEN

  SUNDAY. A miraculously clear day. His last in the Park. The Cloud has all but disappeared. For the first time since Johnny returned to Los Angeles, the sky is pristine blue.

  Three more, and the game is won.

  Fresh after the rain, the Park is glorious. Young: and green and yellow. Shadows lie softly on the ground. The sun carves blue figures on the hillsides. For the first time, Johnny notices the delicate veils of gold and lilac flowers spread gently on the slopes.

  Like yesterday, there are many in the Park this morning, cruising even outside the Arena, the Forest—some standing beside their cars, others driving by slowly. As his car moves up the road, several men look hopefully at Johnny. With extreme care he’ll choose the last three numbers to be desired by. Packed and ready to leave tomorrow morning, he can go as slowly as he wants today.

  Not him.

  Not him.

  Him.

  A youngman standing by his car off the road. Light-haired and athletic-looking, wearing white shorts, tennis shoes, and a faded-yellow T-shirt, he looks like one of the young models who advertise summer softdrinks for a “cool generation.” He stares very long at Johnny as Johnny drives by slowly. Even if there hadn’t been two men cruising the youngman in shorts, Johnny wouldn’t have stopped, since he never advances first; but he does do this: He looks back very long and smiles at the youngman staring at him.

  Already shirtless, Johnny parks by the Trail (fortunately it was unoccupied), sits in his car with the door open to allow the warm sun to nestle on his bare chest. He waits. Cars slow down, pause. He looks away. One stops. Not the youngman in the white shorts, Johnny notices through half-closed eyelids: his strategy in order to keep away those he doesn’t want. If someone turns him off, he’ll pretend his eyes are closed—as he’s doing now to discourage the man who drove up, got out, and is standing in front of him looking at him as if he’s an object on display for his pleasure.

  And damnit if at that very moment the youngman in shorts didn’t drive by, obviously looking for Johnny—and because of the other’s presence there, he drove away.

  After eternal moments of just standing staring at Johnny—while Johnny steadfastly kept his eyes closed, or pretended to—the man finally gave up; but another takes his place immediately, parking almost parallel to Johnny’s car.

  Not him.

  Gone.

  Another.

  Not him.

  Since the youngman still hasn’t returned down the road, Johnny gets into his car and drives up—to show him, wherever he is, that he’s still around. And there he is: on another margin of the road—and a man is cruising him. Certain that the youngman noticed him, Johnny makes a U-Turn and returns to the Trail—still luckily unoccupied.

  Parked there, lying on the seat of his car, the door open to admit the sun, he waits again: convinced the youngman he chose is looking for him at this very moment. To Johnny’s great annoyance, though: Undaunted, the same man who stood staring at him earlier has returned! Johnny just lies in his car looking away: up at the soft outlines of the hills crowned by velvet-green trees. Beyond, the azure sky stretches in an extension of the Park’s new peace. A lovely peace which Johnny begins to feel a part of.

  Hearing the near approach of a car, he sat up. It’s him. But the man—an irritating nuisance now—again thwarted the other’s stopping. Johnny’s got to get rid of him. But he doesn’t want to leave the Trail, because it’s too propitious and the other places are very crowded. Also, he’s sure the youngman will be returning soon. . . . So he continues to ignore the man until it works—just in time. As the man drives away, the youngman drives in.

  Leaning against the trunk of his own car, Johnny is bouncing his key ring in the palm of his hand. Kicking at the dust idly, the youngman in shorts is just-hanging-around. Like Johnny, he seems to be waiting to be approached, merely making himself available. Suddenly it occurs to Johnny that the youngman expects a mutual scene: So determined was he to include him among the last three numbers that he encouraged more than he usually does—or so it seems to him in retrospect.

  A car driving in to cruise either or both of them—and thereby threatening to make it more difficult between them—goads the youngman to this much action: He takes a few uncertain steps toward Johnny, to indicate to the third man that they’re together. Understanding, the other drives away.

  Though standing close to each other now, they’re both still silent, looking away. And Johnny is becoming more and more convinced the other has taken a mutual scene for granted.

  To find out definitely, Johnny moves down the Trail (cautiously: the near-disaster of yesterday, as he descended the Summit, branded into his mind), sure the youngman will follow. He does.

  They face each other, like boxers about to challenge and be challenged.

  Johnny touches his own cock. The youngman reaches out lightly for it. But when Johnny doesn’t reciprocate, the other withdraws his hand quickly.

  “I don’t go for trade,” the youngma
n tells Johnny. “It’s gotta be a two-way scene.”

  Neither surprised nor angered—but just disappointed that he won’t be one of the last three numbers—Johnny shrugs. “Sorry, then, mano.” He turns to move up the Trail.

  “Wait,” the youngman calls.

  Perhaps his announced stance was just his way of sounding Johnny out, a gambit to see if he’d make it reciprocally. Or perhaps he really is new to this particular scene but is impulsively going ahead with it. Whatever the reason, the youngman slides down on his knees, hugging Johnny tightly about the thighs, his head nestling between Johnny’s legs. Johnny places his hands on the youngman’s shoulders—not in embrace, he tells himself, but to support himself standing. For many moments they seem to freeze in that intimate closeness: like two children playing a way-out game of statues. Then Johnny withdraws his hands from the other’s shoulders. “Suck me, cummon,” he coaxes.

  The youngman does—very clumsily, using his teeth and taking just the head of Johnny’s prick. And so he is very new at this scene. Maybe his first time this way.

  Thinking that, Johnny stops him abruptly. “Don’t do it unless you really wanna, man.” His own words surprise him—and his accompanying action, too: He actually began to draw the other up by his shoulders.

  “I want to,” the other says. “Don’t you?”

  “If you wanna,” Johnny insists.

  The youngman does: continues sucking, so awkwardly that Johnny can’t possibly come that way. He eases the other’s head away, directing it to his balls. Now Johnny works his own cock to the point of coming. “Okay!” he alerts the other. The youngman opens his mouth, and Johnny comes in it.

  Swallowing the cum, the youngman leans softly against Johnny’s flat stomach; and Johnny hears himself ask: “You wanna come too, man?—I mean, like it’s okay if you wanna jerk off.” When the other assents, Johnny Rio offers the only thing he knows how to offer—his cock. With it in his mouth, the other jerks off.

  Johnny had actually forgotten to count until he was in his car again.

  Two to go.