The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  Praise for John Rechy and The Coming of the Night:

  “Fresh, beautiful, totally courageous—and totally cool, passionate … John Rechy doesn't fit into categories. He transcends them. His individual vision is unique, perfect, loving and strong.”

  Carolyn See

  “An elegy of a lost era.”

  —Arts & Understanding

  “With his ground-breaking City of Night in 1963, Rechy wrote the manual for gay representation in contemporary literature. … With his latest, The Coming of the Night, the author comes full circle …. [His] style has a lyricism and emotional content that belies its simplicity”

  —Flaunt

  “A rhapsody of odd, quirky, hilarious people trying to find meaning and chaos in Southern California… The ending to the novel is frenetic, sweaty, almost religious.”

  —El Paso Times

  “What he has given us for more than thirty years is a wonderful and terrifying gift. … He has given us life and literature.”

  —Michael Bronski

  “Rechy creates a stark, stinging, and anxious atmosphere in which desire makes people do awful things, and lust commingles with promiscuity, ob session, self-hatred, depression, and narcissism.”

  —Library Journal

  “[He] is one of the heroic figures of contemporary American life … a touch stone of moral integrity and artistic innovation.”

  —Edmund White

  “Rechy doesn't skimp on plot, character or action, and the ingenious ending takes an unanticipated but thoroughly logical turn. In its gritty evocation of time and place, the novel goes beyond its narrow subject matter, reaching for a broader and deeper understanding of an era.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “His tone rings absolutely true, is absolutely his own, and he has the kind of discipline which allows him a rare and beautiful recklessness. He tells the truth, and tells it with such passion that we are forced to share in the life he conveys. This is a most humbling and liberating achievement.”

  —James Baldwin

  ALSO BY JOHN RECHY

  Novels:

  City of Night

  Numbers

  This Day's Death

  The Vampires

  The Fourth Angel

  Rushes

  Bodies and Souls

  Marilyn's Daughter

  The Miraculous Day of Amalia Gómez

  Our Lady of Babylon

  Nonfiction:

  The Sexual Outlaw: A Documentary

  Plays:

  Rushes

  Tigers Wild

  Momma as She Became—But Not as She Was (one-act)

  Copyright © 1999 by John Rechy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

  The author wishes to express his thanks to Paul Zone of Man2Man for permission to quote from the copyrighted songs “Hard Hitting Love” and “Who Knows What Evil?” written by Paul Zone and Miki Zone.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  FIRST PAPERBACK EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rechy, John.

  The coming of the night : a novel / by John Rechy.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 9781555847265

  I. Title.

  PS3568.E28C66 1999

  813’.54—dc21 99-22538

  CIP

  Design by Laura Hammond Hough

  Grove Press

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  00 01 02 03 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my brother Roberto,

  and my sister Blanche

  And for the memory of my brother Yvan,

  and of my sister Olga

  I would like to thank Melanie Gill for her graciousness during the writing of this book, and Michael Earl Snyder for his invaluable creative observations, suggestions, and encouragement, from the inception of this novel to its completion.

  J.R.

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  —Dylan Thomas

  On a night of hot desert winds, an unrehearsed ritual occurred.

  J.R., Los Angeles, 1999

  One

  The park in West Hollywood is small, attractive, no more than two blocks square. In the morning, parents roam about with their children, who often stop to play in sandy areas. Other strollers, alone or in couples, walk their dogs. Still others wander along flower hedges or sit on benches under trees, some of which sprout Japanese orchids. A scattering of palm trees among ficus and pines reminds that this is Southern California.

  Today, Saturday, there is an added reminder that this is the City of Lost Angels. A Sant'Ana is blowing. Each hot arid season, these winds—known as “devil winds” because of their destructiveness—invite fires. They spread flames that twist this way or that, depending on the whim of fierce currents.

  Jesse

  MORNING

  Jesse—“the kid”—woke with one thought on his mind. Today he would do something wild to celebrate one glorious year of being gay—and it was great to be gay and young and good-looking and hot. Of course, his designation of “one year” was not exact. He had been gay from the time he became aware of sex—early—and he had turned twenty-two three days ago, but the celebration he planned came from the fact that he had been able to go into gay bars only for that long. Not that he'd been idle before that. He had had his share of sexual encounters. This special day, his strategy formed, he would charge himself up from morning to earlier night. He would not come until deepest night, and then he would be the hottest ever.

  Wild!

  In his bedroom in his neat apartment in a court of units surrounding a pool in West Hollywood, Jesse became hard thinking about the prospect. He sat on the edge of his bed wearing only white briefs, now being punched by his aroused cock.

  Depending on how he dressed, combed his hair, he could look eighteen, if he wanted. Often, in bars, he would be asked for identification. He was very good-looking—and, even better than that, spectacularly “cute,” a description he welcomed, along with being called “Kid Jesse.” That made him sound like a young outlaw, although, someone once pointed out, he must be confusing Billy the Kid with Jesse James.

  Still boyish, but not in the least bit “fern,” he was neither tall nor short. His blue eyes were rendered clearer by dark eyelashes, and his streaked blond hair was just long enough to allow an occasional strand to fall over his forehead. Thank God femmish long hair was going out of style among gay guys. Checking himself out in the mirror of a bar, he knew he looked sensational.

  An expert gymnast in school, he did not work out with weights, like other gay men were doing. He ran, biked, swam. That kept his body tight, fabulously defined. He ate only good healthful food, didn't do drugs, and he slept a full eight hours each night, except, of course, when, real late, the cruising just kept getting better. He had a natural glow that courted a perfect tan in summer—now. The tan accentuated glistening hairs that coated his legs, which he showed off by wearing shorts as long as the weather allowed, into the beginning of winter, and even during winter in Southern California.

  He was usually alone. By choice. Sure he had friends, lots of them, lots of invitations to parties, but that often
put him in a bad situation. Guys he was not attracted to were attracted to him. Those he did have sex with wanted to get together again, and he preferred variety.

  There was another reason for his choice to be a loner. He didn't want guys he went with to know more about him than they needed to know, and that was that he was hot. All he required of his sex partners was that they be lusty—he liked that word—and want what he wanted.

  Existing only as you appeared to be—that was another great thing possible in the gay world of cruising. You didn't have to waste time talking, except to make arrangements about getting together. He loved being a terrific fantasy figure. So why mix things up with identities that didn't matter? Yes, he'd figured life out—gay life, there was no other.

  Jesse welcomed the perspiration that had moistened his shorts and outlined his cock—and especially, he knew as he stood, his buttocks, indenting the crack. He touched himself there and closed his eyes—imagining.

  He forced himself not to think now about tonight. He didn't want to ruin his plan by getting too aroused alone. That would be a waste. Ugh.

  What had triggered this huge desire?

  It wasn't unusual for him to feel horny, especially on weekends. Had his plan originated last weekend when he met two hunky guys and went home with them? He had been fucked by both, several times. They took turns entering him, assuming a wonderful rhythm, a couple of thrusts, and then it was the other's turn for a few more thrusts. There had been hardly a moment that he didn't have a cock in him, and the brief seconds without added even more sensation when they ended. The two guys had lain back, prone, face up, legs spread, butt against butt, cocks pressed together to form one doubled erection, and he'd lowered himself over it, tantalizing the two guys into believing he would attempt to take them both into him—and he thought about it—but he just remained there, two straining cock-heads quivering at his ass, titillating the downy hairs there. He pushed himself into one of the cocks and then immediately into the other and both guys came in him—wow!—but when he left their house, he felt lustier—and went with another guy and kept wishing for two.

  There was also this to account for the sexual demand he welcomed. The day itself—the impression from last night had been confirmed—was ready for celebration, heated with those winds that were supposed to arouse tensions, and—he'd heard this—violence, but who wanted that? Whatever the truth, Jesse knew that the Sant'Anas charged the night with sexual fever.

  And sex was everywhere!

  There were hunky guys on every corner. You didn't even have to go home with a guy, if you didn't want to. There were cruisy places all over where you could make out, right there, all hours—bars, baths, even some streets—and you could move from one person to another, have several at the same time. Not that he wouldn't ever want to go home with one guy again. Sure, that was fine, having sex several times with one person—or two—but there was a time for that, and a time when you needed more.

  Music—that's what would start this magical day on its way. He riffled among his collection of albums. Van Halen—which song? “Everybody Wants Some.” True, and more than some. “Loss of Control.” Yes!

  The agitated strum of a guitar, a howl or a siren, laughter—a bomb or a roaring motorcycle. His sweat-stained briefs pasted to his body, he gyrated to the record's opening explosion. Who needed control?

  Without altering his fast rhythm, he let the next song play out its funky tune, about—what else?—love, love turning tragic.

  Tragic? Who needed tragic.

  He stopped the record abruptly. He needed something else to set this special day on its way—the song he'd danced to, and shouted out phrases from, when it first came out last year, the beginning of the eighties, the beginning of his life. The song's words had seemed to announce the vista opening before him—of bars, sex, dancing, sex, great times, sex, partying, sex, great sex, sex—Ugh for straight music, with all those sappy songs. The stuff they played in gay bars said something, really told it, knew what it was all about. He found the album, the song he was looking for, Kool and the Gang and “Celebration.” All right]

  Although he hadn't heard the record in a long time, his body responded from memory, swaying into the rhythm before the alerting beat started, announcing a long-lasting party that had just begun.

  He tossed himself into the drumming pulse, which electrified his young body, connected him to invisible partners, lots of them, lots!—all fusing within the same current surging between them, among them, through them, commanding their bodies in reckless synchrony His head, arms, hands, hips thrashed—exhilarated. Perspiration dampened every limb, his growing excitement contoured on the white shorts.

  Wow! That was enough of a charge, for now. He turned off the stereo.

  When tonight ended, right before dawn, he would have the best orgasm of his life, so far, because it would contain all those he would withhold throughout the day. He had to plan everything, to make it all possible—and it sure was possible.

  He stood up and looked out at the pool. A man was lounging there. From here all Jesse could see were his long bare legs. The man stood up, to oil himself. From the back, he looked fine—broad shoulders, tapered waist, dark hair. Masculine, so far. Sometimes you couldn't tell until they started talking and, ugh, what a surprise. Safe to assume, too, with that bikini he was wearing, that the man was gay. Gay guys weren't afraid to wear brief trunks. Straight guys wanted to cover themselves up and most of them should. Did the man have a mustache? Jesse didn't much care for mustaches—they made guys look like cops. Still, so many gay men were sporting them that you couldn't avoid them. Just wait, though, soon the fad would pass, and the only ones left with bushy mouths would be cops.

  How old was the man?

  Jesse went with no one over thirty, although sometimes he couldn't be sure because good-looking gay men in shape often appeared younger than they were. He preferred guys slightly older than him, because he liked being “the young one”—the kid. Old guys depressed him. Old guys who really depressed him—why didn't they stop cruising, who'd want them?—were the ones who looked old but dressed like kids, brief shorts over sagging butts—ugh—and then there were the old guys with grizzly stubble, decked out in the same leather stuff they wore ages ago, as if that would keep them young. He winced when he saw them. Sometimes they even acted fem.

  The man by the pool turned in Jesse's direction.

  O-kay! Make him his first “conquest” in preparation for this night that would be like no other? He could hardly wait for the coming of the night.

  But he would, and that would make the sweaty night even hotter.

  And wild!

  Buzz, Toro, and Linda

  MORNING

  Buzz tried to leave the house before his mother could detect his absence. That way he wouldn't have to listen to her bitching about his staying out of trouble. He was, after all, almost eighteen, and he knew more than she did about all kinds of shit. These hot winds excited him, made him feel mean.

  When, in a few minutes, he joined his friends, Toro and Boo and Fredo, he'd talk them into getting some booze, picking up some street chicks, maybe gettin’ a little rough. Toro—he called himself that because of his bullhead and because, he boasted, he had a cock like one, a cock he constantly groped—was only nineteen but because of his size he could buy liquor, easy Boo was tiny, but you'd better never tell him that—tiny and tough, with tattoos crawling over his skinny arms. Fredo—“the crazy one” because he shaved his head daily and never did anything first but always went along with what anyone suggested—constantly scratched his shaved head. He, Buzz, was the “sexy one,” the one who approached girls—punkies, druggies—on Hollywood Boulevard. He had a vague “Valley” drawl and a sleepy look.

  Now he sat on the far side of the steps that his mother called “the porch.” He would hide until Toro came by. Toro drove a hot Chevy convertible he spent hours on, keeping it bitchin’.

  Buzz hated this ugly city, one of several outside Los
Angeles in the San Fernando Valley, tract houses, stucco houses, mobile homes that never moved, auto-part garages. Along the blocks, skeletons of cars squatted permanently on yards of weeds and dirt, hoods up, bodies propped on bricks. Once he had seen a photograph of the City in the fifties, and it had looked just like it did now. “White trash” and “rednecks”—that's what they called the guys from this part of the Valley, including even Mexican dudes, tough dudes—not fuckin’ immigrants!—who lived here and hung out with white guys. He didn't mind the designation “redneck.” It gave him and his friends a ready reputation for being tough.

  He heard the Chevy approaching—blasts of Judas Priest shooting into the air from Toro's tape deck—before he saw the shiny car swerving to avoid a huge tumbleweed, several tangled together, that crashed, bursting into splinters, against the window of a Carl's Jr. take-out.

  Still hunched by one side of the house to sneak away, Buzz prepared a wide smile to greet Toro. That might help when he explained that he and Fredo and Boo hadn't been able to score the shit they had planned to bag up loose and sell at a good profit to those dumb punkies in Hollywood. “Gee, Toro,” he had rehearsed last night with Boo and Fredo, “when we took a taste from those niggers, it was dummy shit—even for punkies—and the niggers tried to go AWOL on us, but we messed them up—they turned out to be suckers, man. So—” Here he would spread out his hands. Empty hands, wide smile. Then he'd give back Toro's investment.

  “Wassup?”

  Christ, even in this wind, Toro had the top of his Chevy down—and he already had a chick with him. His girl?—the one he talked about but they had never met?