by John Rechy
After he left the area of the corroded pier, he had driven aimlessly along Pacific Coast Highway, far out along the coastline, where the ocean lapped fiercely at jagged cliffs. Was it possible that the guy he had met earlier, the guy he'd gone home with—was it possible that he would return to the same beach where they'd met? He lived nearby. Not possible. Still, Mitch had driven back and parked in the lot beyond the strip of gaudy stands and shops.
He had been standing by his car when he had noticed a car moving toward him, slowing. Grayish lights had come on in the lot, but whorls of wind obscured everything. So he hadn't been sure—not sure at all, but, Christ, wasn't that the guy, driving by slowly in his car? Jesuschrist, it was, it was the guy he had met earlier. The car had paused near him—and then driven off.
Mitch had waited a long time afterwards before he had decided to leave the beach.
Of course it hadn't been the same guy, he was sure now, as he joined the current of cars on the freeway. Where would he go? He exited into the lower streets of Beverly Hills, drove onto Santa Monica Boulevard. His radio was turned on to the news station. “—power outages have occurred throughout the City Two deaths have been attributed to the violent Sant'Ana. Winds gusting up to ninety miles an hour in outlying areas have darkened wide swaths of the City.”
In West Hollywood, the hot winds had not diminished the crowds along the blocks. Mitch had driven through these streets often with Heather, who had commented on “all the gorgeous men—what a waste.” He saw them now—so many men, so sexual—walking, idling, alone, in groups, the heat encouraging displays of male flesh, gleaming torsos.
He turned on a side street—no, it was an alley, he realized—to drive along the busy blocks again. The alley paralleled a small park—he saw the dusty outline of a merry-go-round. Hearing the urgent roar of a motorcycle, and wanting it to pass him, he parked against the wire fence that enclosed the park.
The motorcycle, driven by a rough-looking guy in leather, glided by, close to him, close to his open window, pausing. Sitting on the back of the motorcycle, a good-looking kid in cutoffs looked at him and smiled. What was he doing with that rough-looking guy? The motorcycle pulled ahead, stopped several feet away. The man in leather pointed to—
A small hut in the park—
A toolshed?
Mitch saw the kid nod, Yes. Then the kid faced his car, faced him—and then he leaned over and shouted something to the man in leather. Mitch heard one word clearly—“Him.” The man in leather looked back at his car, and yelled, “Over there, later!” If he spoke more words, they were swept away by the wind. The motorcycle roared off.
Mitch stared at the shed they had pointed to. He saw nothing but darkness there. He heard, echoing into the alley from Santa Monica Boulevard, words tossed off by the sultry wind, distant harsh voices shouting—
“Fuckin’ faggots!”
Dave
EARLY NIGHT
The sound of distant harsh voices faded.
“Fuckin’ punks!” Dave said, raising his middle finger toward where the shouts had come, from Santa Monica Boulevard.
“Shits,” the kid dismissed. After they had driven out of the alley, Dave had squeezed his bike between two cars in a lot bordering one side of the small park.
“Come on, dude.” Dave led the kid across lawns, past the baseball field, bleachers. Petals and leaves shaken off by the wind formed jagged patterns at their feet.
He and the kid stood in a playground, a sandlot.
“Over there.” Dave pointed to the passageway between the toolshed and the abandoned field. “That's where you'll celebrate.”
“Wild!” The kid sat on the merry-go-round. Spinning on it, he reached out for Dave, pulling him to sit next to him.
“Stop flirting, motherfucker, we're scouting for serious stuff.” He halted the merry-go-round with his leather-gloved hand.
The kid laughed, throwing his head back as if about to spin again, but Dave's fist kept it steady
“You think that guy parked in the alley understood?” the kid asked. “I hope he did. He was hot.”
“Hotter than me?”
“Now who's flirting?”
“Shit.”
“You wanna know something, dude?” the kid imitated Dave's voice as they made their way back to the parking lot. “I think that under that black drag, you're just a queen, a leather queen.”
Dave grabbed the kid by the shoulders and pulled him roughly to him, face to face. “Don't fuckin’ call me that, shit-punk. See this scar on my face? I made it myself. I didn't even wince!”
The kid shook himself away from Dave's grip. “Joking.”
“Okay. But remember.” To show that the moments of anger were over, Dave extended a fresh ampule of amyl to the kid, even before he sniffed it himself, offering the kid the best rush.
The kid inhaled, deep, several times. “Oh, by the way, what's bigger than two big cocks?” he challenged Dave's earlier remark.
“A fist is bigger. Two fists are even bigger.”
The kid was afraid! That could make the action even better. But maybe he'd gone too far, too soon. So Dave shrugged and mounted the bike. “Hop on, kid.” He softened his voice.
“I think I'll walk.”
Eight
Evening, early night, muted lights about the park in West Hollywood create hazy shadows. During the Sant'Anas, wind whips branches about Streaks of yellowish light filter through them, shifting like restless ghosts.
Jesse
EARLY NIGHT
Jesse walked a few steps away from the biker. He waited. Sure, the guy was real sexy in a way he'd never encountered before, a weird sexiness. He was also full of shit, mouthing weird stuff about fists. He walked ahead. As fantasy, kinda exciting—maybe. He stopped walking. Throughout the hours he'd spent with the biker—and, jeez, what was taking the night so long to come, real night, late night?—his cock had kept at least a semi-hard-on, and so had the guy's, and that was wild. The biker had certainly helped to prepare his celebration, flushing everything with lust. He'd understood. Look how he'd suggested this park. Jesse looked back. Wild and hot!
He waited at the edge of the lot.
“Aw, cummon, kid,” the biker said. He was rolling his bike along without starting it up.
He was something—acting so tough one moment, and then flirting, however he denied it.
“Cummon over an’ suck my dick.”
That was more like it. Jesse turned back, knelt before the guy, who swung his legs about, pulled out the guy's cock—no surprise, it was hard—and sucked it deep in one swallow. The biker threw his head back and groaned. A few men leaving their cars halted, to watch. Jesse continued, letting them watch. Then he stood up.
“Sexy motherfucker,” the biker complimented. “I'll bet half of West Hollywood is gonna be after ya once we put the word out.”
“Yeah, I—” Then Jesse almost reeled. A belated rush of amyl? The heat?—entrenching now that the wind had paused? He wiped his perspiring brow, and shook away a sudden chill, cold sweat. A cool breeze? The disorienting sensation subsided. The guy's cock was still out, waiting. But he wouldn't suck it again now the way the biker expected. His excitement for the coming night was gathering. And damned if the panting heat, and the Sant'Ana moaning again, didn't make it seem as if the night itself was coming.
Buzz, Fredo, and Boo
EARLY NIGHT
“Look at ‘em, fags everywhere,” Boo said.
“Hey, queers!” Fredo yelled out of the car window at men along Santa Monica Boulevard. “Fuckin’ faggots!”
“I'd like to kill ‘em all,” Buzz said. The heat was intensifying, now that the wind was settling for longer periods. He swerved off the Boulevard, into an alley He drove through it, slowly.
“Whatcha lookin’ for?” Boo asked him.
Buzz drove out of that alley, into another, another—
“Yeah, what?” Fredo asked.
Buzz braked by a garbage bin behind a grocery
store. He jumped out, rummaging through discarded boxes.
Boo and Fredo followed him out of the car.
Buzz stomped on a discarded crate until it split into heavy boards. He gave one to Fredo, one to Boo. He kept the heaviest one for himself.
With it, he whacked at the metallic trash bin, denting it.
Father Norris
EARLY NIGHT
He had not answered Angel's question about where they would go, he had just driven on, aware of him beside him. Go to the sacristy? The darkened church? There? “Are you ready, Angel?”
“We gotta get a place, remember? If you don't have one, I know a motel—a block away”
It was right that he would be led by Angel himself to the place of discovery He nodded. He followed the boy's directions, driving slowly, extending the encounter, giving to it the importance it deserved, the gradual pace of discovery Even the windy night had achieved an aura, a shiny aura, a glowing night of reflected, purifying fire. Angel was beside him, in his car. Father Norris did not dare look at him now, not yet. But he was aware of his presence, his and that of the naked Christ, violated flesh on violated flesh.
Father Norris parked in a lot in back of the motel.
At one time, two neon lights had formed entwined palm trees to announce the presence of this cheap motel. All that remained lit were pieces of fronds.
“I know the guy at the desk,” the boy said when they entered the tired lobby, “so there won't be no hassle. It'll cost you”—he paused—“uh, forty bucks.”
Father Norris nodded.
Behind a counter, a gnarled old man glanced up from a small television screen.
“Give me the money for him,” the boy said to Father Norris.
Father Norris heard words which he had to react to, steps in this sublime rite. He reached into his wallet.
The boy gave the old man money
“Ten more,” the man said, “I saw what he gave you.”
“Oh, fuck, man.” The boy handed him more money.
The old man took a key from among those dangling on a board. “Down the hall. Room 8. You know where.”
As they walked along the yellowing hall, the boy turned to Father Norris, his hand out. “Me. Remember?”
Father Norris fished more bills, which he put into the boy's hand, not counting the money. The boy did.
They passed a young man leaving with an older man. “Hey, man,” the young man winked at the boy
“Hey, man.” They slapped hands.
Father Norris opened the door to the room. He looked in. The room was bare except for a bed, one spindly chair, an opaque mirror reflecting a bare bulb on a shadeless lamp, and a tin can for the remains of cigarettes. The green bedspread was rumpled, made up hurriedly, barely covering a pillow.
Father Norris waited at the open door.
So spare, humble. The room was correct for this glorious ritual of revelation.
Za-Za and the Cast of Frontal Assault
THAT AFTERNOON
“What the fuck are you doing, Huck Sawyer?”
“Following Za-Za's directions. Didn't you hear her, Tony Piazza?”
“No. Now get the fuck away from me.”
“Za-Za said—”
“Christ. What's that?
“What!”
“Your cock—it's huge! Why've you kept it hidden? Shit, who cares? Go ahead, fuck me.”
“That's what I'm supposed to do,” Huck Sawyer told Tony Piazza, who had been complaining about his pressing against him while he humped Rex Steed. “Then I'm supposed to do it to Sal Domingo, then to Jim Bond, then, if they turn around—and Za-Za says they will—I'll give it to Lars Helmut, and Dak Boxer, and, at the last, Rex Steed. Cummon, Tony Piazza, help me in, I don't know how, and I don't want Za-Za angry at me. Okay?”
“O-kay!” Tony Piazza abandoned Rex Steed's ass and braced himself. Rex Steed remained sprawled.
Hearing Huck Sawyer's words over their moans, Jim Bond and Sal Domingo—and, soon, from under them, Dak Boxer and Lars Helmut—looked, astounded, at Huck Sawyer's cock.
“Jesuschrist,” Jim Bond greeted the spectacle, “that's the biggest damn thing I've ever seen.”
“Jesuschrist! Vat da hell is dat?'’ Lars Helmut called, from under Sal Domingo.
Huck Sawyer turned pleadingly to Za-Za. “Za-Za, I don't know how to get in!”
He was excited enough, more from jangled nerves than from his new assignment, Za-Za knew. Whatever the reason for that monumental hard-on, she had to assure that it was used properly to “étonnez” Mr. Smythe. She rushed to where Huck Sawyer stood before Tony Piazza's upturned ass, lubed Huck Sawyer's cock with the équipage she always carried, with hope, in her pockets, and grabbed him by the hips and pushed and pushed until the head of his cock slipped into Tony Piazza's welcoming ass.
“Oh, my God!” Tony Piazza whooped.
“Oh, my God!” Huck Sawyer cried out. “It feels good!”
A star is born! Za-Za welcomed, glancing over at the spectators on the veranda, one hand holding their binoculars, the other certainly rummaging through their groins. Only Rex Steed had not reacted to the new revelation, had not even opened his eyes. His legs—God, please witness this—must be petrified by now, spread out forever. Well, he could wait, trésor, because he would provide the grand finale to this mammoth “étonnezment.”
Now Sal Domingo hopped off Dak Boxer, and Jim Bond sprang off Lars Helmut, and all four—yes, all four, look at them, Za-Za congratulated her strategy—thrust their asses up into the smoky wind. Was the fire nearing?
With a start, Za-Za saw that Rex Steed had stood up. Malheur! The captain of the topsy-turvy team was taking in the array of perched asses, holding his now-not-quite-extravagant cock as if choosing from among the banquet. Goddammit, if the blond trollop turned top again, he'd ambush her chance to win Mr. Smythe's support for her life in art.
So Za-Za shouted at Huck Sawyer, “Hurry, hurry. Now hump Jim Bond.” She pulled him off Tony Piazza, who muttered, “What the fuck?”—and she didn't even have to shove him into Jim Bond, because—look at him, so eager now, a real top man, bless him—Huck Sawyer was already in him. “Just a few strokes each!” she demanded, because that harlot Rex Steed was still studying the alignment of asses. “Hurry, hurry!” She pushed Huck Sawyer into Dak Boxer's ass, in and out, in and out. Out!—and into Lars Helmut. “Just two strokes. Okay, three,” she allowed when Lars Helmut reached back and wouldn't let Huck Sawyer pull out. So she grabbed Huck Sawyer by the waist and tugged and tugged until she freed him from Lars Helmut's mighty clasp.
“Goddamn look at that fuckin’ weapon!” Rex Steed's eyes opened wide, wider. And with that, he fell back and opened his legs and resumed his favorite position, and Huck Sawyer lunged in.
What was that sound? The wind? No, it came over the renewed puffs of air, which were thrashing vines of bougainvillea about. Oh, my God! It was—Applause from the veranda, led by Mr. Smythe!
Caveat emptor! It was time to approach him about her emergence into the ranks of great directors. She rushed forth.
She stood before him.
“Magnificent, my dear! Let me congratulate you.”
She couldn't help noticing a moist smudge on his pants—probably the first orgasm he'd had in decades—and that's why he had demanded being “étonnezed”—astonished, yes, by his own orgasm. He would certainly be amenable now.
“I am ready to embark on the creation of a great film,” she flung her words out, “in the tradition of D. W Griffith—remember the Babylonian scene? Well, I'll go for grandeur moderne, with a mirror scene that will rival Welles's in The Lady from Shanghai, because the mirrors will already be broken.” Mr. Smythe's mouth was open in new astonishment—at her artistic range. “I'll create a series of huge closeups, like Bergman's, except bigger, bigger—until you don't even know what you're looking at.” She was perspiring, but she was fighting for her future, and the future of film—and she, and it, were winning! “Of course there will be a f
romage—an hommage?—to Renoir's Rules of the Game, except that instead of upper class, it'll be working class. The great film noir in Technicolor!” Look at him, transfixed with admiration.
“Let go of my hand! What are you ranting about?”
She hadn't realized she had grasped his hand. “Film. About film, my debut—”
“Silly queen.” Mr. Smythe jerked his hand away. “Mad creature.”
Mad creature? Silly queen? She? A mad creature, a silly queen? Za-Za adjusted her wig, puffing it up for even greater stature as she tried to comprehend what had happened—which was clearly that this fucking psychopath Smythe, who, thanks to her, had managed his first orgasm in the two centuries of his life, was shoving her away, just like that, tomorrow's master of cinema.
Raising her chin, she remained standing proudly before the degenerate, so he would remember the exact moment during which he had dismissed the great auteur of modern times—and, to assure that, she would be certain to mention it in her first major interview in Cahiers du Cinema—conducted, of course, by none other than Marsha Kinder, only she—and when Smythe pled with her, la Grande Za-Za—yes, and begged her—to join his studio—
“Please, come back, Za-Za! I'll double today's fee for the splendid performance that gave me my first orgasm in decades! Come back! I must, this instant, discuss the brilliant film you were kind enough to offer me first! Come back, Za-Za! Come back, Za-Za!”
“No, I shall not come back. You called me a mad—you called me a silly—”
“Oh, Za-Za, my dear, it is I who am a mad queen, it is I who am a silly queen—”
And an ancient one, to boot! Za-Za added to her fantasy that would come true when Smythe implored her to return. It wasn't happening now, but it would.
The mansion was flooded with light—orange light. Flamy reflections glowed in the swimming pool. The drone of helicopters penetrated the wind, helicopters splashing water over the hills. A voice from a loudspeaker was booming, “Evacuate—fire threatening—take only essentials.”
Flames reached toward Smythe's hill.
