Waiting in the San Francisco Terminal for the bus to Santa Monica. The ride will take twelve hours along the Pacific Coast Highway.
This station, unlike many I've seen, is kept clean condition. The majority of the people here are black people of color. Some are white people of color and some are students of no discernable economic color at all. (Though being a student often makes one white.)
I should mention the other queen in the crowd. He wears a knee length overcoat, a jacket, silk blue shirt buttoned all the way up, white sox, black penny loafers, blond hair done in a just so bang and silver ear bob.
I wear a black leather jacket with little silver crosses pinned to the lapel, black turtle neck sweater, grey sweatpants, jade socks and well polished black Rockports.
The other queen examines me and winks.
Arrived Santa Monica 5:30 am. My favorite cheap motel: the Highway Robber has burned down. Checked out prices at the Travelodge (85.00 a night.) and decide to wait until seven when the hostel opens (10.00 a night.)
In the meantime I was cruised by a chunky guy on a bicycle who turned out to be a "clinical Psychologist"
"What are you doing?" he asked a lone man stumbling around in the dark with a forty pound pack strapped to his back.
"Nothing." I replied.
"Whattaya doing in Santa Monica?" he continued.
"I'm here on business." I felt odd saying it and added: "though it doesn't look like I am."
We crossed to the park and sat down together on a well lit bench; I looked at him with exhaustion. "What kind of business?" he asked.
"No kind." I answered.
Dawn spread: Green and blue. He announced his profession which was followed by even gloomier silence and rode away.
Santa Monica's Third Street Mall has been decked out with wreaths, trees and a makeshift Santa.
As soon as I settled into the hostel I met one of my bunkmates, Mark, a "chap" from South Africa.
Mark is a practicing Christian who thanks God he made this trip to the U.S. He says: "America is too free--
"New york is the worst. Pornography everywhere. We'd be locked up back home. And racism. Your blacks are more violent. They don't seem to have any faith in your system."
I replied: "I've often felt that if I left my country I'd see how rotten it is. Alas, I can only guess."
Mark's face grew red. "South Africa has apartheid, yes. But at least we're honest--and call it that."
12/14/91 Purple smoke billows up from a wrought iron trash container. A hand pushed espresso cart squeaks by. At 11:00 the shopping has just begun. What appears to be a minor siege will become a full scale invasion.
Santa Monica Place is a closed mall with doors that open onto the Third Street Mall which is an open air mall. Wilshire Boulevard is another stretch of boutiques and nailories from Santa Monica to Downtown L.A..
One might ask why I haven't mentioned the beautiful beach. If I mention the beach I will mention the rides and the boardwalk: and the wonderful bike path from Santa Monica to Venice. I will also mention the sheer joy of the young people who play on the beach or within sight of the water. Wonders that stem from co-operation between God and Man (persons.)
But if I mention the park in Santa Monica that overlooks beach: I have to mention the homeless, the drug addicted, children who are restlessly hungry: who cry as limousines speed by. Santa Monica is beautiful because the land is beautiful. Perhaps this suffering amidst beauty is what some mean when they refer to the human condition.
The number 4 bus cuts down Santa Monica Boulevard through Brentwood, Westwood and so on.
The riders are mostly Blacks and Hispanics (maids of color.)
A peek into the large plastic bag of the woman who sits next to me provides me with a view of many cleaning agents: a can of Ajax without its freshness peel; a ragged old rag. As the bus passes through Brentwood & Westwood the hispanic women get older and the plastic bags more numerous. By the time the bus reaches the junction of Santa Monica and Sunset Boulevards the maids have been replaced by gang members who are busy cutting graffiti into the windows with sharp jewelers stones. Those of us who were too old to participate were silenced by fear.
Coffee at a table on the sidewalk provided by the Conga Cafe.
Jim Morrison, the real Jim Morrison and not the guy who played him, has just declared His Generation insane (The End)
Judging by the impeccable dress worn by the men and women who pass, who in fact look as if they've spent hours preparing to look casual for their morning stroll, Morrison's Generation suffers from Photogenic Disorder. A new disorder marked by Genetic Endowment artificially primed to the maximum. The ugly become fair, the fair pretty, the pretty beautiful--at which point one enters the category reserved for the obsessively ravishing. Photogenic. Yes. picture perfect. But not just in face. Blouses worn to reveal the latest breast or chest implant. Slacks fit to a tee. And since everyone is a sex object: equality between the sexes has been achieved.
Was robbed last night at the Santa Monica Hostel: a simple theft from my wallet. Called an ex-lover (there are so many) who works in the Bunker Hill Complex and was granted a loan of $100.00.
Thus I slaved onward toward that smoggy heaven: three days growth of beard, thick black leather jacket, sweating profusely under the hot Noon Sun magnified by the shiny shit that hangs suspended in the air. The harder I walked the further the skyscrapers seemed. For the first mile of my walk I looked as if I fit in with the homeless locals--however, as I neared Bunker Hill the people grew pale; their complexions more refined: completely free of sweat and debris. Unfortunately the phrase City of the Angels began to repeat itself in my mind--and I was moved to stop in a local liquor store to buy a comb. I neared the street with my ex-lover's tower perched on it and discovered to my sweaty joy an escalator. That was when I noticed that the Angels of Bunker Hill were staring at me as if I'd been belched into their presence. I combed my hair.
My ex-lover, who is compulsively too busy, was too busy to give me the money personally. An envelope with the money in it had been left with his receptionist. I stood before her and perspired all over the front of her desk while she sorted through various papers before finding the obviously placed envelope. As she gave it to me she pressed a button on her phone and demanded that someone from housekeeping be sent to her desk immediately.
Going downhill is always easier than going uphill and I was soon returned to the chaos of the bus station. The Muzak version of Little Drummer Boy was infiltrating the station. A marvelous woman in stiletto heels and rhinestone sunglasses, who was later identified as a Customer Service Rep, managed to be everywhere I looked.
The bus to El Paso was called and those of us who had been waiting for an hour or more for a choice seat tore through the gate. I made my way to the rear of the bus and took my usual: the last seat on the left. This is where the sexy guys sit and since I suffer from the usual sins of denial and vanity I assumed that this was the place for me.
As the bus filled a community took shape and the laws of bus travel went into effect.
1. There is always one blistering drunk who sits next to me and threatens to vomit.
2. There is always one loud and miserable baby who is accompanied by and ineffective Mother. This law is never broken.
3. Either an old person or a person who doesn't speak English will lock himself in the bathroom. This law varies in certain states.
4. There is always one horny queen in the last seat on the left. This law only applies when I travel.
The community shifted dramatically in Phoenix.
The line of forty or so people waiting to board bus #1732 appeared to consist of psychopaths of all ages and sensibilities: screaming toddlers clutching mangled dolls, two drag queen whose troubled beauty had fallen on hard times, a desperate drunk who was attempting to smuggle on a gallon of vodka. I giggled as the scene presented itself. I heard a voice behind me:
"Then give me three Pepsis then!"
It was the drunk attempting to negotiate with the station guard who was tugging the vodka from his hands.
"Passengers holding boarding pass 157--" those of us who had boarded the bus in Los Angeles were called back on. I marvelled as the drag queens and their entourage settled around me. One snapped at one of her male-ish companions: "Don't start jacking off Jason!"
"That's what I brought your lips for, Theresa!" he answered. And the bus chugged out of Phoenix.
Immediately the drag queens switched on their overhead lights and began trading makeup. Jason announced that he had "free condoms for three dollars." This caused waves of nervous titters to cascade up the bus. Mothers clutched babies who screamed louder. One of two boys sitting in front of me looked at the drag queens as if assessing possibilities. In the meantime the drag queens babbled in Spanish to each other.
"I get the Playboy channel on my Watchman!" announced Jason.
The drag queens applied blush.
"I'm in cocaine heaven." sighed Jason.
The boy in front of me leaned across the aisle and said: "Ma'am. You shore are pretty."
His companion in the window seat buried his face in his arms and produced what a kind person would take for sneezes.
12/17/91 El Paso I received my first impression of El Paso from a dizzy queen with a british accent who worked the front desk of the Gardener Hotel on Franklin Street--who, though I was the only person checking in, forgot why I was there.
This was serious business. After riding the bus all night with coked up drag queens and insufferable infants I was in no shape to do someone elses thinking.
"Right! Now you would like a room!"
"Now is right."
"For how many nights?"
"As many as it takes."
RING! RING!
"What's that?"
"It's the telephone--Hellow--uh--Gardener Hotel. Yes, we do. Three nights? Fine. (click) Right. Now. Did you want a room?"
"Yes I did!" And so it went until I gratefully gave him 28.00 and stumbled into the dormitory. Woke up 12 hours later with the feeling I would never wake up. After pissing around in the hotel's kitchen (guests are allowed to cook their own meals) I decided I had see Downtown El Paso. El Paso is more Mexico than America--but unlike the Mexico I've experienced in L.A. or San Francisco. There are the shops, yes, running shoes: $11.00--gold lame gowns: $29.00 (drag queens take note), but, the streets were spotless and there was none of the feeling of oppression such as I get from San Francisco's Mission or L.A.'s Main Street. The few White People I saw (three actually) were women wearing furs (the day was wet--not cold) stepping into and out of large obtrusive cars.
I was so excited by what I saw that I felt compelled to shop: sweat pants $5.00--six pairs of socks: $3.00. I couldn't account for it: the hodge podge of prices and sounds: rock from Mejia's and Spanish from Kress. And while one can experience these things in the aforementioned districts of the aforementioned cities--one cannot get them from people who seem in control of their lives. The Mexicans of El Paso did not behave as if they had to defend themselves. That said: I must confess that my enthusiasm was excessive. As I was walking back to The Gardener all ga ga I ran into the British Queen (named Mark). He stopped and I gushed:
"What a Wonderful city El Paso is!"
He replied: "Oh yes! Isn't it glamorous!"
I turned to see if he was addressing someone a few blocks behind me.
"I can't believe I got running shoes for $11.00."
"Oh my yes!" he said again. "Actually, people come here for the shoes!"
I was beginning to hate this queen as I realized he was a rock solid bitch. "You've been here too long, haven't you?" I asked.
He began to move on. "I can tell you all about it at the hotel."
"Oh, by the way, I can't seem to find a Catholic Church."
Mark opened his umbrella. "Good." he said. And it started to pour. I've been hit with the Bejing Flu--which I've heard is epidemic in El Paso. I've been in bed for two days with the exception of a two hour walk, taken yesterday, to the Venus Adult Theatre.
The Venus is located on the four thousand block of Montana Avenue. One passes Churches, Madonna Shops and 7 Elevens along unending blocks until one finally reaches 4812 Montana. Then one sees a plastic sign indicating VENUS ADULTS and an arrow which points to a blank facade and a door: "At last!" I coughed to myself, feeling much like an explorer of the American sort. I opened the door and staggered in and immediately felt like a fool. My head throbbed, I was queasy and broke out in a feverish sweat. But such was my desire for adventure that I thought like Lewis and Clark or whoever, let me die on my quest.
The Venus was like every other porn shop I've visited: dicks, cunts and faces in that order. There was an arcade, a movie theatre and private viewing booths. I chose the theatre. Bad choice. It was cold and damp. The screen was dark. And my head throbbed more. On top of it all I was the only one there: a situation that continued. I left abruptly and exited into drenching rain. This, I thought, is a message. The bus came and shortly poured me back into the Gardener Hotel. I went to bed.
I woke up feeling better and was certain that my horny fantasies about Texans and Mexican boys would be realized. First I went to Mass, stopping first in the Ave Maria, a religious shop, for a Rosary.
The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is located on Kansas Street. When I entered and saw the alter I felt as if I was hallucinating. It consisted of a hundred shadow boxes. In the center was a crucifix with the corpse of Jesus nailed to it. In front of it was a statue of Mary: hands folded in prayer. Spreading outward and upward were saints, angels, cupids, gold scrolls, candles, incense, incense burners, wings--and what looked like a menorah, and a huge painting of Mary ascending into Heaven. I fell to my knees and wept from shock.
I had entered in the middle of a ceremony in which the body of Christ (the Communion Wafer) had been placed in what looked like a large golden eye called a Monstrance. It was being shown to the congregation by the Archbishop of El Paso. I must confess that I love ritual and was at full attention. After this the body was returned to its place in the alter and the Archbishop left. Three tolls of a bell signalled the beginning of Mass. The congregation sang in reedy unison: He is the King.
After Mass I hopped the bus to the Venus, which I had begun to think of as a fly trap.
One can easily see that the church and the porn shop are both places of worship. People pop into both places during lunch, fulfill some private need in public ritual, and leave.
I watched the Venus for awhile from the bus stop. Soldiers, business men and construction workers stepped in and within minutes were out. But some stayed. Where did they go? I thought of the theatre. It was 4:00. I ran across the highway and into the shop. "Theatre please."
I couldn't see a thing.
I didn't remember it being so dark and felt that maybe, because I'd been to mass, I was struck blind. But soon my eyes adjusted and I could see that I wasn't alone. I went to the john. On the wall was written: 12/20/91--Back Row--show hard--love to suck and fuck and wear women's panties.
This was impossible.
I stayed for a few minutes to get a look at the creature who'd written this. From what I could see he was naked, except for a bra, and a pair of blue nylons.
The latest guest of El Paso's Gardener Hotel is a young Aussie named Peter Lapis: a 35 year old blond who talks a mile a minute. For reasons of divine configuration or boredom he convinces me to join the gang at the Ramada Inn for drinks. the gang consisted of Peter, Martin--a dutchman who was nicknamed The Viking, a young Cockney named Steven, Craig--a red headed Frenchman, and yours truly--an American Queen in disguise.
The very thought of going to the Ramada Inn for anything struck me as perverse; the thought of going in to cruise chicks and drink brews was beyond the pale.
The feeling I had as we made our way through sleet and cold wind was that of camaraderie. The fetters of gay identity and middle age began to slip away.
We entered the lavishly orange lobby of the Ramada Inn and commandeered an elevator to the 17th floor. It was Friday night and this was El Paso's Top of the Sixes: a place for getting drunk and feeling in control all at the same time. We lined up at the bar and ordered our drinks. I had a Miller Lite. The dee-jay spun Sexual Healing.
"I love these musics!" said Craig. He and Steven made a clump next to me at one end of the bar; Peter and The Viking were passionately cruising chicks at the other. "You like this?" Steven asked Craig.
Craig replied: "Oh yes! I love the American 50's: Elvis Presley, Petula Clark. Do you ever hear The Platters?" Craig asked me.
I said: "I think I remember them from the Ed Sullivan Show. But Petula Clark was not a singer from the American 50's."
Craig winked and sipped his beer. The dee-jay slid into Blue Christmas.
"These is the best musics," Craig continued, "America's gift to the World!" he turned to me, "Do you not think so?"
I sensed that something mean and lovely was going on. The beer was making me extravagant: "There would be no musics without the Beatles." I said.
"Ah!" Craig raised his glass, "America's greatest gift!"
The three of us laughed. Peter leaned down the bar toward us:"Dudes! Lets go into Juarez."
I was game.
"Too cold." Steven said.
"I think there is no adventure in this group!" boomed Martin, "Den we go to Tap."
Tap is a Mexican bar on San Antonio Street. We arrived at Midnight to the sound of Linda Ronstadt pouring her heart out in Spanish: "PORRRE UNE AMORRREEE!"
"PORRRE UNE AMORREEE!" sang the drunken crowd.
Martin chose our booth so he could see the waitress who worked the table. "Nice ass." he said as she left to get our pitcher of beer. I decided to see that what he said was true when she returned and left with our money.
The following blur of events has been brought to you courtesy of a three day drunken binge.
12/22/91 Peter confesses confusion--
Woke to the scent of stale beer and beans and Peter Lapis as my bunkmate. "Don't drink much do ya." he said as I tried to lift what remained of my head from my pillow and throbbing memories of the previous evening played themselves out in my mind. Sancta Maria was the name we had given our waitress. Sancta and I danced the Samba until her drunken husband who had been passed out for most of the night at the table across from ours woke and upon noticing that I was an excellent dancer got huffy. A fight ensued which resulted in much cursing in English, French, Dutch and Spanish. Sancta Maria begged us to leave before the Police arrived. "PORRE UNE AMORRE!" I sang until the cold winds of El Paso blew across my face. Peter was responsible for getting me safely to bed. "Don't drink much, so ya?" Peter asked.
"Drinking takes practice like anything!"
10:00pm--We were back at Tap. Sancta Maria eyes us warily. She has begged us not to sit in her station. I have eaten alot of macaroni. The Vikings theory is that macaroni sops up booze which results in more even handed drunkenness. By 12 I am necking with Sancta Maria in the kitchen. Our group departs at two without incident.
12/24/91 Straight like Me--
9:30pm Everyone is leaving on Christmas. We decide to go out for a small farewell drink which leads to tequila which leads to Kahlua which leads to opening my eyes at 4:00am and finding Sancta Maria asleep in my bunk. I wake up Peter who wakes up Sancta and explains that she must leave. I can live with her, she says. Peter explains that this is unsatisfactory. This is the first time I notice that Peter speaks Spanish. Sancta brings her little feet to the floor and makes a face. She moves a toe to reveal a used rubber.
Bus left at 2:45pm and should pass through Houston at 3am. Light snow alternates with rain. The sky is expansive and dark and grey. Thunder strikes followed by lightning. The driver, quite out of nowhere, announces that thunder is usually followed by lighting. The drowsing passengers, of which there are only a few, seem not to care.
8:30am Lake Charles, Louisiana-- Woke up after a miserable sleep. "Mighty long ride!" said my seat companion, who had evidently crawled in next to me during the night. Last stop I remember was Houston where we picked up three passengers: a boy and a blind man who was leading his dizzy sighted wife by the hand.
Viewing the sights out of Lake Charles I have the sense of coming home. The Governor Duke signs still tacked to the trees reminds me of the billboard I once saw as a child when we drove into Georgia: NOW ENTERING KLAN COUNTRY.
Pine trees line the highway. Mud flats and squat rundown shacks, some with boards nailed across the windows. At 8am the sky is pink and flocks of migrating birds ripple overhead. One can smell the wet Earth. Thick black clouds move in.
Crossed the brown and swollen Mississippi into New Orleans. Ran around the city for thirty minutes trying to find a bank machine that would take my ATM card. Dozens of little Savings & Loans; many closed down and more with smashed windows. New Orleans reminds me so much of Charleston S.C.--Wrought iron gates, French Colonial houses painted pink and green, narrow one way streets--I prayed for a Bank of America and found a Hibernia. The machine addressed me by name and offered me a twenty. Picked up the cash and headed for a taxi. Five dollars brought me to the Marquette House. Ten got me a dormitory style room, much like the one at the Gardener, except for a large low ceiling fan that made me nervous about decapitation. There is no pleasure like removing ones shoes after 24 hours of bus travel.
Miguel is a splendid forty. Thick black hair and olive complexion, his Argentinean accent has been altered by six years of living in Australia. I thought, at first, that he was gay because there was so much sex in his gaze. I mumbled hallelujah and stuck my feet under the blanket lest he think I harbored a new and distinctly smelly fungus. He told me a sad story about losing his luggage (he had made the mistake of checking it with Greyhound) and my heart and wardrobe went out to him.
Miguel agreed with me when I said that Bourbon Street was best explored with a buddy. So after showering and dressing we set out on St. Charles Street. That was when MIguel told me the story of the first time he lost his clothing.
"I was on the beach at Cancun and had met a pretty lady and we became passionate and were stripping our clothes off and what the hell--you don't notice other people when you are with a pretty lady so some people were watching and when we went into the dunes everything was gone!"
"Maybe you're meant to go naked." I said. Miguel laughed.
We decided to try a restaurant named Scarlettes. I had the Frankly My Dear seafood salad and Miguel had Rhettes Hot Gumbo. We topped it off with Chicory Blend Coffee and two slices of Miss Pitty Pats Apple Pie. I laughed at the menu and Miguel gave me a puzzled look.
"Don't you recognize the characters from Gone with the Wind." I asked.
Miguel shook his head and I saw there was not much more to say. "It was a big movie."
He replied: "All the movies in the United States are big. Americans are like autistic children who are trapped in bad imaginations."
We took St. Charles Street and passed freshly painted Ante Bellum houses or modern homes made to look Ante Bellum. When we hit Canal Street we turned right and searched for Bourbon Street. We couldn't find it and entered a rather stuffy Mariotte and asked directions.
"Bour-bon Street? Bour-bon Street?" Said the clerk behind the information desk as if he'd never heard of it.
"I was told it was in New Orleans." said Miguel.
The clerk leaned across his desk and pointed North: "It's that way."
As it turned out Bourbon Street was a mere two blocks from the stuffy Mariotte. Juke joints, jazz clubs, blues clubs, strip shows, French orgies, American orgies, topless and bottomless hookers, voodoo shops, peep shows and laughing gas sold everywhere for two bucks a hit. A red glow rose from the street and saturated what looked like thousand of people milling about in confusion. We made our way through the crowd until the party came to an abrupt end. Ahead was more Bourbon Street, but darker. I entered a bar called the Tool Box and realized we'd found the Gay Section. I entered the bar and saw the straight people across the street peer down the alley and turn around. There was Miguel: looking around for me. I thought he'd followed me into the bar. I had the funny thought that one had to bay Gay to cross through the invisible barrier between these two slices of Bourbon Street. All around me were the usual men in brightly colored caps and leather jackets. I could have been on Castro Street. I left the bar and strolled back across the street and announced to Miguel that I had found a Gay Bar. We stood together for a moment and watched more men enter and leave the Tool Box.
"Yes," he said, "They have their own culture."
This whole business of separate cultures based on sexual behavior bored me. I don't think that the straight men I had been invited to party with were free of doubt regarding my sexual preferences. What happened was that my silence on the politics of the subject allowed us to relate to each other without the defensive posturing that straight men and gay men adopt with each other.
It was morning and I watched Miguel dress. First deodorant, then cologne. Finally he put on silk tiger stripe underwear. I couldn't help but laugh. "They look like panties." I said.
"But the ladies like them," he replied, "and I always do what the ladies like."
The bunks of the Marquette Hotel remind me of what I've seen in the media of prison bunks: Six to a room. The mattress of mine rises on the sides and swallows me up. I sleep and dream that I'm back in San Francisco looking for an apartment. I find one in the Mission District already occupied by a lesbian. I can share her apartment and have a room of my own. I can sleep in the room to see if I like it. I'm about to fall asleep when I look up and see Liz Taylor creeping up the foot of my bed. She's young and not at all surgeried. Her violet eyes are full of lust.
I awaken to the sound of Miguel stumbling in. It's 2am. While I've been asleep the other four bunks have been taken. There are either bodies or backpacks sinking into the mattresses. Miguel switches on the lights.
He says, "Man, you like to sleep, man."
I do not respond which seems to encourage a monologue. Miguel continues: "I almost bought a whore tonight and I reckon I would have at one of those strip joints on Bourbon Street. The first one I entered was seedy and the girls looked like they needed to be in hospital so I went into this other: Chez Paree, I think, and a whore with a pretty face motioned to me to come over and started rubbing her tits against me--I think to excite the audience. I don't normally go for whores but she had such a pretty face I asked how much it would cost to fuck her. She said, $150.00. If she had said $50.00 maybe yes. But $150.00 is too much. I came home."
Miguel and I were walking down Riverwalk along the Mississippi River. We passed a homeless woman and Miguel, who'd been silent for much of our walk, which had been down Canal Street and up St. Charles, looked at the woman and stopped. "I suppose you know that this year marks the Bi-Centennial of your Bill of Rights."
I had to confess that I was only dimly aware of it.
He continued: "You Americans think you are so free--but homelessness is terrible bondage. Your Corporate Class says: if you don't play our game we will render you homeless and starve you to death. When I was in San Francisco my friends called them Reagan's Children. But they really belong to all of the U.S.--don't they."
We walked on. Miguel continued: "It's not like that in Australia. Oh it's coming, and it terrifies me. I don't want to be one of these calculating yuppies--but I don't want to starve. I came to America to find a city I could live in--and I see that's impossible. Your Bill of Rights is like a ring in which the diamond has been replaced with glass. A country that allows it's citizens to starve and roam homeless is not a country in which 'Freedom Reigns'. Tell me, do you see it this way?"
"I think this is a bad time for Americans and I think we're confused and I think that thinking about is heartbreaking."
Miguel asked: "It breaks your heart?"
"It hurts me deeply."
We were passing through the French Market and paused to hear a streetband. Miguel smiled and bought a praline and broke off a portion and gave it to me. We resumed our walk. Again he was silent--until we reached the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon. On a stopsign were posted two stickers. One read FAG and the other read DYKE. Miguel turned to me:
"Tell me. You're a homosexual."
"Yes and no," I replied. "first I'm a creature on this planet."
"Ah, but that's avoiding the question. You are a creature of this culture and therefore you have an identity."
"Go ahead." I said.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Maybe I thought I could seduce you."
Miguel laughed: "Maybe you did! But I'm much too fond of the ladies!" Then he got serious, "The homosexuals are not free in this country."
"Are they free in Australia?"
"No--but the Homosexuals of Sydney share the same delusion as the homosexuals of San Francisco. They think that because they can have a parade they're free."
Flores! Flores por la morte!
After feasting on fresh alligator and gumbo at the Cajun Commando we walked up Bourbon Street. Was that Miguels hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. I looked up at him and smiled. We stopped to watch a street mime. I reached into my pocket to fetch a cigarette, Miguel lit it--I took a puff and smiled.
We went to the World Beat for drinks. Miguel pulled my chair from the table and invited me to sit down, he took his seat and, when the waitress came, ordered.
I leaned across the table: "Miguel--are you looking for a job as my personal valet or what?"
"You don't like my manners."
"These manners are meant for a woman!"
"In Argentina when a man likes a lady he does things for her."
"Well I ain't no lady," I said, "so cool it!"
Miguel sat back and grinned at me. There was so much sexual tension at the table that I thought he'd ordered it from the waitress. We were listening to a band that was in the middle of a set of Cajun Waltzes. Several couples were up and dancing. One woman was so graceful that, watching her, I felt taken to the 1800's. "She's beautiful." I said to Miguel.
He answered: "Yes. If I'd had her twenty years ago."
This annoyed me.
"Watch her dance." I said.
"Yes," he replied, "she's beautiful."
The evening wore on and on. We left the Cajun Commando and strolled up Bourbon to the gay section. Just as it had been two nights ago: it was almost completely unintruded upon by the straights just a few feet across the street. I said to Miguel, "C'mon." and entered the Tool Box. Miguel came up the stairs, stopped, and said: "No! No! I can't!" He was in a panic. I left the bar and led him back across the street. "I think," I said, "that the reason the straights don't cross over to the other side--is that they're afraid they'll really cross over."
Woke up this morning to the following note: Dear Rob, I have decided to check out of the hostel and see the countryside: maybe Northern Louisiana and beyond. Stay kind and insightful--Miguel.
Dan is a 24 year old blond who arrived from Mass. late last night and was seen staggering around Bourbon Street at 3:00am. He took the bunk above mine.
Peter also arrived last night. A blue eyed sharp featured 28 year old from what used to be called West Germany.
Rob is a 25 year old from a small English town outside of Liverpool. He insists that he' never heard anything written or sung by the Beatles.
Once we were all properly introduced the New Years Eve celebrations began. That night we went with a group of women from Argentina and Lar, another German fellow, to the Club Brazil to hear a group called the Squirming Snakes. The lead singer was a woman in the mode of Janis Joplin: from the large paper magnolias in her thick brown hair to her bright red satin dress. The crowd was ecstatic and encouraged her every move.
"Are you ready for me?" she asked.
The crowd moaned: "Oh yes!"
The group from the hostel stood to the right of the stage. The band struck up and we danced. This continued for over two hours. The floor was slick with sweat and spilled drinks. The singer's voice rose, she shimmied across the stage, tossed her hair, fell back on her knees, then lifted a large palm leaf with which she fanned herself.
"Any catholics out there?" she asked.
"Yeh!"
She continued to fan herself languidly: "I know how ya'all love that dead meat!"
"Yeh!"
"How 'bout some live meat? Wanna little live meat?"
"Yeh!"
She did a little grind and hiked up the hem of her skirt. Peter, Rob and I stood at the foot of the stage--transfixed. "I love you!" Rob shouted.
She heard this and raised the hem of her skirt a few more inches.
"I love you!" shouted more of the crowd.
Crash of drums! She was off on another set.
Later--Rob, Lar, Peter and I gathered at Igors Bar, Grill and Laundromat. We were exhausted but awake. Lar's blond hair was in that extraordinary disarray only possible in youth. It rose like a blond halo. He looked like a fallen angel. He got up to throw quarters into the jukebox.
Fixing a Hole by the Beatles began to play.
Lar returned to the table and closed his eyes. A pitcher of beer arrived. Peter poured and proposed a toast: "To travel and friends from all over the World!"
"Cheers!" said Rob. I smiled and raised my glass and also offered a silent cheer to old friends and spent youth. Suddenly Lar looked at Peter and said: "And I offer another toast! To a strong and victorious Germany!"
Rob raised his glass: "We could use another war."
Peter lowered his: "I do not toast such things."
Lar looked at me and mischief played in his eyes. Again he raised his glass: "What we did not do militarily we will do economically."
Peter was horrified. "Du benimmster dich wie ein dumme esel!" (You are behaving like a stupid bore.)
Lar smiled: "My friend does not like to hear such things."
"It is a bit of a drag--" Rob turned to me: "Is it time to exhume Churchill? But then he might accidentally declare war on Bush."
"That's true, "I said, "Lar--if you want a Nazi Government--move to the United States."
Peter had not stopped glaring at Lar. "I had hoped that such things would never again be said by a German!"
This time Lar spoke in German. "Es ist keine shanda zu gewinnen." (There is no shame in winning.)
12/31/91
The internationalism of our room amused us. We referred to each other as delegates, with Dan the delegate from the East Coast and I the delegate from the West.
The gag was that the bombing would commence on the 1st at Noon. When this was said Dan would fire a pen or pencil at Peter, the delegate from Germany.
We lay in our bunks until 1. Lar knocked on the door and invited us to go to the swamps. Peter smiled: "He wants to make up." And it was true. Lar was contrite. When we refused he offered us the use of his car so we could go alone. He left and we discussed this sudden change in temper. What was Lar up to? Was it an act of friendship or gross seduction? What should the delegates do?
We decided to forego the swamps for sleep. We slept until 7 and went again to the Club Brazil via Jackson Square and the French Market. Fireworks went off in the air and at our feet. Again there was a disagreement between Lar and Peter. Lar wanted to join the line of overdressed Yuppies who were waiting to get into the MTV party at the Hardrock Cafe. Peter insisted that we stick to our plan and proceed to the Club Brazil. The group stood in embarrassed silence as Lar and Peter argued in German.
Our Australian friend, Carl, was having trouble with Deanna, the girl he was traveling with. Everyones first impression was that they were a couple. That wasn't the case. It was Peter who observed Carl's effeminacy and wondered if he was hiding.
On New years Eve Deanna squared off with Rob and two other guys from the hostel. This set Carl off on a drunk that culminated in a scene played out for everyone at the Club Brazil.
It started with Carl's teary collapse in the doorway. We moved Carl under a streetlight where he began to sob quite loudly. He was instantly surrounded by a group of Argentinean women who collectively patted his face and hands. When this didn't work Deanna was called.
She arrived, paused to correct her lipstick, and knelt beside Carl.
"Let me take you back to the hostel." she said.
"Carl shoved her back: "Get away from me you bitch! You don't care about me!"
Peter and I stood watching from a police barricade. Peter looked at me: "What do you think."
"I think he's punishing his identity."
Deanna tried three more times to make Carl stand and hail a taxi-- each time he shoved her away. When she tried a fourth time he rose and shot in a zig-zag toward Bourbon Street.
Deanna followed him. Peter said: "I think maybe we should go with them. I'm afraid he'll hurt her." I agreed but suggested that we hang back.
Deanna and Carl fought with each other through the crowds, down the one way streets and in front of the jazz clubs of the French Quarter. Finally they entered the Gay Section. It was as if they'd done it consciously. Deanna looked at Carl and cried: "I can't cover for you anymore, besides, you hate me for it!"
Carl wept too. "Please, just go away."
Deanna walked toward us. "Take him home," she begged, "I'm afraid he'll hurt himself!"
Up the street Carl had collapsed in front of the Tool Box. Peter reached him first. he sat and gently lifted Carl's head and cradled it in his lap.
For reasons that are probably obvious but confusing I have, over the past twenty years, shut myself off from straight men and viewed them as I imagine they view me: with hatred, suspicion and fear. Last night when Peter lifted Carl's head to his lap I felt my love for him and it was a love that transcended our sexual preferences and future histories. I loved Peter because he had consoled another man's pain, though that pain would never be his--and in so doing he provided me with a vision that served as an antidote to the cruelty I've witnessed on much of my travel in the United States.
The various delegates crept out of bed at noon. No one mentioned Carl's scene. It was time for us to move on or go home. I gave Peter my address with the sincere hope that he would let me know something of how his life continues.
This station, unlike many I've seen, is kept clean condition. The majority of the people here are black people of color. Some are white people of color and some are students of no discernable economic color at all. (Though being a student often makes one white.)
I should mention the other queen in the crowd. He wears a knee length overcoat, a jacket, silk blue shirt buttoned all the way up, white sox, black penny loafers, blond hair done in a just so bang and silver ear bob.
I wear a black leather jacket with little silver crosses pinned to the lapel, black turtle neck sweater, grey sweatpants, jade socks and well polished black Rockports.
The other queen examines me and winks.
Arrived Santa Monica 5:30 am. My favorite cheap motel: the Highway Robber has burned down. Checked out prices at the Travelodge (85.00 a night.) and decide to wait until seven when the hostel opens (10.00 a night.)
In the meantime I was cruised by a chunky guy on a bicycle who turned out to be a "clinical Psychologist"
"What are you doing?" he asked a lone man stumbling around in the dark with a forty pound pack strapped to his back.
"Nothing." I replied.
"Whattaya doing in Santa Monica?" he continued.
"I'm here on business." I felt odd saying it and added: "though it doesn't look like I am."
We crossed to the park and sat down together on a well lit bench; I looked at him with exhaustion. "What kind of business?" he asked.
"No kind." I answered.
Dawn spread: Green and blue. He announced his profession which was followed by even gloomier silence and rode away.
Santa Monica's Third Street Mall has been decked out with wreaths, trees and a makeshift Santa.
As soon as I settled into the hostel I met one of my bunkmates, Mark, a "chap" from South Africa.
Mark is a practicing Christian who thanks God he made this trip to the U.S. He says: "America is too free--
"New york is the worst. Pornography everywhere. We'd be locked up back home. And racism. Your blacks are more violent. They don't seem to have any faith in your system."
I replied: "I've often felt that if I left my country I'd see how rotten it is. Alas, I can only guess."
Mark's face grew red. "South Africa has apartheid, yes. But at least we're honest--and call it that."
12/14/91 Purple smoke billows up from a wrought iron trash container. A hand pushed espresso cart squeaks by. At 11:00 the shopping has just begun. What appears to be a minor siege will become a full scale invasion.
Santa Monica Place is a closed mall with doors that open onto the Third Street Mall which is an open air mall. Wilshire Boulevard is another stretch of boutiques and nailories from Santa Monica to Downtown L.A..
One might ask why I haven't mentioned the beautiful beach. If I mention the beach I will mention the rides and the boardwalk: and the wonderful bike path from Santa Monica to Venice. I will also mention the sheer joy of the young people who play on the beach or within sight of the water. Wonders that stem from co-operation between God and Man (persons.)
But if I mention the park in Santa Monica that overlooks beach: I have to mention the homeless, the drug addicted, children who are restlessly hungry: who cry as limousines speed by. Santa Monica is beautiful because the land is beautiful. Perhaps this suffering amidst beauty is what some mean when they refer to the human condition.
The number 4 bus cuts down Santa Monica Boulevard through Brentwood, Westwood and so on.
The riders are mostly Blacks and Hispanics (maids of color.)
A peek into the large plastic bag of the woman who sits next to me provides me with a view of many cleaning agents: a can of Ajax without its freshness peel; a ragged old rag. As the bus passes through Brentwood & Westwood the hispanic women get older and the plastic bags more numerous. By the time the bus reaches the junction of Santa Monica and Sunset Boulevards the maids have been replaced by gang members who are busy cutting graffiti into the windows with sharp jewelers stones. Those of us who were too old to participate were silenced by fear.
Coffee at a table on the sidewalk provided by the Conga Cafe.
Jim Morrison, the real Jim Morrison and not the guy who played him, has just declared His Generation insane (The End)
Judging by the impeccable dress worn by the men and women who pass, who in fact look as if they've spent hours preparing to look casual for their morning stroll, Morrison's Generation suffers from Photogenic Disorder. A new disorder marked by Genetic Endowment artificially primed to the maximum. The ugly become fair, the fair pretty, the pretty beautiful--at which point one enters the category reserved for the obsessively ravishing. Photogenic. Yes. picture perfect. But not just in face. Blouses worn to reveal the latest breast or chest implant. Slacks fit to a tee. And since everyone is a sex object: equality between the sexes has been achieved.
Was robbed last night at the Santa Monica Hostel: a simple theft from my wallet. Called an ex-lover (there are so many) who works in the Bunker Hill Complex and was granted a loan of $100.00.
Thus I slaved onward toward that smoggy heaven: three days growth of beard, thick black leather jacket, sweating profusely under the hot Noon Sun magnified by the shiny shit that hangs suspended in the air. The harder I walked the further the skyscrapers seemed. For the first mile of my walk I looked as if I fit in with the homeless locals--however, as I neared Bunker Hill the people grew pale; their complexions more refined: completely free of sweat and debris. Unfortunately the phrase City of the Angels began to repeat itself in my mind--and I was moved to stop in a local liquor store to buy a comb. I neared the street with my ex-lover's tower perched on it and discovered to my sweaty joy an escalator. That was when I noticed that the Angels of Bunker Hill were staring at me as if I'd been belched into their presence. I combed my hair.
My ex-lover, who is compulsively too busy, was too busy to give me the money personally. An envelope with the money in it had been left with his receptionist. I stood before her and perspired all over the front of her desk while she sorted through various papers before finding the obviously placed envelope. As she gave it to me she pressed a button on her phone and demanded that someone from housekeeping be sent to her desk immediately.
Going downhill is always easier than going uphill and I was soon returned to the chaos of the bus station. The Muzak version of Little Drummer Boy was infiltrating the station. A marvelous woman in stiletto heels and rhinestone sunglasses, who was later identified as a Customer Service Rep, managed to be everywhere I looked.
The bus to El Paso was called and those of us who had been waiting for an hour or more for a choice seat tore through the gate. I made my way to the rear of the bus and took my usual: the last seat on the left. This is where the sexy guys sit and since I suffer from the usual sins of denial and vanity I assumed that this was the place for me.
As the bus filled a community took shape and the laws of bus travel went into effect.
1. There is always one blistering drunk who sits next to me and threatens to vomit.
2. There is always one loud and miserable baby who is accompanied by and ineffective Mother. This law is never broken.
3. Either an old person or a person who doesn't speak English will lock himself in the bathroom. This law varies in certain states.
4. There is always one horny queen in the last seat on the left. This law only applies when I travel.
The community shifted dramatically in Phoenix.
The line of forty or so people waiting to board bus #1732 appeared to consist of psychopaths of all ages and sensibilities: screaming toddlers clutching mangled dolls, two drag queen whose troubled beauty had fallen on hard times, a desperate drunk who was attempting to smuggle on a gallon of vodka. I giggled as the scene presented itself. I heard a voice behind me:
"Then give me three Pepsis then!"
It was the drunk attempting to negotiate with the station guard who was tugging the vodka from his hands.
"Passengers holding boarding pass 157--" those of us who had boarded the bus in Los Angeles were called back on. I marvelled as the drag queens and their entourage settled around me. One snapped at one of her male-ish companions: "Don't start jacking off Jason!"
"That's what I brought your lips for, Theresa!" he answered. And the bus chugged out of Phoenix.
Immediately the drag queens switched on their overhead lights and began trading makeup. Jason announced that he had "free condoms for three dollars." This caused waves of nervous titters to cascade up the bus. Mothers clutched babies who screamed louder. One of two boys sitting in front of me looked at the drag queens as if assessing possibilities. In the meantime the drag queens babbled in Spanish to each other.
"I get the Playboy channel on my Watchman!" announced Jason.
The drag queens applied blush.
"I'm in cocaine heaven." sighed Jason.
The boy in front of me leaned across the aisle and said: "Ma'am. You shore are pretty."
His companion in the window seat buried his face in his arms and produced what a kind person would take for sneezes.
12/17/91 El Paso I received my first impression of El Paso from a dizzy queen with a british accent who worked the front desk of the Gardener Hotel on Franklin Street--who, though I was the only person checking in, forgot why I was there.
This was serious business. After riding the bus all night with coked up drag queens and insufferable infants I was in no shape to do someone elses thinking.
"Right! Now you would like a room!"
"Now is right."
"For how many nights?"
"As many as it takes."
RING! RING!
"What's that?"
"It's the telephone--Hellow--uh--Gardener Hotel. Yes, we do. Three nights? Fine. (click) Right. Now. Did you want a room?"
"Yes I did!" And so it went until I gratefully gave him 28.00 and stumbled into the dormitory. Woke up 12 hours later with the feeling I would never wake up. After pissing around in the hotel's kitchen (guests are allowed to cook their own meals) I decided I had see Downtown El Paso. El Paso is more Mexico than America--but unlike the Mexico I've experienced in L.A. or San Francisco. There are the shops, yes, running shoes: $11.00--gold lame gowns: $29.00 (drag queens take note), but, the streets were spotless and there was none of the feeling of oppression such as I get from San Francisco's Mission or L.A.'s Main Street. The few White People I saw (three actually) were women wearing furs (the day was wet--not cold) stepping into and out of large obtrusive cars.
I was so excited by what I saw that I felt compelled to shop: sweat pants $5.00--six pairs of socks: $3.00. I couldn't account for it: the hodge podge of prices and sounds: rock from Mejia's and Spanish from Kress. And while one can experience these things in the aforementioned districts of the aforementioned cities--one cannot get them from people who seem in control of their lives. The Mexicans of El Paso did not behave as if they had to defend themselves. That said: I must confess that my enthusiasm was excessive. As I was walking back to The Gardener all ga ga I ran into the British Queen (named Mark). He stopped and I gushed:
"What a Wonderful city El Paso is!"
He replied: "Oh yes! Isn't it glamorous!"
I turned to see if he was addressing someone a few blocks behind me.
"I can't believe I got running shoes for $11.00."
"Oh my yes!" he said again. "Actually, people come here for the shoes!"
I was beginning to hate this queen as I realized he was a rock solid bitch. "You've been here too long, haven't you?" I asked.
He began to move on. "I can tell you all about it at the hotel."
"Oh, by the way, I can't seem to find a Catholic Church."
Mark opened his umbrella. "Good." he said. And it started to pour. I've been hit with the Bejing Flu--which I've heard is epidemic in El Paso. I've been in bed for two days with the exception of a two hour walk, taken yesterday, to the Venus Adult Theatre.
The Venus is located on the four thousand block of Montana Avenue. One passes Churches, Madonna Shops and 7 Elevens along unending blocks until one finally reaches 4812 Montana. Then one sees a plastic sign indicating VENUS ADULTS and an arrow which points to a blank facade and a door: "At last!" I coughed to myself, feeling much like an explorer of the American sort. I opened the door and staggered in and immediately felt like a fool. My head throbbed, I was queasy and broke out in a feverish sweat. But such was my desire for adventure that I thought like Lewis and Clark or whoever, let me die on my quest.
The Venus was like every other porn shop I've visited: dicks, cunts and faces in that order. There was an arcade, a movie theatre and private viewing booths. I chose the theatre. Bad choice. It was cold and damp. The screen was dark. And my head throbbed more. On top of it all I was the only one there: a situation that continued. I left abruptly and exited into drenching rain. This, I thought, is a message. The bus came and shortly poured me back into the Gardener Hotel. I went to bed.
I woke up feeling better and was certain that my horny fantasies about Texans and Mexican boys would be realized. First I went to Mass, stopping first in the Ave Maria, a religious shop, for a Rosary.
The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is located on Kansas Street. When I entered and saw the alter I felt as if I was hallucinating. It consisted of a hundred shadow boxes. In the center was a crucifix with the corpse of Jesus nailed to it. In front of it was a statue of Mary: hands folded in prayer. Spreading outward and upward were saints, angels, cupids, gold scrolls, candles, incense, incense burners, wings--and what looked like a menorah, and a huge painting of Mary ascending into Heaven. I fell to my knees and wept from shock.
I had entered in the middle of a ceremony in which the body of Christ (the Communion Wafer) had been placed in what looked like a large golden eye called a Monstrance. It was being shown to the congregation by the Archbishop of El Paso. I must confess that I love ritual and was at full attention. After this the body was returned to its place in the alter and the Archbishop left. Three tolls of a bell signalled the beginning of Mass. The congregation sang in reedy unison: He is the King.
After Mass I hopped the bus to the Venus, which I had begun to think of as a fly trap.
One can easily see that the church and the porn shop are both places of worship. People pop into both places during lunch, fulfill some private need in public ritual, and leave.
I watched the Venus for awhile from the bus stop. Soldiers, business men and construction workers stepped in and within minutes were out. But some stayed. Where did they go? I thought of the theatre. It was 4:00. I ran across the highway and into the shop. "Theatre please."
I couldn't see a thing.
I didn't remember it being so dark and felt that maybe, because I'd been to mass, I was struck blind. But soon my eyes adjusted and I could see that I wasn't alone. I went to the john. On the wall was written: 12/20/91--Back Row--show hard--love to suck and fuck and wear women's panties.
This was impossible.
I stayed for a few minutes to get a look at the creature who'd written this. From what I could see he was naked, except for a bra, and a pair of blue nylons.
The latest guest of El Paso's Gardener Hotel is a young Aussie named Peter Lapis: a 35 year old blond who talks a mile a minute. For reasons of divine configuration or boredom he convinces me to join the gang at the Ramada Inn for drinks. the gang consisted of Peter, Martin--a dutchman who was nicknamed The Viking, a young Cockney named Steven, Craig--a red headed Frenchman, and yours truly--an American Queen in disguise.
The very thought of going to the Ramada Inn for anything struck me as perverse; the thought of going in to cruise chicks and drink brews was beyond the pale.
The feeling I had as we made our way through sleet and cold wind was that of camaraderie. The fetters of gay identity and middle age began to slip away.
We entered the lavishly orange lobby of the Ramada Inn and commandeered an elevator to the 17th floor. It was Friday night and this was El Paso's Top of the Sixes: a place for getting drunk and feeling in control all at the same time. We lined up at the bar and ordered our drinks. I had a Miller Lite. The dee-jay spun Sexual Healing.
"I love these musics!" said Craig. He and Steven made a clump next to me at one end of the bar; Peter and The Viking were passionately cruising chicks at the other. "You like this?" Steven asked Craig.
Craig replied: "Oh yes! I love the American 50's: Elvis Presley, Petula Clark. Do you ever hear The Platters?" Craig asked me.
I said: "I think I remember them from the Ed Sullivan Show. But Petula Clark was not a singer from the American 50's."
Craig winked and sipped his beer. The dee-jay slid into Blue Christmas.
"These is the best musics," Craig continued, "America's gift to the World!" he turned to me, "Do you not think so?"
I sensed that something mean and lovely was going on. The beer was making me extravagant: "There would be no musics without the Beatles." I said.
"Ah!" Craig raised his glass, "America's greatest gift!"
The three of us laughed. Peter leaned down the bar toward us:"Dudes! Lets go into Juarez."
I was game.
"Too cold." Steven said.
"I think there is no adventure in this group!" boomed Martin, "Den we go to Tap."
Tap is a Mexican bar on San Antonio Street. We arrived at Midnight to the sound of Linda Ronstadt pouring her heart out in Spanish: "PORRRE UNE AMORRREEE!"
"PORRRE UNE AMORREEE!" sang the drunken crowd.
Martin chose our booth so he could see the waitress who worked the table. "Nice ass." he said as she left to get our pitcher of beer. I decided to see that what he said was true when she returned and left with our money.
The following blur of events has been brought to you courtesy of a three day drunken binge.
12/22/91 Peter confesses confusion--
Woke to the scent of stale beer and beans and Peter Lapis as my bunkmate. "Don't drink much do ya." he said as I tried to lift what remained of my head from my pillow and throbbing memories of the previous evening played themselves out in my mind. Sancta Maria was the name we had given our waitress. Sancta and I danced the Samba until her drunken husband who had been passed out for most of the night at the table across from ours woke and upon noticing that I was an excellent dancer got huffy. A fight ensued which resulted in much cursing in English, French, Dutch and Spanish. Sancta Maria begged us to leave before the Police arrived. "PORRE UNE AMORRE!" I sang until the cold winds of El Paso blew across my face. Peter was responsible for getting me safely to bed. "Don't drink much, so ya?" Peter asked.
"Drinking takes practice like anything!"
10:00pm--We were back at Tap. Sancta Maria eyes us warily. She has begged us not to sit in her station. I have eaten alot of macaroni. The Vikings theory is that macaroni sops up booze which results in more even handed drunkenness. By 12 I am necking with Sancta Maria in the kitchen. Our group departs at two without incident.
12/24/91 Straight like Me--
9:30pm Everyone is leaving on Christmas. We decide to go out for a small farewell drink which leads to tequila which leads to Kahlua which leads to opening my eyes at 4:00am and finding Sancta Maria asleep in my bunk. I wake up Peter who wakes up Sancta and explains that she must leave. I can live with her, she says. Peter explains that this is unsatisfactory. This is the first time I notice that Peter speaks Spanish. Sancta brings her little feet to the floor and makes a face. She moves a toe to reveal a used rubber.
Bus left at 2:45pm and should pass through Houston at 3am. Light snow alternates with rain. The sky is expansive and dark and grey. Thunder strikes followed by lightning. The driver, quite out of nowhere, announces that thunder is usually followed by lighting. The drowsing passengers, of which there are only a few, seem not to care.
8:30am Lake Charles, Louisiana-- Woke up after a miserable sleep. "Mighty long ride!" said my seat companion, who had evidently crawled in next to me during the night. Last stop I remember was Houston where we picked up three passengers: a boy and a blind man who was leading his dizzy sighted wife by the hand.
Viewing the sights out of Lake Charles I have the sense of coming home. The Governor Duke signs still tacked to the trees reminds me of the billboard I once saw as a child when we drove into Georgia: NOW ENTERING KLAN COUNTRY.
Pine trees line the highway. Mud flats and squat rundown shacks, some with boards nailed across the windows. At 8am the sky is pink and flocks of migrating birds ripple overhead. One can smell the wet Earth. Thick black clouds move in.
Crossed the brown and swollen Mississippi into New Orleans. Ran around the city for thirty minutes trying to find a bank machine that would take my ATM card. Dozens of little Savings & Loans; many closed down and more with smashed windows. New Orleans reminds me so much of Charleston S.C.--Wrought iron gates, French Colonial houses painted pink and green, narrow one way streets--I prayed for a Bank of America and found a Hibernia. The machine addressed me by name and offered me a twenty. Picked up the cash and headed for a taxi. Five dollars brought me to the Marquette House. Ten got me a dormitory style room, much like the one at the Gardener, except for a large low ceiling fan that made me nervous about decapitation. There is no pleasure like removing ones shoes after 24 hours of bus travel.
Miguel is a splendid forty. Thick black hair and olive complexion, his Argentinean accent has been altered by six years of living in Australia. I thought, at first, that he was gay because there was so much sex in his gaze. I mumbled hallelujah and stuck my feet under the blanket lest he think I harbored a new and distinctly smelly fungus. He told me a sad story about losing his luggage (he had made the mistake of checking it with Greyhound) and my heart and wardrobe went out to him.
Miguel agreed with me when I said that Bourbon Street was best explored with a buddy. So after showering and dressing we set out on St. Charles Street. That was when MIguel told me the story of the first time he lost his clothing.
"I was on the beach at Cancun and had met a pretty lady and we became passionate and were stripping our clothes off and what the hell--you don't notice other people when you are with a pretty lady so some people were watching and when we went into the dunes everything was gone!"
"Maybe you're meant to go naked." I said. Miguel laughed.
We decided to try a restaurant named Scarlettes. I had the Frankly My Dear seafood salad and Miguel had Rhettes Hot Gumbo. We topped it off with Chicory Blend Coffee and two slices of Miss Pitty Pats Apple Pie. I laughed at the menu and Miguel gave me a puzzled look.
"Don't you recognize the characters from Gone with the Wind." I asked.
Miguel shook his head and I saw there was not much more to say. "It was a big movie."
He replied: "All the movies in the United States are big. Americans are like autistic children who are trapped in bad imaginations."
We took St. Charles Street and passed freshly painted Ante Bellum houses or modern homes made to look Ante Bellum. When we hit Canal Street we turned right and searched for Bourbon Street. We couldn't find it and entered a rather stuffy Mariotte and asked directions.
"Bour-bon Street? Bour-bon Street?" Said the clerk behind the information desk as if he'd never heard of it.
"I was told it was in New Orleans." said Miguel.
The clerk leaned across his desk and pointed North: "It's that way."
As it turned out Bourbon Street was a mere two blocks from the stuffy Mariotte. Juke joints, jazz clubs, blues clubs, strip shows, French orgies, American orgies, topless and bottomless hookers, voodoo shops, peep shows and laughing gas sold everywhere for two bucks a hit. A red glow rose from the street and saturated what looked like thousand of people milling about in confusion. We made our way through the crowd until the party came to an abrupt end. Ahead was more Bourbon Street, but darker. I entered a bar called the Tool Box and realized we'd found the Gay Section. I entered the bar and saw the straight people across the street peer down the alley and turn around. There was Miguel: looking around for me. I thought he'd followed me into the bar. I had the funny thought that one had to bay Gay to cross through the invisible barrier between these two slices of Bourbon Street. All around me were the usual men in brightly colored caps and leather jackets. I could have been on Castro Street. I left the bar and strolled back across the street and announced to Miguel that I had found a Gay Bar. We stood together for a moment and watched more men enter and leave the Tool Box.
"Yes," he said, "They have their own culture."
This whole business of separate cultures based on sexual behavior bored me. I don't think that the straight men I had been invited to party with were free of doubt regarding my sexual preferences. What happened was that my silence on the politics of the subject allowed us to relate to each other without the defensive posturing that straight men and gay men adopt with each other.
It was morning and I watched Miguel dress. First deodorant, then cologne. Finally he put on silk tiger stripe underwear. I couldn't help but laugh. "They look like panties." I said.
"But the ladies like them," he replied, "and I always do what the ladies like."
The bunks of the Marquette Hotel remind me of what I've seen in the media of prison bunks: Six to a room. The mattress of mine rises on the sides and swallows me up. I sleep and dream that I'm back in San Francisco looking for an apartment. I find one in the Mission District already occupied by a lesbian. I can share her apartment and have a room of my own. I can sleep in the room to see if I like it. I'm about to fall asleep when I look up and see Liz Taylor creeping up the foot of my bed. She's young and not at all surgeried. Her violet eyes are full of lust.
I awaken to the sound of Miguel stumbling in. It's 2am. While I've been asleep the other four bunks have been taken. There are either bodies or backpacks sinking into the mattresses. Miguel switches on the lights.
He says, "Man, you like to sleep, man."
I do not respond which seems to encourage a monologue. Miguel continues: "I almost bought a whore tonight and I reckon I would have at one of those strip joints on Bourbon Street. The first one I entered was seedy and the girls looked like they needed to be in hospital so I went into this other: Chez Paree, I think, and a whore with a pretty face motioned to me to come over and started rubbing her tits against me--I think to excite the audience. I don't normally go for whores but she had such a pretty face I asked how much it would cost to fuck her. She said, $150.00. If she had said $50.00 maybe yes. But $150.00 is too much. I came home."
Miguel and I were walking down Riverwalk along the Mississippi River. We passed a homeless woman and Miguel, who'd been silent for much of our walk, which had been down Canal Street and up St. Charles, looked at the woman and stopped. "I suppose you know that this year marks the Bi-Centennial of your Bill of Rights."
I had to confess that I was only dimly aware of it.
He continued: "You Americans think you are so free--but homelessness is terrible bondage. Your Corporate Class says: if you don't play our game we will render you homeless and starve you to death. When I was in San Francisco my friends called them Reagan's Children. But they really belong to all of the U.S.--don't they."
We walked on. Miguel continued: "It's not like that in Australia. Oh it's coming, and it terrifies me. I don't want to be one of these calculating yuppies--but I don't want to starve. I came to America to find a city I could live in--and I see that's impossible. Your Bill of Rights is like a ring in which the diamond has been replaced with glass. A country that allows it's citizens to starve and roam homeless is not a country in which 'Freedom Reigns'. Tell me, do you see it this way?"
"I think this is a bad time for Americans and I think we're confused and I think that thinking about is heartbreaking."
Miguel asked: "It breaks your heart?"
"It hurts me deeply."
We were passing through the French Market and paused to hear a streetband. Miguel smiled and bought a praline and broke off a portion and gave it to me. We resumed our walk. Again he was silent--until we reached the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon. On a stopsign were posted two stickers. One read FAG and the other read DYKE. Miguel turned to me:
"Tell me. You're a homosexual."
"Yes and no," I replied. "first I'm a creature on this planet."
"Ah, but that's avoiding the question. You are a creature of this culture and therefore you have an identity."
"Go ahead." I said.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Maybe I thought I could seduce you."
Miguel laughed: "Maybe you did! But I'm much too fond of the ladies!" Then he got serious, "The homosexuals are not free in this country."
"Are they free in Australia?"
"No--but the Homosexuals of Sydney share the same delusion as the homosexuals of San Francisco. They think that because they can have a parade they're free."
Flores! Flores por la morte!
After feasting on fresh alligator and gumbo at the Cajun Commando we walked up Bourbon Street. Was that Miguels hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. I looked up at him and smiled. We stopped to watch a street mime. I reached into my pocket to fetch a cigarette, Miguel lit it--I took a puff and smiled.
We went to the World Beat for drinks. Miguel pulled my chair from the table and invited me to sit down, he took his seat and, when the waitress came, ordered.
I leaned across the table: "Miguel--are you looking for a job as my personal valet or what?"
"You don't like my manners."
"These manners are meant for a woman!"
"In Argentina when a man likes a lady he does things for her."
"Well I ain't no lady," I said, "so cool it!"
Miguel sat back and grinned at me. There was so much sexual tension at the table that I thought he'd ordered it from the waitress. We were listening to a band that was in the middle of a set of Cajun Waltzes. Several couples were up and dancing. One woman was so graceful that, watching her, I felt taken to the 1800's. "She's beautiful." I said to Miguel.
He answered: "Yes. If I'd had her twenty years ago."
This annoyed me.
"Watch her dance." I said.
"Yes," he replied, "she's beautiful."
The evening wore on and on. We left the Cajun Commando and strolled up Bourbon to the gay section. Just as it had been two nights ago: it was almost completely unintruded upon by the straights just a few feet across the street. I said to Miguel, "C'mon." and entered the Tool Box. Miguel came up the stairs, stopped, and said: "No! No! I can't!" He was in a panic. I left the bar and led him back across the street. "I think," I said, "that the reason the straights don't cross over to the other side--is that they're afraid they'll really cross over."
Woke up this morning to the following note: Dear Rob, I have decided to check out of the hostel and see the countryside: maybe Northern Louisiana and beyond. Stay kind and insightful--Miguel.
Dan is a 24 year old blond who arrived from Mass. late last night and was seen staggering around Bourbon Street at 3:00am. He took the bunk above mine.
Peter also arrived last night. A blue eyed sharp featured 28 year old from what used to be called West Germany.
Rob is a 25 year old from a small English town outside of Liverpool. He insists that he' never heard anything written or sung by the Beatles.
Once we were all properly introduced the New Years Eve celebrations began. That night we went with a group of women from Argentina and Lar, another German fellow, to the Club Brazil to hear a group called the Squirming Snakes. The lead singer was a woman in the mode of Janis Joplin: from the large paper magnolias in her thick brown hair to her bright red satin dress. The crowd was ecstatic and encouraged her every move.
"Are you ready for me?" she asked.
The crowd moaned: "Oh yes!"
The group from the hostel stood to the right of the stage. The band struck up and we danced. This continued for over two hours. The floor was slick with sweat and spilled drinks. The singer's voice rose, she shimmied across the stage, tossed her hair, fell back on her knees, then lifted a large palm leaf with which she fanned herself.
"Any catholics out there?" she asked.
"Yeh!"
She continued to fan herself languidly: "I know how ya'all love that dead meat!"
"Yeh!"
"How 'bout some live meat? Wanna little live meat?"
"Yeh!"
She did a little grind and hiked up the hem of her skirt. Peter, Rob and I stood at the foot of the stage--transfixed. "I love you!" Rob shouted.
She heard this and raised the hem of her skirt a few more inches.
"I love you!" shouted more of the crowd.
Crash of drums! She was off on another set.
Later--Rob, Lar, Peter and I gathered at Igors Bar, Grill and Laundromat. We were exhausted but awake. Lar's blond hair was in that extraordinary disarray only possible in youth. It rose like a blond halo. He looked like a fallen angel. He got up to throw quarters into the jukebox.
Fixing a Hole by the Beatles began to play.
Lar returned to the table and closed his eyes. A pitcher of beer arrived. Peter poured and proposed a toast: "To travel and friends from all over the World!"
"Cheers!" said Rob. I smiled and raised my glass and also offered a silent cheer to old friends and spent youth. Suddenly Lar looked at Peter and said: "And I offer another toast! To a strong and victorious Germany!"
Rob raised his glass: "We could use another war."
Peter lowered his: "I do not toast such things."
Lar looked at me and mischief played in his eyes. Again he raised his glass: "What we did not do militarily we will do economically."
Peter was horrified. "Du benimmster dich wie ein dumme esel!" (You are behaving like a stupid bore.)
Lar smiled: "My friend does not like to hear such things."
"It is a bit of a drag--" Rob turned to me: "Is it time to exhume Churchill? But then he might accidentally declare war on Bush."
"That's true, "I said, "Lar--if you want a Nazi Government--move to the United States."
Peter had not stopped glaring at Lar. "I had hoped that such things would never again be said by a German!"
This time Lar spoke in German. "Es ist keine shanda zu gewinnen." (There is no shame in winning.)
12/31/91
The internationalism of our room amused us. We referred to each other as delegates, with Dan the delegate from the East Coast and I the delegate from the West.
The gag was that the bombing would commence on the 1st at Noon. When this was said Dan would fire a pen or pencil at Peter, the delegate from Germany.
We lay in our bunks until 1. Lar knocked on the door and invited us to go to the swamps. Peter smiled: "He wants to make up." And it was true. Lar was contrite. When we refused he offered us the use of his car so we could go alone. He left and we discussed this sudden change in temper. What was Lar up to? Was it an act of friendship or gross seduction? What should the delegates do?
We decided to forego the swamps for sleep. We slept until 7 and went again to the Club Brazil via Jackson Square and the French Market. Fireworks went off in the air and at our feet. Again there was a disagreement between Lar and Peter. Lar wanted to join the line of overdressed Yuppies who were waiting to get into the MTV party at the Hardrock Cafe. Peter insisted that we stick to our plan and proceed to the Club Brazil. The group stood in embarrassed silence as Lar and Peter argued in German.
Our Australian friend, Carl, was having trouble with Deanna, the girl he was traveling with. Everyones first impression was that they were a couple. That wasn't the case. It was Peter who observed Carl's effeminacy and wondered if he was hiding.
On New years Eve Deanna squared off with Rob and two other guys from the hostel. This set Carl off on a drunk that culminated in a scene played out for everyone at the Club Brazil.
It started with Carl's teary collapse in the doorway. We moved Carl under a streetlight where he began to sob quite loudly. He was instantly surrounded by a group of Argentinean women who collectively patted his face and hands. When this didn't work Deanna was called.
She arrived, paused to correct her lipstick, and knelt beside Carl.
"Let me take you back to the hostel." she said.
"Carl shoved her back: "Get away from me you bitch! You don't care about me!"
Peter and I stood watching from a police barricade. Peter looked at me: "What do you think."
"I think he's punishing his identity."
Deanna tried three more times to make Carl stand and hail a taxi-- each time he shoved her away. When she tried a fourth time he rose and shot in a zig-zag toward Bourbon Street.
Deanna followed him. Peter said: "I think maybe we should go with them. I'm afraid he'll hurt her." I agreed but suggested that we hang back.
Deanna and Carl fought with each other through the crowds, down the one way streets and in front of the jazz clubs of the French Quarter. Finally they entered the Gay Section. It was as if they'd done it consciously. Deanna looked at Carl and cried: "I can't cover for you anymore, besides, you hate me for it!"
Carl wept too. "Please, just go away."
Deanna walked toward us. "Take him home," she begged, "I'm afraid he'll hurt himself!"
Up the street Carl had collapsed in front of the Tool Box. Peter reached him first. he sat and gently lifted Carl's head and cradled it in his lap.
For reasons that are probably obvious but confusing I have, over the past twenty years, shut myself off from straight men and viewed them as I imagine they view me: with hatred, suspicion and fear. Last night when Peter lifted Carl's head to his lap I felt my love for him and it was a love that transcended our sexual preferences and future histories. I loved Peter because he had consoled another man's pain, though that pain would never be his--and in so doing he provided me with a vision that served as an antidote to the cruelty I've witnessed on much of my travel in the United States.
The various delegates crept out of bed at noon. No one mentioned Carl's scene. It was time for us to move on or go home. I gave Peter my address with the sincere hope that he would let me know something of how his life continues.
