Butterflies & Rainbows
By: Rick Beck
(© 2020 by the author)
Editor: Khris Lawrentz

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

beck@tickiestories.us

Being born is usually a step in what becomes a longer story, but being born, doesn't mean it will be a nice story, or easy to tell.
 
“I was born the year I turned 12.” RB 

For Tommy

When a writer writes about his own life, it opens doors that are often better left closed. Once you open such a door, you need to be careful to look around, before venturing inside. 

Chuck, @Tickie Stories,

This one's for you.

Thanks for finding some of my earliest work to post at Tickie Stories.   

JOHNNY D has a new title, as well as a complete rewrite. I hope you and your readers enjoy Butterflies & Rainbows.

Writer's Note:

Good stories aren't usually written about the sanctimonious, the rule makers, or the indoctrinated or the people who dare not stray from the well-worn path. These people are transparent, easy to see through. 

The best stories, the tales I like to tell, are about the rebels, the irreverent, lawbreakers, and those who blaze their own trails. While society has its place, it's usually out of step with large numbers of people who are born into it.

I've lived an offbeat life. I was considered a misfit, an outcast, and I was an undesirable, as far as polite society was concerned. When your culture condemns you before you have time to grow up, they deserve what they get.

I was never much concerned by what other people thought. Being called a fag and a queer takes off the edge, once you realize that you are what you are, and no one is going to congratulate you, or make you feel welcome among them. For the most part, you're on you own to figure out how to make your life work.

I decided to find a way to help people like me, the faggots and the queers. I didn't know how I might do that, but I went about searching for a path that would take me where I would eventually go.

Butterflies & Rainbows

Part 1 

Chapter 1

Johnny D 

This is a true rendition of actual events. It took place as I was  coming out, and I went where I was sure I'd find men like me in DC.

“Do you want to go to a gay bar, or what?”

Was how I made inroads into gay DC. I was sitting on a bench in Lafayette Park, at the time I received the invitation from Phil.

Was I that obvious?

Maybe it was where I was sitting, the most notorious place for fags and queers I knew about, and within easy reach of the White House, which made it easy to find. It was early evening, and on the weekend in late July or early August.

I'd made first contact. Leon's, the bar, was packed. From Leon's gay life flowed in all directions. I met Chris there. I took a room in his house for a time. He recommended I move in with Duncan, after one of his tricks had eyes for me. I met Big Mike at Duncan's, and I moved into his place on 19th Street, which was less than a block from Dupont Circle. I was finally living close to where the action was.

I met Johnny in Dupont Circle, where I hung out after work. Right off, Johnny told me, “I hustle.” In those early days, I found hustlers and drag queens far more interesting than anyone else.

I didn't want to be one, but they had stories to tell, and I learned from what they had to say. Not many people wanted to talk to drag queens and hustlers. They didn't hesitate in telling me their stories, and like me, they were long past caring what other folks thought. That didn't mean they came clean. They told me a story, whose story was anyone's guess.

I didn't swallow anything whole hog, but I listened to what they said, when most gay men didn't say anything, and when they did talk, they fed you a line that was hard to swallow. The gay scene in DC was disjointed, fabricated, and as difficult to grasp as a greased pig.

If you were interested in learning anything, gay men would be the last to give up anything of value. The word enigmatic comes to mind. Gay men were rarely who they told you they were. You could meet a guy one week, and he'd tell you his story. If you met him a few weeks later, he'd tell you an entirely different story.

It was apparent to me, gay men had things to hide, but how did you get to know someone if they lied about who they were? I already had trust issues, and most gay men weren't telling you the truth, but when I met Big Mike, that began to change.

Mike had a regular job, and he spoke about his work, and he asked about mine. Some evenings, if we were in the apartment at the same time, he'd ask me to go to dinner with him, no strings attached. Big Mike was a regular guy, which did help, because I was only meeting irregular guys at that time.

At the time I met Johnny, I was sitting in Dupont Circle, watching the world rush past. While most men I met downtown were looking for love, I was looking for myself, and people with stories to tell interested me. In Dupont Circle people with stories crossed through the circle and sat in it each day. If I was lucky, one sat close to me, and because it was Dupont Circle, we felt free to talk.

Their stories would eventually help me find my way. I was looking for people like me, but once I got on the right path, I didn't know it took some time to find people who wanted to talk, and that wanted to be candid with me.

Johnny helped me, albeit unintentionally. I don't think Johnny helped anyone by intention. So, I named this portion of the story Johnny D, after a boy who mostly helped himself, but while he was doing it, he did help me.

Great stories start with the main character underwater, fighting for air. After an epic struggle, help from his friends, a dash of grit and determination, our hero sails off in his 40 foot sloop, with a gentle summer breeze at his back, and the man of his dreams at his side..  

However, this story began in landlocked Dupont Circle.

I made my first trip to New York City with Mike, a few weeks before I met Johnny. There is no way to make it more surreal than it actually was. Had things not happened exactly as they did, there might not have been a story to tell.

I was in the midst of coming out. Getting my sea legs, so to speak, and Mike, who was raised in Tom's River, New Jersey, asked me to go with him to New York City. He knew all about New York City, because he didn't live far away from there as a young man.

For me, The City was quite an experience. Being from the  DC area, DC was a big city, until I got a gander at NYC. It towered around us, once we came out of Lincoln's Tunnel. We parked the car and used the subway to get around.

I remembered streetcars once got us around in DC, but one day they stopped running, and the tracks were torn up, which made as much sense as anything else did in DC. The streetcars ran only above ground. The subway was underground. Ten years after they tore up the trolley tracks, they'd begun putting down tracks for the subway.

It was still pleasant weather, even if the calendar  said it was early November, we were in shirtsleeves. Mike asked me if I wanted to go to a street fair in one of the city's many neighborhoods. It sounded like fun to me.

I'd never experienced anything like a street fair before, and I immediately saw the attraction, because I was hungry, and we could smell the food from blocks away. Once we got there, we sampled the cuisines from many countries.

A street fair is created when people set up a booth in front of their residence, mostly connected row houses, and they sell the most astounding food you can imagine. They spend days preparing for the event, and on each street is a different food experience, governed by ethnic origins. I was mesmerized by the smells, and my taste buds were bombarded with the most astounding flavors.

There were dozens of booths on each street. The delectable dishes were epicurean delights. We started in an Italian neighborhood. Flavors from the lasagna, cannoli, a vast variety of sauces for pasta, and sausages, meat balls, mushrooms, and a variety of peppers to choose from. It tasted better than any food I ate in an Italian restaurant. It gave new meaning to pig out, which I did. I couldn't stop eating. I didn't want to stop.

You could go from booth to booth to try whatever tickled your fancy, and everything was as fresh as fresh could be. It was the kind of home-cooking that these families enjoyed all the time.

Mike and I started in the Italian neighborhood, because Mike was Italian, and he knew just what to recommend. As a boy, he began attending street fairs with his family, and when he talked to them, they advised him when to plan a trip north from DC for the fairs.

He wanted me to have the experience too, and I loved it.

After we ate our fill, trying a dozen different dishes, we walked a few blocks to see what else we wanted to try. After a half hour of walking, we stopped at a Jewish section, having walked enough to fire up our appetites. With the smells mingling in the air, it didn't take long to be hungry again.

A dozen blocks farther along, we were attracted by the smell of Mexican food. I was so full, I could hardly walk, but I couldn't resist eating tacos, tamales, and carne asada, and I began running out of steam. Mike watched me eating as he held out a taco stuffed so full of goodies that it was literally dripping with flavor.

“I'm going to need a wheelbarrow to get me back to the car,” I told mike.

“And a gay caballero to push it, no doubt,” he said.

“Works for me,” I said, but I managed to walk to the car, once we'd both cried uncle.

We became sightseers by the time we started back. We checked things out for the next time, when we came to the city for a night of feasting at the street fairs.

The quick trip to New York was the first of many I'd make in those years. The city didn't seem that far, once you were there, and I loved driving. After two hundred miles, I was just getting warmed up.

*****

There were always people in Dupont Circle during the day, and my job at the time put me back on 19th Street before three in the afternoon. This gave me hours of daylight to enjoy, and I spent a lot of those hours in the circle. It was a crossroads of sorts in DC. Interesting people were always coming and going, or taking a seat on one of the benches located around the circle with a park atmosphere.

It was easy to slide into a conversation or just listen to what people had to say to each other. There were also musicians in the circle. Some would play guitars, take requests, or jam with friends. There were people who brought their kids to the park to listen to the music in the evening. It was a peaceful carefree time to be had by all.  I liked the friendliness of the people, except for when I got arrested by the FBI, but that's part of another Dupont Circle story. Did I mention, in our society, certain people are always going to be singled out for special attention. That also includes the FBI, especially in DC, where there were apparently many agents per acre.

In DC, Dupont Circle was the only place where I saw black men comfortably interacting with white men. They were mostly younger men, and there was no sign of the tension that often accompanied meetings where blacks and whites came together.

In Dupont Circle there was a casual atmosphere most of the time. People came together with a laugh and a smile. Musicians played and sang. Music rang out as the last vestiges of another day had gone by, and parents gathered their kids up to walk home.

I knew about the two Americas. If truth be told, there may have been as many as a half dozen, or more Americas at the time. I'd traveled in the South. There was a harsh difference in the way white men were treated, and how black men were treated. If I had to pick a word to describe it, the word would be scary.

The South scared me, and I was a white man. The conditions for black people weren't merely substandard, if white people were forced to live like black people were, they'd call it subhuman.

There was only one thing worse than a black man complaining about the conditions he lived in, and that would be for a white man to say this was unacceptable. You dare not say it in the South, or you could find yourself hanging next to a black man who agreed with you.

I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut, but traveling through the South to get to my grandparents' house in Florida, was eye opening. The disparity in accommodations were stark. Separate and as far from equal as one could get, and still be in the South.

My sin was more serious than being black, but my sin could be hidden, even when it came to the worst society has to offer, but I could be invisible, except when it came to the FBI of course. They spotted me one day when I was in Dupont Circle.

Who knew they wanted little old me?

The FBI knew we were all guilty of something, and they kept their eyes on us, even in Dupont Circle, it turns out. Maybe, especially in Dupont Circle, where people mostly got along. If that wasn't suspicious, what was? What did all these people have to say to each other anyway? The FBI wanted to know.

It was rumored that J. Edgar Hoover, who headed the FBI forever, had something on everyone. Deep in the bowels of the FBI building, there was a room only he could access. In that room were J. Edgar's private files. Should anyone go off the reservation, especially a politician, J. Edgar invited them in to discuss what he had on them, and how he'd hate for such a thing to get out.

Problem solved.

It was said, 'Hoover is the most powerful man in Washington,' because he has dirt on everyone. As new administrations came to Washington, Hoover would call the new president's chief-of-staff in for a chat. Any talk of retiring him, as many presidential candidates threatened to do, that talk ended. LBJ, who threatened to fire J Edgar, gave him a lifetime appointment, after his meeting with the wily Hoover.

In those days, the FBI investigated whoever Hoover told them to investigate. The agents knew what he wanted, and they went about getting it. Even FBI agents feared the boss. If they wanted to stay agents, they'd do what they were told.

At the time, in Dupont Circle, racism and homophobia were on holiday. People saw each other as people, nothing more. Everyone had a story, and in the circle, if you sat on the grass, or one of the many benches, you were likely to hear one, before you got back up, and that's how I met Johnny.

Dupont Circle was the kind of place where everyone felt comfortable. It was wide open, with a half dozen streets leading to it, and 17th Street went under it.

There was plenty of foot traffic, some going to a drug store, theaters, and a restaurant that were right there, and 19th Street, where I lived, ran toward the north, away from the circle.

I liked living within a block of such a cosmopolitan place. I got home from work between two and three, in the afternoon, and any time I had nothing to do, I walked south, dodged the traffic, and went to sit on the well kept lawn. One day, Johnny was sitting nearby.

There was something about Johnny that attracted me. He stuck out from the crowd. Maybe it was his swagger, when he came over. Perhaps it was his boldness. I knew he was a hustler, because It was the first thing he told me.

“I'm Johnny Davis. I'm a hustler,” he said, when I looked his way. 

“That's nice,” I said, having nothing else to say. “Don't let me cramp your style. I don't do hustlers.”

Johnny sat down anyway. I was going to hear his story, or someone's story. With hustlers, you never knew when they were telling the truth, but it didn't mean the story wasn't well told.

I found that showing no interest in hustlers, intrigued them. Since most hustlers pretend they're the cat's meow, not succumbing to whatever charm they had, made them curious. It also could mean, he liked the idea of not spending the afternoon, fending off my advances. It was hard to know what might be on a hustler's mind.     Johnny wanted to talk, and he sat down and began talking. I often found myself with men who were drag queens or hustlers. I wasn't attracted to them, but something about them was unlike anything I'd experienced before. Their stories were usually unique.

Probably, it was the nature of the stories they told that fascinated me. I knew little about being gay, except I was attracted to guys. At the time, I suppose drag queens and hustlers lived on the edges of what would become, the LGBTQ experience.

None of us were acceptable in polite society. In many instances, we hardly accepted each other. The letters that would come to identify the entire gay spectrum one day, weren't thought of yet, when I was uncovering gay life, as it existed in DC at the time. 

The idea we were people, just like them, didn't occur to those who prefer hatred over acceptance, disapproval over understanding. From what I could see, people were more alike than they were different, but any little difference made each of us less acceptable, until you were reviled. Mostly, gay people were reviled.

I never had the urge to cross-dress, and hustling required more ego and hutzpa than I had. For some reason, I attracted drag queens and hustlers. They may have been role-playing, but they had stories to tell, and more than one told his story to me, and I listened well.

I'd seen George at Johnny's drag bar, on 8th Street, near Capitol Hill, but I ran into him at the Hubbard House, on the circle. George performed as Diana Ross. He moved his lips to her songs. It was before they allowed the drag-queens to use their own voices.

It was a strange time in many ways, and it was all new to me.

When I met George at the Hubbard house, he looked up at me through soulful dark eyes. I could see the makeup on his face, which made me certain he was a singer at Johnny's, but he was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He saw the recognition on my face.

“You can sit if you like. Have a cup of coffee with me,” he said in a husky voice. “I've seen you at the bar?”

He looked around, before saying it in a low voice.

“You're... a singer,” I decided on.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

George looked like a man, except for the makeup. He was friendly. The idea I'd sit down with him and drink coffee, surprised him. I told him that I found what he did interesting.

“Good word, interesting,” George said. “Most times, if someone recognizes me from there, they don't acknowledge me. The clientele is mostly white, and being, like we are, is one thing, but socializing with one of us is another,” George said.

“The black drag-queens look like women. Some have shoulders that might not agree, but most look real,” I said.

“Black? That's not the usual word that's used. At the club, they call me Nigger George,” he said, in a sentence that stopped abruptly. That's when I knew, everything George told me would be the truth.

George using the N word made me uncomfortable. I didn't wonder if they called him queer. I shouldn't like being called that.

“It must be difficult,” I said. “I shouldn't like being called queer.”

“Hon,” George said. “You think you've got it bad. Try being a gay Nigger drag-queen, one time.” 

“I can't imagine it, George,” I said. “I can hide what I am.”

“You're lucky, but when you can't hide, you reach a point, when you say, fuck it. I'm going to be me, whether or not anyone likes it.”

I didn't understand what George was telling me at the time. I realized he had it way tougher than I did. I didn't know why he went in drag. I didn't think to ask him. It did make life harder for him. I calculated that he was gay, but I didn't know, and he didn't say. I never knew why men went in drag.

   It was the first down to earth conversation I'd had with a black man or a drag queen. I didn't see George out of drag again, which meant, I only saw him at Johnny's bar. I always smiled his way. He smiled back. We had a connection, after we spoke.

Like I said, I was curious, and I got a lot of information on being gay from the people who were living on the edge, but weren't we all living on the edge of something?

A few furnished me with bits of wisdom I wouldn't have thought about otherwise. After hearing what George said, I considered how I treated people more carefully. George told me about his truth, and from time to time, other people told me about theirs. Because I wasn't sure of my truth yet, it helped.

The year I moved in with Big Mike, on 19th Street, I was still searching for my truth, and people living on the edge attracted me, because, in my mind, I lived on the outer regions of acceptance.

I wasn't prepared to renounce society, and go rogue yet, but I wouldn't comply more than was necessary. I still had to make a living, which kept me just inside of accepted social boundaries, but I kept one of my feet on the outside of acceptability at all times.

That's how I felt about it. That's how I made it work. I wasn't welcomed by society. Why would I want anything to do with people who would reject me should they find out I was queer. I'd been on my own for most of my life. I could rough it for a while longer, but I'd never trust people who hated me, because they were following the prejudices preached by the powerful.

People like Johnny had stories. They were mysteries. I wasn't interested in a hustler's hustling, but after Johnny told me he hustled,  he sat down to talk. OK, I suppose I'm a good listener. I told him I didn't do hustlers, but he sat down anyway. So I listened.

Chapter 2

While I was first coming out in Washington DC, certain truths became self evident. Gay men weren't what they seemed to be.     

Ordinary gay guys, the kind you met in bars, were not that truthful about who they were, when they came to town to mingle with men like them.

What I didn't know, but soon found out, it was dangerous for someone to let you know who he really was, where he lived or worked, because when push came to shove, and it came out that he was gay, he could be fired, evicted, and in some cases, be told to leave the family home, for the sin of being gay in America.

Adopting assumed identities is how a gay man protected himself.  

Hypothetically, you could meet a guy, date him, and go to your place for mad passionate sex, and when he left, you had no idea who he really was. In a town where everyone I met seemed to be looking for love, that wasn't a recipe for a solid trusting relationship, but it is the way it was. You took your secret to town with you, and you faded back into your life, once you went home. No one was any the wiser.

No one was who he seemed to be. It was distracting. I wanted to be friends with guys like me, if I knew who they were. It was a sad way to live, but it explain why so many gay men were lonely. They couldn't risk being outed. 

Hiding from the truth had to be a little like being smothered. The fear of being found out was certainly oppressive.  How did gay men expect to succeed in this hyper competitive nation?

Gay men needed to pretend, because society demanded it, if you knew what was good for you. It couldn't be good for anyone. The message was clear. If you stay in the closet, we won't attack you.

While I learned the ways of gay men through experience, I realized that the same men who were lying about who they were, when they went to town, were lying about who they were, when they went home too. How could anyone make that work?

I suppose, I wasn't anxious to rush into a gay life. I was coming out, and I was taking my time. I'd moved in with Big Mike, because he asked me to move into town with him. Living with Duncan, in an apartment big enough for one, was no great shakes. I moved into an even smaller place with Mike, but his place was the right place for a young man who was just learning how to fly solo.

The circle was nearby. It was a crossroads of sorts. You might meet anyone there. Down P Street was Georgetown. Up 17th Street was northwest DC and Chevy Chase. Down 17th Street were Pennsylvania Ave., the White House, the Mall with monuments and museums, and Capitol Hill.

I would walk to all those places, while living on 19th Street, but the circle was the biggest attraction on most days. On the day I met Johnny, I came in from work, changed my clothes, and before three, I was dodging traffic to get into my refuge. I picked an appealing spot, where I sat on the well kept lawn.

Johnny might have already been sitting in the circle, or he may have come in and sat down a short distance from me. When I saw him, he was listening to a couple of guys playing guitars and singing.

I was listening too. It was about the time musicians began showing up in the afternoon. I caught sight of Johnny, and he noticed that I noticed him.     

Johnny had that attitude that came with hustlers. In reality, Johnny was quite ordinary. It's what he told me, once he'd moved closer to where I was sitting. It was difficult to see him hustling anyone, but he said he was a hustler, and I took him at his word.

Johnny told me about his big plans. He'd score big and go to California. It was hardly original, but my curiosity about how he intended to do it got the best of me.

Things in life, especially when you're new at living, seem to happen in stages. I moved in with Duncan, because Chris was unhappy about a trick he brought home, who wanted to get to know me better. Chris wanted to know me a lot less, and I moved.

Rather than just telling me to get out, Chris said, 'I have a friend, Duncan. He's looking for someone to share the rent. I've decided I don't need someone to share the rent after all.'

I moved to Duncan's. He was, to say the least, difficult.

Big Mike came to Duncan's to do his paperwork on some days. He introduced himself, once he found me there. Mike worked on computers, and after working a half day, he came to Duncan's to write his reports. He was usually there for over an hour at a time.

One day, as I sat watching him write, he turned around to say, 'I'm getting a place in D C. It's close to everywhere. I don't like living alone. Want to move into town with me?'

I did. I suppose none of what followed would have happened, if Chris hadn't gotten pissed at me, and if Duncan wasn't a butt head, or if Mike did his paperwork at someone else's pad.

In a weird way, I was almost sure I was following a path laid out for me by the time I moved in with Mike by mid October that year. I suppose, none of the rest of the story would have happened, had things not unfolded the way they did.

That sequence of events led me to Johnny D, and Johnny led me on one of the most significant journey's of my life. This story isn't about Johnny. It couldn't have happened without him,  because going to New York City was his idea. Why I took him to New York City, I can't say, but I did. That trip altered my life and how I saw myself. 

Before the idea of going to New York City came up, I needed to get to know more about Johnny. I went with him to the Brass Rail, and the Eagle, two of the bars where hustlers were welcome. Johnny knew most of the hustlers, and if I was with him, I got introduced.

I never saw Johnny ply his trade, but by the second time we saw each other, he had things he wanted to leave at the apartment. After that, when I drove home from work, Johnny was waiting for me. 

Johnny became a companion of sorts, whether or not I wanted one. I'd moved into town to meet men like me, but so far, I'd only met Johnny, and he'd have to do for now. I was curious about him.

Mike had no objections to Johnny hanging around the apartment. On most days, I was only there to change my clothes when I came in from work and to sleep. If I wasn't there very much, Mike was there even less. There were days, when he didn't go out at all, but on most days, he left for work after I did, and he came home after dark.

The more the merrier, was Mike's philosophy. Over the years, people came and went from places we shared. Some came, stayed a few nights, and moved on. Others, like Johnny, came and stayed. The nice thing was, it was laid back, and since Johnny started making it a point to be waiting there for me, once I came home from work, he was with me a lot in those days.

For Mike, as long as Johnny wasn't obnoxious, and he didn't smell, it was fine if he wanted to spend some time with us. I'm sure that Mike liked Johnny, at first, and sensing this, Johnny was on his best behavior, when Mike was around. I'd already told Mike that Johnny hustled.

When Mike and Johnny were in the apartment together, and I was there to change clothes or hit the shower, they'd be talking while I was doing whatever I was there to do, and Johnny told Mike more about himself than he ever told me, but he was sure he had me in his hip pocket. He hadn't figured out that I was using him to learn about hustlers. He didn't think I knew he was using me to get around.

So, after being out one night, and coming back to the apartment with me, Johnny asked to stay for the first time. We'd known each other for about two weeks. Johnny and I slept on the same piece of four inch deep foam rubber. We both fit on it without being in physical contact with each other. Mike slept on a similar piece of foam rubber.

We slept in the living room, because the only bedroom was our storage area. It was about the size of a walk in closet in nicer apartments, but as storage, we could fit everything we had there. By the time Johnny started staying-over, he had begun to add his belongings to the tiny bedroom.

When Mike came in and caught Johnny and I in the apartment at dinner time, he asked us to go to eat with him. I imagined Mike was in his thirties. He went to work in a suit and tie, and at times he traveled for the company he worked for. Having been a computer specialist, while in the navy, he was way ahead of most people, when it came to knowing how a computer worked, and how to fix one, long before computers were in every home and office.

Each time we went out, Johnny asked me to stop here, there, or somewhere. Each time we made one of those stops, Johnny came back with a pair of shoes, jeans, a shirts, or some random item that ended up at the apartment. I wondered if it was his stuff.

The idea he'd one day disappear with the things Mike and I kept at the apartment occurred to me, but besides some clothes, and electric razors, there was nothing of value there.

After a week of friendship with Johnny, he had more clothes at the apartment than Mike or me. I didn't ask Johnny if the stuff he was collecting was his, because the clothes fit him. I didn't want to insult the boy, but if he was going to steal clothes, I figured he'd steal them from someone the same size as he was.

Johnny and I weren't romantically involved at any time. I can't say if he and Mike might have taken a roll in the hay, and it was none of my business. He was like the furniture. He was just there, and he never had much to say..

Big Mike had no objection to Johnny. They seemed to get along fine. I never saw any indication that they were romantically involved. At that time, it was the three of us coming and going. Johnny didn't have a key, and so he only came in, when one of us came home.

The apartment was perfect for one small person, or three fellows, who were mostly coming and going, or who came to the apartment to sleep, or change clothes. It wasn't the kind of place where you invited your friends over to chat. With Dupont Circle close by, that's where we went to hang out.

I met other hustlers through Johnny. The introductions were brief affairs. Hustlers didn't act like they really wanted to know anyone. If it wasn't about business, an introduction was a waste of time. 

“Rick, Dusty. Dusty, Rick. Rick lives up on 19th Street.” 

“Oh,' was a common reply, after Johnny introduced me to one of his hustler friends.

If I was with Johnny, and he ran across a fellow traveler, he introduced us. After that, they'd put their heads together and talk shop, I guess. I usually wasn't included in their conversation, but if I ran into a hustler I'd been introduced to, they usually remembered I was with Johnny, and some of them would speak to me. Long after Johnny left the scene, I was able to engage one of those hustlers in conversation for the price of a beer. Once I bought one a beer, he was friendly, and that meant I was OK. I learned a lot that way.

Showing a sexual interest in a hustler was never a good idea. If you acted like you were indifferent to them, they knew that they couldn't hustle you, and that's the sexual kind of hustle. Getting beers or burgers out of you wasn't out of the question, but I didn't buy one a burger or a beer, if I didn't want to.

It was a dance I learned in time, but I had to waltz first. Once I bought a beer for a hustler, later on, as in the next time I saw him, a few of them would buy me a beer, before I could buy them one. I didn't know what this meant, but I liked knowing hustlers. What that said about me, I don't know.   

Like most people, every hustler was different. Some were so full of piss and vinegar, they were almost comical, and they were always hustling. Others were low key, and they never acted like they were working. Most were as unsure of themselves as everyone else. They hustled because they could, or because they needed to hustle. I found the easiest to get along with, and I stuck with them in some bars.

No one ever confused me for a hustler, even if birds of a feather do flock together. Well, maybe someone thought that for a few minutes, but we cleared it up right away. I'll get to that part of this story a little later on. For now, I was still with Johnny, learning what he had to teach me, but my fascination with him did not run deep.

Guys who sold themselves like a good pastrami or fine prosciutto, were immaculately clean, well-dressed, and they acted like someone refined gentlemen wouldn't mind being seen with. These told stories that were worth listening to, but they didn't spend a lot of time in bars.

A gentlemen I met through one of those high dollar hustlers told me, 'It's all in the packaging. I can take a twenty dollar hustler off the meat rack, dress him in expensive clothes, show him how to stand. I set him out in front of one of the most expensive hotels, and he'll make five hundred bucks on a slow night. Packaging is everything. If they keep their mouths shut, no one will know they came right off the meat rack. The problem is, they don't last long. Someone comes along and he takes the hustler of his dreams back to where he came from. Which proves, you can take a hustler off the meat rack, but you can't take the meat rack out of the hustler.''' 

It wasn't what they did that fascinated me. It was how they came to be doing what they did that made the best stories.

Most gay men, and few hustlers could admit they were gay, had a story to tell. Johnny was the doorway to a lot of hustlers' tales, but Johnny never told me his story, and I never asked. Early on, Johnny became a means to an end. I didn't think I liked him.

As long as we ran around together, I never knew anything about him, except what he told me when he introduced himself and told me his profession. Johnny was a hustler. There was nothing else to him. There had to be a reason I continued letting him hang around, but I hadn't discovered it yet. I knew, ii was leading somewhere I wanted to go. 

***** 

A few weeks before I met Johnny, and a few weeks after moving in with Mike on 19th Street, was when Mike and I took the trip to New York City. it's pace, and the many sides of the city, attracted me.

Once I'd been to New York, and after I met Johnny, I talked about New York City. I intended to go back on my own, if I got an opportunity. I was twenty-two, and I'd only been there once.

It was a couple of weeks after Mike took me to New York, that I met Johnny. I guess I talked about that trip to Johnny, telling him about the street fairs. It didn't occur to me that Johnny might have an idea about going to New York City himself.

Johnny, in his usual subtle style, had an idea.

“Why don't we go to New York. I'd like to hustle on 42nd Street.”

Of course he would.

“You've got a car, don't you?” Johnny asked.

“You mean the Pontiac convertible I drive you around in?”

“That's the one,” he said.

I had been smitten enough by New York City, I was ready to go again. I'd heard about 42nd Street, and Mike drove by the theaters where hustlers went to get picked up, pointing it out to me.

I knew about 42nd Street, but I didn't know how I knew. Seeing it was exciting, like seeing Times Square, and Broadway were exciting. I knew about these iconic places, when I hardly knew anything.

“Why don't we go to New York City over Thanksgiving? Your day off is Wednesday, and we can drive up early Wednesday, and come back Thursday. I could make some big bucks in New York City.”

It wasn't as bizarre as it sounded. I was looking for a reason to get back to New York. You can only see so much in an evening, and I wanted to see more. It was an easy drive.

You went north for two hundred miles, and then, the city appeared on the horizon. You followed the signs to the Lincoln tunnel. Once you came out of the tunnel, there was a parking garage with a subway station nearby. You could get anywhere in the city from there.

The idea of Johnny making money was interesting. Johnny never had any money. If we were out together, and I wanted to eat, I knew I'd be buying his food. He never offered to pay, and I never asked him to pony up. I understood the relationship, even if I didn't understand him, or where he came off. I knew it would be short-lived, and it wasn't like I ate at the Hay-Adams. 

Because it was the day before Thanksgiving, traffic wouldn't pick up until after we reached the city, and after we got there, we could figure out where we wanted to go.

We were on our way north shortly after the morning rush ended in DC. We'd be in the city by early afternoon, if we made no detours.

It was a shirt sleeve kind of a day, and we were parked and walking the streets of New York City by three.

I knew Broadway was close by where we parked, because Mike and I walked there in about ten minutes. It was the perfect place to start, even though I didn't quite know what Johnny had in mind yet. 

As we walked, he took note of the streets, which seemed odd at first.

I was excited by being on the street in one of the world's major cities, and walking, after a long drive, always invigorated me. I was wide eyed and bushy tailed. I asked Johnny his plan.

“Well, Johnny, what's your plan? You wanted to come here.”

“I want to find 42nd Street. There are theaters there, where hustlers go to get picked up. I figure I can score a lot of bread tonight, if I play my cards right,” he said with a cocky confidence..

“I wondered why you wore those too tight jeans. Now I know. I think we are a few blocks from 42nd Street. Mike and I drove by it, before we went to the street fairs. I'm sure it's that way.”

I pointed.

“Yes, that's what I figured, too,” he said.      

“I'll walk over there with you. I want to see where big time hustlers go to ply their trade.”

It was surprising how close 42nd Street was to Times Square, which was the center of activity in the city. Maybe that's why it was there. People, who wanted to partake of the merchandise, didn't have far to go, after they went to Broadway..

The theater marquees lined both sides of the street. I didn't need to look to see if it was 42nd Street. It obviously was. At a little before five, Johnny stood staring at the street he'd dreamed about, while in Louisville or Cleveland, or where ever he came from.

We walked down one side of the street and back up the other side. There were already a couple of boys posing between the marquees. One, a tall skinny drink of water, who had terminal acne, had a salami, or something of a similar size, running down the inside of his right leg.

I had to look twice to see if I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. The outline of the dickhead, gave me confidence I was. I'd just never seen it in quite that quantity before.

Johnny didn't look at the other hustlers. He wasn't interested in what they had to offer. I didn't want to buy one, but I sure would have loved to give that hunk of meat a squeeze, to see if it was real or not. The tall drink of water noticed me looking, and he smiled.

I'd been caught looking at the merchandise. My face turned red.

“Doesn't look like much is going on,” I said, looking over my shoulder at the boy with all that meat. I had a feeling he wouldn't be standing there for long.

“It's early. It'll get dark soon, and the street will fill up with cars. The drivers will be looking for a date, and here I am,” he boasted.

“Don't tell me, you're the apple of their eye,” I said sarcastically.

“Not me, what I got,” Johnny said, grabbing his crotch.

“You come up a little short, when you're competing with a guy who has a foot long dong,” I said.

“You see his face. He looks like he was in an ax fight, and he was the one who had no ax,” Johnny said.

“I didn't think the face was all that important to someone with more meat than the law allows,” I said.

“You got to look nice, if you want to make out, dude. I look nice and I got plenty to offer. You don't need to be King Kong in the dick department to attract attention,” he said.

I didn't know if he believed that or not. With my limited knowledge, I'd accept he knew more about hustling than I did, and I still wanted to know if what that kid had in his pants was real.

Inquiring minds would like to know.

I wondered if Johnny's reference to King Kong had to do with our location, or was it the only thought he had when it came to big.

“Look,” Johnny said. “We can walk back to the avenue together. Maybe go into that Ripley's museum, or something like that, but when I come back, it'll be business, you see. You can't stand close to me. You can't cramp my style. We aren't a couple and no one in their right mind will go for two of us. I mean, once I go to work. You need to get lost.”

With that boy's salami on my mind, I felt sure that Johnny was full of bologna.

“You don't need to worry,” I said. “I'll give you plenty of room. I wouldn't want to cramp your style, dude.”

“You'll need to go at least two theaters away from  where I'm working. Maybe you should go eat. I'm sure, after I'm picked up, a meal will be part of the deal,” Johnny explained.

“Don't worry. I'm starved. I'll be on my way, shortly after you punch-in. You know where the car is. We can set a time to meet, but if you're out on a date,  I'll wait at the car. I won't leave you.”

“That sounds good. After midnight, I'm sure. Once the theaters let out, the traffic is mostly cops, running off hustlers,” he said.

Once again, I deferred to Johnny's knowledge on the subject. My knowledge of what the police did in New York City was limited.

“I'll be with the car after midnight, OK?”

“You're OK,” he said. “And you have a car, and you've never gone for my meat. I appreciate that, dude. I'm a businessman first, and I don't just give freebees, you know?”

I did know. Thank heavens for small favors.

“I can imagine,” I said, thinking Johnny had lost  his appeal. He talked too damn much, and he only talked about himself. He was either narcissistic or he was so insecure, he needed to pump himself up, whenever he opened his mouth.

Looking at Johnny, I didn't see the appeal. I suppose he might look good to someone who liked hustlers, but he was a bit fleshy, and he had ordinary looks. Even wearing super tight jeans, he didn't have a lot to work with.

I was looking forward to getting away from him, as we walked toward 42nd Street. I'd leave him there and maybe go find a place to eat, but no matter what kind of place it was, it had no chance of winning my praise, after my experience at the street fairs.

Chapter 3

We rounded the corner, turning back onto 42nd Street. I noticed right away, the boy with the salami was gone. He must have been part of the early-bird-special. He'd been replaced by several guys who didn't look all that different from Johnny. They all wore tight jeans and had displays running down the inside of one of their legs.

The first two hustlers we passed, had adequate displays. Each stood in the space between the theaters' marquees. Both of these boys were left legged displays. One of them had a set of ears that would have made Dumbo proud, but otherwise, he wasn't offensive.

He also had the best display, after salami boy left the scene.

Johnny walked beside me, but he didn't look at the competition, but both boys looked him over. Maybe they sensed he was someone else working the street. It might have been the too tight jeans that gave him away.

I walked closest to the curb, and Johnny walked closer to the theaters. His head never turned, while we passed his competition, but each of the boys eyeballed him. The meat rack was getting crowded, and it was getting close to showtime.

I wondered what time the prime beef would arrived to strut their stuff. This had to be the second team, and Johnny didn't look half bad, when stacked up against these fellows. It was a little like last call at closing time, you took the best of what remained.

Johnny stopped. I took two more steps and stopped.

I didn't want to crowd him.

Then he said, “This is fine.”

Johnny's marquee had a double feature. One had Frank Sinatra's name under the title. The other was a John Wayne western. That seemed adequate to me. Although I don't think Johnny noticed the movies that were playing. He was there to pose.

Facing us, from across the street,  were more theater marquees, and between each one was a boy leaning casually in between marquees. I couldn't tell how interesting those boys looked. 

“Time for me to go to work,” he said, leaning against the front of the theater, much the way the boys across the street did it.

It was then that I noticed, at the next marquee stood a cowboy, cowboy hat and all. He had the obligatory skin tight jeans, a yellow print type western shirt. It snapped up the front. He wore a blue bandana rakishly around his neck, and the boots were right out of a Roy Rogers movie. The boots made this five foot something boy close to six foot. I wondered why cowboys, usually tough hombres,  wore high heels.

It wasn't an outfit I would wear, but he looked nice. I figured, he wouldn't last long. I wasn't placing any bets on how long it would take Johnny to make his big score. I couldn't imagine him making a big score, but what did I know. 

The cowboy wasn't hard to look at either. I'd take a closer look, when I walked past. He had a boyish face, strawberry blond sideburns, and ample trouser stuffing to get interested parties' hearts pumping in anticipation. 

The cowboy smiled at me, glared at Johnny. And then, he struck a pose, when the next car turned onto 42nd Street. The cowboy had done this before. He didn't move, as the car moved closer.

I knew what was on the driver's mind, because I could count the tire rotations, as the vehicle eased along the avenue, but he kept moving, turning right at the next corner. The cowboy relaxed, turning toward the theater, and then turning back to face the street.  

Once the next car passed him up, cowboy looked right at me, pulled down on the front of his jeans, smiled again, and his smile made him even more handsome than before. After taking the momentary break, he turned back to face the street. The next car also moved on on down the avenue. He used two fingers and his thumb to touch the front of the cowboy hat, like he might be saying, 'Howdy,' to the new schoolmarm, but the next car kept moving too.

Maybe they were sightseeing. None looked at Johnny, once their cars reached us.

I wondered what time cowboy got off work. I always wanted to be a cowboy. Maybe I'd ask, once I left Johnny's spot on the street.

“You need to get lost,” Johnny said. “Come back around midnight. Don't stand too close to the cowboy, if you're going to hang around the theaters. He's working, and you can't afford him.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I said. “If you aren't here at midnight, I'll go to the car. You can find it OK?”

“I'm not stupid. I know where we parked,” he said.

“Later, gator,” I said, walking toward the cowboy.

I kept my eye on him as I passed. At first he showed no expression, then, he smiled, before he laughed.

“Whatever that jerk off does for you, I can do better. I know how to treat my boyfriend,” he said, following me with his eyes.

I went one theater up, leaning on what I assumed was a power generator, or some such as that. Whatever it was, I didn't expect any lightning to strike out of the clear New York City sky. I felt safe.

I gave the cowboy a couple of more smiles, and I looked down to where Johnny stood. He looked a lot like a half dozen guys on the two sides of the street. Besides the cowboy, and a guy who looked like a refugee from a motorcycle gang, complete with chains and a funny looking hat. He didn't lean like the rest of the hustlers, he stood on the curb a few inches from the street.

Standing there was like going to the movies. It was more entertaining than some of the movies I'd seen. The guys who stood out, really stood out. The rest were clones of hustlers they'd seen. The number of cars easing their way down 42nd Street increased, as the night grew darker.

That's how it looked to me, but before dark, I wasn't paying much attention to the street. I was busy with Johnny and what he was doing. I figured if I was going to see him work as a hustler, this was my chance.

I'd get bored after a while, but for now, as the stage was set for the hustlers between theaters on 42nd Street, I was set to watch whatever it was that went on. I was a little excited.

Being in New York City for the second time, allowed me to get a better feel for one of the most diverse cities on earth. It was where the United Nations met, and it's where the iconic New York Yankees played baseball. It was where the Statue of Liberty stood, and it was where Broadway met Coney Island.

I didn't know if there might be street fairs in progress, and I doubted I could find my way back to where they'd been, but I wasn't here for the food this time. I wasn't here to discover the friendliness of New York City's neighborhoods, as they shared a taste of their cultural foods with anyone who stopped at one of their booths. 

I was hungry, and I'd have already have taken my leave to go eat, if it wasn't for the cowboy. I didn't do hustlers, but I'd do him. He was a lot more relaxed than Johnny, and when he caught my eyes on him for the third or fourth time, he smiled. I smiled back.

I heard the car turn onto the street a half block away. Cowboy immediately came to attention, adjusted himself with a smooth tug where it would do the most good, as the car rolled closer.

The car rolled past. It was another false alarm. No one was walking on either side of the street. There were eight or ten theaters, and they must have been in the middle of one of their features, because no one came to get a ticket.

As time got closer to one of the features being over, foot traffic was sure to pick up. It was past dinner time, and this had to be where a lot of people came to see movies.

at no one was walking along 42nd Street. There wasn't much activity at all at what would be dinner time. I figured, most theaters were in the middle of whatever movie was playing. Nearer the start time for the next feature, foot traffic was likely to pick up. With theaters on both sides of the street, this had to be where a lot of movie goers went.

I couldn't resist watching Johnny, albeit out of the corner of my eye. My surreptitious posture gave me an excellent view of cowboy. He stood between me and Johnny. He was sure I was watching him. Watching Johnny wasn't my full time job. I could watch cowboy too.

Every few minutes, cowboy changed poses, offering me the best view in the house. Then, as he moved, he'd flash me a big smile. He  knew I was watching him, and he loved it. He was showing off to the boy who came to the dance with Johnny, but he never looked Johnny's way even once.

I think cowboy would steal Johnny's boyfriend, if given a chance.

I'd been flirted with before, and cowboy was a big flirt. I doubted I could afford him, if I did hustlers, but I couldn't help but smile back. I was flattered by the attention. Cowboy was a good looking guy. 

Johnny didn't smile. He was so serious, he was funny. Anyone who picked Johnny up, and left the cowboy standing there, needed glasses, but I knew how seriously Johnny took what he did. I wasn't opposed to his being successful, I just had trouble seeing it.

I didn't see any humor in Johnny seeing himself as a hustler, until then. As he stood next to someone who obviously knew what he was doing, Johnny was all business. Cowboy wasn't all that serious. He was laid back. He wasn't hustling, at the moment. 

There was a time for work, and a time to relax, I had no doubt, if a car turned down the block he was standing on, he'd be all business, by the time the car came his way. For now, he was playing, and he was playing to the only audience he had, me.

Next to cowboy, a far better looking boy, Johnny's poses weren't effective. While cowboy was enjoying himself. Johnny posed in the hopes someone would come along, and take him seriously. I was sure cowboy would turn on the charm for any car that turned down the street, but he used the free time to have fun.

Johnny was no more a hustler than I was. He'd seen hustlers hustling. It looked easy to him. The boys he saw hustling, probably didn't look as out of place as Johnny looked to me. If I waited to see Johnny getting picked up, I was going to be out there for a long time,

I needed to reconsider my options. I was hungry. We'd stopped for burgers hours ago, and it was past my dinner time. I'd wait a few minutes, maybe until cowboy got picked up, and then I'd go look for a place to get something to eat.

With the memory of the street fairs fresh in my taste buds, eating just anywhere would be a big disappointment in comparison, but there had to be good places to eat around Time Square. It was a touristy area, and I was sure tourists had to eat somewhere.

As I pondered what to do about my empty stomach, I temporarily forgot to keep track of cowboy. Once he went into motion, he got my attention. He'd been standing in the same spot since I arrived on the scene. Why was he moving?

Not only had cowboy started to move, he was moving toward a silver Mercedes. It rolled to a stop at the curb. I wasn't surprised to see cowboy heading for the car's door. I didn't think he'd be standing out there long.

The Mercedes had come to a stop in front of the theater where we were standing, and its window whirred, as it came down. It's what drew my attention to the business deal going on in front of me.

Cowboy walked with a swagger. The view from the rear was every bit as nice as the view from the front. Cowboy was the real deal, and he was about to go to work.

I glanced toward Johnny. He was stuck in the pose he adopted, after I walked away. If he noticed cowboy going to work, he showed no sign he did. He was as focused as I'd seen Johnny get.

Getting my attention back on cowboy, I expected him to open the car door to sit inside the Mercedes. There was apparently some transaction taking place. Of course, he wouldn't get right in. There was haggling to be done, but it seemed to take longer than it should. Why didn't he just get into the car, and I could go eat? Without cowboy to look at, nothing was keeping me there.

Cowboy stopped a half a step from the open window. As cowboy leaned to look in, the driver leaned to look out.

I was surprised to see a nice looking man, looking at me. As quickly as our eyes met, he looked away, as he said something to cowboy. There was more to hustling than I thought.

The man was a well-dressed, fine looking gentleman. I didn't know what I expected. I had a clear notion of what hustlers looked like, but not their customers. That half of the equation had never entered my mind. The man looked as though he might be Filipino. He was maybe forty. He looked like a man who would drive a Mercedes.

Cowboy looked over his shoulder at me. He was no longer smiling. Then, he reached into the car to take some money out of the man's hand. I couldn't tell how much from where I was standing.

Cowboy backed one step away from the window, pivoting on the heel of one of his boots, he walked toward me. The seriousness on his face indicated that he was no longer interested in flirting with me.

He stopped a foot from where I was leaning. I could feel his breath as he spoke.

“He wants you. You're working? I thought you were just a guy who hangs with that other boy. You should have told me you were working,” cowboy explained with hostility in his words. 

“I'm not a hustler,” I said, defending myself from his hostility. “What does he want?”

“Why don't you get your secretary to go ask him,” cowboy said. “He gave me five bucks to tell you that he wants to speak with you.”

I could speak to the man. What would that hurt?

Cowboy walked away, going back to where he'd been posing, since I'd been there, and he threw a quick glare my way. He was one unhappy cowboy. I guessed, we were no longer friends.

I looked toward the car. I could no longer see the man's face. I could see he was sitting straight up behind the wheel, waiting for me.

If I didn't go over, he might drive away, after a few more minutes. He looked harmless enough. It wouldn't hurt to walk over there. I'd tell him I wasn't a hustler. I'm just... visiting!?

I had to do something. The Mercedes didn't move. I felt a bit like a fool, as I walked toward  the side of the car. What was I going to say. 'Go away.'

Once I was beside the car's open window, I leaned forward to see inside. He was a good looking Filipino gentlemen. What was he doing on 42nd Street.

He sat straight, turning his head to look at my face, as my face came into view. He didn't say anything. I would need to speak, now that I walked over there. Awkward!

“I'm not a hustler, I came down here with a friend. The next one down from Roy Rogers,” I said, pointing Johnny out.

The driver's eyes weren't interested in where I pointed. They stayed on me.

The man was smiling at me.

“Roy Rogers?” He asked, sounding amused.

“You stopped in front of him. He's dressed like every cowboy who ever appeared in a Roy Roger's movie,” I said.

“You are wrong,” the man said.

“I am. He's dressed like cowboys in a Gene Autry movie?” I asked.

His smile grew.

“I didn't stop in front of Roy. If you check more carefully, I stopped in front of you. Roy simply assumed I stopped for him.”

“Oh,” I said, having nothing to say about that. “I don't hustle.”

“I was almost certain you weren't hustling. I had difficulty figuring out what you were doing here. Since I'm on my way to dinner, I was wondering if you'd like to go with me," he said, considering me as he made his proposition.  “I don't like eating alone, and you look like you don't have a thing to do. Are you hungry?”

He talked slowly and softly. He spoke English better than I did, but most people did. I found myself considering his offer. His words were concise and straight to the point, and I was hungry..

“That's an offer I can't refuse,” I found myself saying. “I'm starving. I have no idea where to go to eat. Is there a place where I can get a Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked, being a day early.

“I do. It's on me. I know a wonderful place that's not far, and the food is excellent,” he said.

“Let me tell my friend, and I'll be right back,” I said.

“Get in. I'll drive you,” he said. “I'm Carlton.”

“I'm Rick,” I said, swinging open the door and sitting inside.

“Nice to meet you, Rick,” he replied.

We rolled  down in front of Johnny and stopped.

It was only then, I realized how this might look to Johnny.

I remembered how Johnny treated me, and how he didn't want me to cramp his style. This would require some hutzpa on my part.      

I become more and more pleased with myself by the time Johnny came over to the car.

“He want both of us?” Johnny asked.

I laughed. It struck me as funny, but I wasn't in the habit of getting a laugh at someone else's expense.

“No, Johnny, he doesn't want both of us,” I said awkwardly.

Johnny gave the car the once over. Then he gave me one. He leaned on the roof to see into the car. He gave Carlton the once over.

“He doesn't want both of us. I didn't want you to think I was leaving you. We're going to dinner. That way I won't be cramping your style.”

Johnny didn't look too sure of what he was seeing. He stepped back and became immobilized, as he considered my words,

He stared at me in a most curious way. I couldn't read his expression. 

Johnny stepped forward to lean his arm on the roof of the car again, moving his face down to see Carlton's face, before he spoke.

“You sure you know what you're doing, Rick?”

“I'm going to dinner with Carlton,” I said.

“You aren't leaving me, are you?” Johnny asked with concern.

“No, I'll be back,” I said. “You know where the car is.”

“You sure you know what you're doing?” he whispered as if Carlton wasn't sitting right next to me and couldn't hear him plainly.

“This is Johnny, Carlton. Johnny, Carlton,” I said, remembering Johnny's introductions to his hustler friends.

Johnny nodded at Carlton, before looking away.

“Everything is fine. You do your thing, and we'll be back,” I said, looking at Carlton for clarification.

Feeding Johnny a little humble pie felt good. I was tired of listening to him brag, but Johnny looked a bit worried.

“Here, let me give you my card,” Carlton said. “On the back, you'll find my private number.”

Carlton removed a pen from his pocket, jotting a phone number on the back of the card. He handed it across to Johnny.

“While you're working,” I said. “We'll go to dinner, and if I'm not back by the time you're ready to call it a night, call Carlton's number, and we'll plan to meet up.”

Johnny looked at the card. He looked at Carlton. He looked at me, backing away from the car, shaking his head.

Carlton eased away from the curb, leaving Johnny with a confused look on his face.

I didn't look back.

It was a little sad. I thought I had put Johnny in his place, but I didn't know if he had a place. I should have felt more victorious for turning the tables on him, but I felt sorry for him.

“You looked as though you enjoyed that,” Carlton said.

“He's such a.... I don't know what he is. He is always bragging about his exploits. He considers himself a big time hustler, but I've never seen him hustle anyone but me, and I'm only good for a few hamburgers and a place to put his stuff,” I said, putting it together as I spoke.

We turned left at the next corner.

Why was I telling Carlton this? I didn't even know him.

Carlton listened without speaking. I saw the expression on his face. I had been cruel. I showed no remorse. It wasn't a good look in front of someone I didn't know.

“Kind of pathetic, when you think about it,” Carlton said, meaning Johnny's reaction. “You don't know how he got that way. He looks like he needs a friend.”

I didn't know him, and who did he think he was, telling me about Johnny. I'd put up with Johnny for several weeks, and he earned a little humble pie, in my opinion.

“I met him in Dupont Circle. He has sort of hung around me since then,” I said, tempering my anger.

“He doesn't look like he has much going for him. He probably wasn't treated very well at home. He probably didn't get much encouragement, as a child. You might want to cut him some slack. There's a reason people turn out the way we are,” Carlton told me.

With that little gem, I was ready to get out of the car. It was Rick unchained. Who the hell was he to give me helpful hints on life. I didn't need him to tell me how badly some children got treated.

Carlton had struck an exposed nerve.

“What do you know about it? You drive an expensive car, wear tailored suits, and you pick up the rabble for a laugh. Ain't none of us doing as well as you. You might want to stick that in your pipe and smoke it, buster.”

He looked stunned by my rebuke.

He had nothing else to say, but he looked closely at the boy he just took off the 42nd Street meat rack. I figured that he was questioning his decision.

He searched my face in quick glances, looking for a reason I reacted the way I did to an off hand  lament that meant nothing.

I rarely spoke my mind to anyone. To do it in front of a stranger was totally out of character, not to mention rude, and I instantly regretted it. As I thought it over, my expression softened, and my anger subsided.

Carlton realized he'd struck a nerve, but he wasn't sure what it was. He went from looking confused to looking curious. He had every right to stop the car and tell me to scram, but I knew that's not what was on his mind.

He became conciliatory, and he gave me a big smile.

“Sorry.” I said, trying to explain, without sounding like a fool. “You sound like a know-it-all, is all. You know nothing about Johnny. I've known him for a couple of weeks, and I know nothing about him. Don't tell me, you're a shrink,” I said.

Carlton smiled.

“No. You are right in one respect, I know nothing about your friend, or you, for that matter. I'd like to know more about you. I promise not to make any comments about your friend. I was merely commenting on his apparent need to find acceptance,” he said.

“As for what I do, I took over my father's computer business, after he died. It's what he trained me to do. It's what I was expected to do, even if it came far sooner than either of us thought it would,” he said. “So, no, I'm not a shrink, although running a business requires you to read people pretty well, if you want to succeed.”

“And it isn't necessarily what you wanted to do,” I said, reading between the lines.

“I didn't say that,” he said. “What made you say that?”

“It's in your voice. It was a well told story that you had little to do with. It's what your father trained you to do. You took over far sooner than you thought it would, giving you no chance to bail out.”

“You have an interesting way of putting things. You're pretty smart,” he said.

I laughed.

“You might get an argument on that front. I have my moments, most of them having little to do with intelligence,” I said.

“You don't react the way boys usually react to me,” he said.

“How do they react?” I asked.

“First, they react to my color,” he explained.

“What color are you?” I asked.

Carlton looked amused by my inquiry.

“I think of myself as a lovely sweet caramel,” he said, with poetry in his words.

“That explains it,” I said.

“I'm almost afraid to ask? What does it explain,” Carlton asked.

“I am very fond of caramel,” I said.

“You are an unusual young man. You hang out on the meat rack, but you don't hustle. You get in a car with a stranger, and yet, I suspect, it isn't easy for you to trust strangers, and you read things into my words that I failed to mention. Unusual to say the least.”

“Once again, your assumption about me and strangers is wrong. I don't trust anyone,” I corrected him. 

“Then why did you get into the car with me?” He asked.

“When you leaned over to talk to Roy, I saw your face. I thought you looked like an honest guy. The thought I had, 'What a fine looking gentlemen.' Then whey Roy came to tell me you wanted to talk to me, I felt like I should tell you why I wasn't going to go with you, because I did see your face, which made you a real person, not a guy picking up hustlers,” I said.

“Even with all that said, you got in the car with me,” he said.

“I am starving. I haven't eaten since early this afternoon. You made me the right offer at the right time. Ordinarily, under those circumstances, I wouldn't have walked over to your car if things hadn't gone exactly as they went,” I said.

“Very unusual,” he said.

“Not strange?” I asked.

“No, I don't think so. Your logic is a bit circuitous, but I get it.”

“Good, now you can explain it to me,” I jested.

soft voice was pleasing. His story got my attention. The d He laughed.

“You don't trust anyone? Not your parents?” He asked.

“Especially not my parents,” I said.

As we stopped at the next red light, I felt his eyes on me.

“You were young, when your father died?” I asked.

“I was thirty. My heart hardly skipped a beat, between his heart attack, and my taking charge of his company. It was always the plan. His plan, and before I knew it, I was living my father's life. I was trapped in my father's life. He'd built a nice life. It's just not mine.”

His soft voice was pleasing. His story got my attention.

He laughed.

The disagreement we had was forgotten.

“If you want to take over your father's life, I guess it would be fine,” Carlton said, coming up short.

“It isn't what you necessarily wanted,” I said.

We stopped at the next light, and he took a long look at me.

The light changed.

We drove up one of New York Cities wide avenues.

Chapter 4

Driving toward a restaurant, where Carlton was taking me to eat, we began talking about Carlton's story. I was curious about the man, and how he got where he was, when we met.

“I did what I was expected to do. In my culture, following expectations is the easiest way to go. In my culture, the father is in charge of his family. You know to do what he tells you, and I did.”

“You seem to have done OK,” I said.

“Don't get me wrong. I have a good life,” Carlton said. “I should be grateful for that, but I dream of other things. It's not important.”

“But you'd rather have had the option to do it differently. Had things been different,” I said.

“Yes, you might say that. We each have a cross to bear. I wonder how things could have been different, but they weren't.”

“I suppose,” I said, not doing anything I didn't want to do.

“You are without a cross?” he asked, looking at me as he spoke..

“I suppose,” I said. “None worth talking about. I get along OK.”

Carlton turned left at the next intersection.

We stopped at a red light. Carlton turned his head away from the street we were on. I knew he was looking at me again.

I didn't know what he was looking for.

“You are observant. Why did you think I was there?” I asked.

“I gave Roy Rogers,' he said, taking the time to smile at the sound of his name. “Five bucks in the hopes I'd find out.”

It was my turn to smile.

“I wasn't sure I would get into your car,” I said.

“Neither was I,” he said. “But you did. When I stop for someone, I'm aware that after seeing my face, There's a better than even chance, they'll walk away.”

“Because you aren't lily white?” I asked.

“I assume it's why some guys walk away. I don't ask, and they don't tell,” Carlton explained. “When you are a person of color, even a lovely sweet caramel, you can't know why people do what they do.”

“You get that a lot in New York City?” I asked.

“No, hardly at all. From time to time, I suspect someone reacts the way they do because of my color,” he said.

“I've traveled in the South. Have you been down South?” I said.

“No, I haven't done a lot of traveling. We've been back to the Philippines a few times. We go to New Hampshire to visit my aunt. We've mostly been in New York City. We started in the Bronx.”      

“Let there be no doubt in your mind, Carlton, there are most definitely two Americas. I figure there are four or five, at least. I took a bus to visit my grandparents in Florida once. I had to wait for a bus in Macon, Georgia. I'm nosy. I like to see where I am, and what's going on. If I never see Macon again, it'll be too soon. The black people sat on a bench outside of the bus station. Rain, shine, 100 degrees or five below, the black people sit on their bench and don't dare venture inside, or say anything, because if they say something, and piss off some racist son-of-a-bitch, they could end up in jail, or worse,” I said. “In Macon, Georgia, if you're black, you don't want to encounter any of Macon's finest, because, if you do, you might not live to tell the tale.”

“Seeing that in Macon, and seeing how those black children had police dogs sicked on them by Bull Connors, having fire hoses turned on them, in Birmingham, was all you need to know about the South. Hearing about the civil rights marchers, being beaten by the police, on the Edmond Pettus Bridge, because they are going to register to vote, is all you need to know about the South. The white people who allow that, are missing the empathy and compassion genes. You keep your lovely sweet caramel skin where it is, Carlton, That's my advice.”

“I saw some of those pictures. Gives new meaning to man's inhumanity to man. I will definitely keep my brown ass in New York.”

 “You aren't equating being a person of color with being gay, are you?” Carlton asked.

“It's all part of the hatred white people have for so many of us, but no, there's no way to equate how black people are treated, how the indigenous people were treated, with how gay people are treated. We're all just as dead, when we are killed by hateful people, but each group has its differences,” I said. “Doesn't make me feel all warm and fuzzy by being forced to work around hateful people, when I know, if they knew my secret, they'd hate me.”

“And you don't have a lot of friends,” Carlton said.

“By choice, I don't have a lot of friends,” I said.

“And here we are, not a mile from 42^nd Street, and having a meeting of the minds, and your friend is till there,” Carlton said.

“He's not my friend. No, I'm hungry,” I said. “You wanted to go eat. It was the right offer at the right time. I was thinking about going to find a place to eat when you pulled up. I'd have walked over to Broadway to eat, once cowboy got picked up. Your offer was timely.

Carlton smiled.

“An honest man,” he said. “I'm glad we had this talk. I feared you might ask to get out.”

“I feared you might ask me to get out.”

Carlton laughed.

“I'm not devious. My mind doesn't work that way. Did I enjoy what just happened? I loved it at first. I couldn't have planned it better. I didn't like the way it made me look to you. I do feel sorry for Johnny, but I can't help him.”

“An honest man, and a conscience too. An admirable combination,” he said.

“I learned young, to get caught in a lie had dire consequences.”

“Sounds serious,” he said.

“More serious than you can imagine,” I said. “You said you were expected to take over the business from your father.”

“Yes, he wasn't quite sixty, when he died. Taking over left me with no time to do anything but work. I didn't have time to adapt.”

“You don't look like you're doing too bad,” I said.

“That's true, but I never feel like I'm getting the entire truth. There are undercurrents that I can't figure out. Most of my employees were in place, when my father ran the company. They act like they're entitled, and maybe they are, but there are strange vibes when there is a crisis that puts the company in jeopardy. It's uncomfortable.”

“You need someone you trust, and who only reports to you, on the ground, where the donuts are made,” I said.

“Donuts?” he asked.

“Your company does something. You need your own man, not a man who was loyal to your father. He keeps his ears open and he knows what's going on inside your company,” I said. “Loyalty doesn't transfer from fathers to sons. You need someone who is loyal to you. People might feel reluctant to talk to you, when he might have marched right into your father's office to speak his mind.”

“How would I put someone loyal to me inside the company?” He asked.

“He's probably already there. Someone you were close to before your father died. You said you worked in the company. You made friends, and one of them you trusted. You find the right guy, and you're the boss. Put him where he can be your eyes and ears.” I said.

“Why do you say that?” he said.

“If there are vibes you can't identify, and if that troubles you, you need someone to tell you what it means. When you took over, you should have brought your own man with you,” I said. “Those people are loyal to your father. They may be as loyal to you, as they were to him, but some may resent your taking over, once your father died. You indicated it was an unexpected passing.”

“I thought leaving things as they were, not making changes, would be the best way to go. I worked there since I was a teenager. Everyone knew me. No one objected to me,” he said.

“You're the son of the boss. No one was going to object to you, but once your father was gone, you needed a man of your own working with the other employees. He can tell you what the strange vibe means,” I said. “It's probably nothing, but you should find out.”

“It was my father's company. I guess it still is. I'm just the guy who signs the paychecks. I've let the company continue on as if he were still in the front office.”

“Which makes you the man,” I said. “It is your company, if you sign the paychecks, it's definitely your company, Carlton.”    

“Let's go back to  talking about your friend. That's an easier subject to talk about, and it takes the heat off me,” he said.

“I think we've worn that topic out,” I said.

As we drove deeper into the city, silence took over for a few minutes. I was sure Carlton was giving some thought to my opinion of the story he told me.

Trusting people, something I had little experience with, meant giving up some power to them. Trust was a difficult commodity to come by, and an easy commodity to lose.

As he was prone to do, he glanced in quick turns of his head. He was a good driver, but he was still checking to see who I might be. Once he reaches a conclusion, he kept looking straight down the avenue.

“If anyone was cramping someone's style, it was he who was cramping yours,” Carlton said. “As for putting you out, you're the most interesting young man I've met in ages. I shan't be putting you out. I'm looking forward to seeing you get a wonderful dinner.”

“And to think, if I hadn't been a nice guy, and brought Johnny up here to hustle, we'd both be alone now,” I calculated.

“I know the feeling,” Carlton said. “But we aren't alone. Not this evening.”

“A friend brought me here for the street fairs. I love the city.”

“Did you by chance sample Filipino food?” He asked.

“I thought you were Filipino,” I said. “It seemed crass to ask someone such a thing. Do you consider that Asian?”

“You actually reasoned that out?” Carlton said. “You thought about whether or not to ask me about my origins?”

“I actually did,” I said. “I decided against asking you.”

“You are a considerate young man. Most people blurt it out. 'Are you a Filipino?' No, I wouldn't have found the question out of line. I am from the Philippines. The Philippines are Western Pacific. We are Pacific islanders. Asia is the Asian continent. My origins are Spanish and native Filipino,” he said.

“Spain claimed our islands as their own. The U.S. claimed ownership, after the Spanish American War. By that time, the native population thought of itself as subjects of Spain. It's all they knew. As with most colonial countries, the bloodlines become blurred, in time. You forget how you became owned by another country,” he said.

“The conquerors subjugate the conquered, using them as free labor to steal any resources available for the taking. The Spanish made a lot of Filipino babies over the centuries,” he said. “The Americans were more than happy to pick up where the Spanish left off. Consequently, I might have American blood mixed in with the Spanish and Islander blood. I became an American citizen at fifteen. Either way, I'm American now.”

“Once the U.S. took over the Philippines, there was still a lot of hanky-panky going on?” I asked. 

“The Americans occupied my country for a much shorter period of time than the Spanish, but they managed to leave a significant number of babies behind. It's what conquerors do. They say they're there to liberate you, but they take what they want. If you protest too loudly, they shoot you, or lock you up. That's how they liberate you.”

The feeling he put into his words, had me believing that he knew what he was talking about. I'd never heard the result of the Spanish American War broken down into those terms before.

The history of the Philippines I knew, was when Gen. MacArthur left there, in the face of a Japanese invasion. He proudly announced, 'I shall return.' as he waded into the water to be rescued by an American submarine.

He did return, after the Japanese were encouraged to leave, as a revitalized America fought its way across the Pacific. After reaching Japan, Gen. MacArthur was put in charge, as World War II came to an end.

The question I never asked in American history, but should have; why was Gen. MacArthur in the Philippines in the first place?

I didn't know that the Philippines were a territory of the U.S., after Spain, who claimed ownership of the Philippines, sold them to the U.S. as part of the resolution to the Spanish-American War.

Carlton knew his country's history, and he was about to explain the answers to the question I didn't ask, because I didn't know, and wasn't told about America's occupation of the Philippines. My impression was that the U.S. acquired Cuba and the Philippines to give them their freedom, because the U.S. is all about freedom.

“While the American government may have thought they'd gotten a real bargain, when they purchased the Philippines for peanuts, Filipinos weren't as thrilled about exchanging one colonial master for another, and my people did what a lot of colonized countries began doing. They fought gorilla wars to take their countries back from more powerful colonizers,” Carlton said.  

“Why anyone thought they should own someone else's country, I can't say. It became popular in Spain, France, and England, once they understood the vastness of the world,” he said.

“As major European powers, skilled at making war on each other, invading, and occupying, countries without weapons of war were easy peasy, lemon squeezy, and warring powers were delighted to spread their lust for power and greed around the world.”

Some countries left gold and silver laying around in plain sight. What European power could resist the temptation. People who had no desire to take something that didn't belong to them needed to be taught a lesson. Finders keepers, losers weepers,” Carlton said. “The moral of the story, don't leave anything of value in plain view, when white Europeans come calling, and once they called, they stayed.”

“After World War II, a lot of country owning ended. Countries that were once claimed by other countries, were ready to fight for their freedom. The major powers, being sick of war, saw the wisdom in letting their colonies go,” he said.

“The gorilla war, between the Philippine people and the U.S. went on, until the Japanese forced the Americans out. Then the gorilla war was turned against the Japanese. The U.S. took it back as they fought their way to Japan, but in 1946, my country was given its freedom.”

“The War for my country went on for decades. My father's brothers died fighting the Yan-Kee'. He saw immigrating to America as a way to gain his freedom. Of course he brought his family with him.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I mean, about your uncles.”

“I don't remember them. My father talked about them. He was the youngest son, and he never went to fight. He had a head for business, and a desire to go to America,” Carlton said.

“I didn't know we fought in the Philippines, once we bought them from Spain. American history goes straight from Teddy's charge up San Juan Hill, victory in Cuba, and Teddy's rise to VP, and then, McKinley's assassination, and Teddy's president. Then, he joined Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln on Mt. Rushmore. Quite a guy. I was an excellent student in history and current events, and I am unaware of the story you told about your country.”

“That makes a much smoother read, than they fought for nearly fifty years, trying to colonize the Philippines. Gorillas went from fighting the Americans, who took a powder when the Japanese invaded. The gorillas went right to fighting the Japanese. They helped the Americans evict the Japanese, and no one doubted, if the Americans tried to take over again, the gorillas would fight them.”

“I remember MacArthur's comings and goings from your country, but not in history class. I wasn't clear on the ownership. I had the impression that we bought the Philippines to set them free. The only fighting, was the fighting during World War II,” I said.

“It was a bit of an oversight if you are interested in the truth,” Carlton said. “My family immigrated here before World War II. I hardly remember my country. I have vague memories of talk about fighting the Yan-Kee' from time to time.”

“I'm good with history, but our textbooks didn't cover the part about the gorilla war, after we bought the Philippines. The Spanish-American War only got an honorable mention. They had to explain how Teddy got his face up on that mountain,” I said.

“When the winners write the history, and American history is a collection of heroic stories about men who beat the odds and made Manifest Destiny a reality,” Carlton said. “But if you want the truth, you need to dig for it. The winners will bathe themselves in glory.”

“I know we took the land away from the indigenous people, and we used slaves to build the economic juggernaut we became. My problem with our history, how did Europeans  manage to get all that land away from the people who were living on it at the time? How does anyone get off thinking they can own other people? I know slave labor was used to build the White House. Gives new meaning to audacity. It seems, freedom had its limits, when it came to the Indians and the slaves, but the white people were free, but white people are only a fraction of the people in this world.”

Carlton laughed.

“There are a lot of questions that remain unanswered, when you rely on history from textbooks. The story of heroic men, building America with their bare hands, is a grand tale of perseverance, irresistible, if the truth doesn't read quite as heroically,” he said.

“Manifest Destiny is the easy way to frame it. The truth is a bit more brutal. I find that when I read history, or even stories about the founding fathers, I ask myself, what does this author want me to believe. Once I know that, I take his prose with a grain of salt, especially if the yarn he is spinning glorifies or demonizes the subject matter. No one, no thing, is all good or all bad, and any author worth his salt, won't portray anything as all one way or another. It is the shades of gray that makes a story worth reading,” Carlton said.

“That's a very intelligent way to look at it,” I said. “It could be why I don't like reading some stories. They don't ring true,”

“I want to know both sides of a story. I want to know the truth. For instance, did Colonel Custer stumble into an encampment of 5,000 Native Americans, fighting gallantly to the death, or did Custer arrogantly ride his men across that river, thinking the sight of him would have the Indians on the run, because the Indians always ran at the sight of Yellow Hair?” Carlton said. “The truth hardly measures up to the legend, and Custer got his entire command wiped out, because he was arrogant. He believed his own press and it got him killed. History bathes the boy general, who died a colonel, in glory. The truth doesn't read nearly as well, and Custer's death sealed the fate of the American Indian.”

“What did the Europeans do about the people who were living on the land they wanted? Couldn't they set aside one state, where the Indians could practice their culture, hunt, fish, and roam to their heart's content. Did we really need all the land? Wouldn't 47 states do. It doesn't speak highly of the settlers who came to stay,” I said.

“Does make one wonder,” Carlton said.

“It seems that truth can be a sticky commodity,” I said. “Depending on whose truth it is. If you ask yourself, what is the author  trying to get me to believe, you can't go wrong. Once you read his opinion of truth, you are free to search for more. If his narration reads one sided, you can be sure there is more to the story.”

“When looking for the truth, you can't take the first thing you read as a true account of an incident. When the source of the information has an agenda, something he wants the reader to believe, whether or not it is the whole truth,  it prove his point, and nothing more,” Carlton said. “But is there another side to be considered?”

“Everything I do will be seen through the lens of me being a queer. In this society, I'm unwelcome, and my being a faggot is all they need to know,” I said.

“You'd be accused of having an agenda, no matter what you say.

Because you are judged so harshly by the powers that be. Nothing you have to say has meaning to people who have already judged you, and there is no telling how much genius is lost, because the people with the power are willing to judge so many people harshly.”

“That's another way to put it,” I said. “Do I really want to join a society that has no use for me? Only to the extent I can't avoid it.”

“Harsh,” he said. “But true.”

“I know where I stand. I have no agenda, because I have nothing to prove,” I said. “They can call me anything they like. I could care less. I wasn't welcome here, when I got here, I sure as hell don't  care what they call me. I prefer being what I am. They can go to hell.”

“But you can hope for change.”

“Get real, Carlton. White people are the chosen ones. They don't have to accept anyone that doesn't please them.”

“You don't really believe that, do you?” he asked.

“No, but they do,” I said. “Look at history. It ain't pretty. It tells you all you need to know.”

Carlton seemed to think that over.

“You don't wish to achieve anything?” He asked.

“Achieve!” I said, laughing. “I want to achieve nothing. I expect to accomplish nothing. I know where I stand. I'd like to help people like me; my people.”

“Your people? That's an interesting concept,” he said. “I've never thought I might have people who feel as I feel.”

“We are queer people! I'll stand with my queer brothers and sisters. I won't stand with hatred or violence against other people.”

“You have brothers and sisters?” he asked.

“I have one biological brother. My earth family includes all queer people. Those are the people I'll try to help,” I said. “Those are the people I want to be with.”

“I get that, but everyone should aspire to do something in particular,” Carlton said. “Don't you want to accomplish something?”

“I'd like to find a way to help my people. After that, I'd like to help boys who came up hard, like I did,” I said. “Offer boys some acceptance. Try to make them feel better about themselves.”

Glancing at Carlton, I wasn't sure how what I said sounded, and I kept on going, because I'd never put it into words before.

“I see,” he said, not sounding like he did.

“Nothing, is probably the proper answer to your original question, Carlton. I'm blowing smoke, now. I expect to help no one. I can hardly help myself. I've actually only been alive for ten years. It's not enough time to figure out how to help anyone,” I said. “I don't know how to do much.”

Carlton looked at me quizzically.

“You can't throw that on the table and retreat. What does that even mean?” Carlton asked. “I've told you my story. You've told me enough that I'm intrigued. You can't just stop there.” 

“It's a long story,” I said.

“What, you have a bus to catch?”

I looked at Carlton. I liked him, much more than that, I felt comfortable being with him. There was no risk in telling him my story. There was far more risk in living it, but I hadn't thought about it.

Why think about it, after all is said and done? 

To be continued...

Posted: 10/02/2020