Ode to Lata (29 page)

Modeling agency, I thought.  What an interesting concept.  Obviously an escort service, although I couldn’t picture stark-raving-mad Andy Jacobs in his blue sedan as any kind of business owner, let alone some kind of pimp and lover for Bill.

“Well, look, I have to get going.  My friends,” I said, throwing a look back at the car, “are getting really pissed now.  You’re welcome to join us.”

“Where are you going?  Oh, yeah, you told me.  The Spa.”

“Why don’t you come with us?  I’m sure you’ll have good time.”

“You want to take a hooker to a bathhouse?” he said and laughed.  “No, thanks.  Besides, I told you, I’m working.”

I grunted.  “Well, you’re not going to get much work done with
him
driving around in circles, you know?”  I heard my name being called from the car and I motioned to them to give me another moment.  “Look, you don’t have to worry about anything.”  I’m not sure exactly what I meant by that.  I wanted it to mean everything.  I wanted it to mean whatever it would take for him to get in the car with me.  That I would take care of him financially for that night and his safety too, although I couldn’t bring myself to say it exactly that way, at least not the financial part, not just yet.

I happened to look over his shoulder and the blue sedan was already coming around again.  “Your valentine’s right on time.”

Bill heaved a sigh.  “Christ!  I’m going to kick the shit out of him.”

“No, don’t get into a fight,” I advised.  “It’s not worth it.  Come on, just go with me.”

“How much does this place cost?”

“I’m not sure.  I think about eight or something.”  It was more like fifteen.

He hesitated.

Then I said it.  “You don’t have to worry about the money or anything.  We have enough.”  By positioning us as a group I hoped to evade the implication that I was purchasing his services.  I knew no one in the car would throw a red cent his way but as long as I didn’t have to hand him the cash, I felt I could absolve myself from feeling like I’d entered into the trade.

Andy Jacobs pulled up by the curb again.  “Get away from him!  Leave him alone!”

“I gotta go.  Can’t take any more of this,” I said.  “You coming?”

“Yeah,” he said, and a smile came upon his face.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Andy Jacobs came unhinged.  “Where… Where are you going?  Hey, come back here!  Bill, don’t do this!”  And then he cried out to me, “Hey, man, don’t take him with you, you’re gonna regret it!  He’s a thief!  He’s gonna take all your stuff!  I’m telling you, man, you’re gonna be sorry!”

We began crossing the street carefully through the oncoming traffic and the possibility of Andy running us over and, somewhere in the crossing, without any forethought, our hands found each other and together we made our way to the safety of the car. 

Bill lit up a joint.  He shared it with everyone in the car.  Instant camaraderie.  Adrian struggled to cull the effects of pot again.  He always claimed that he’d never succeeded in getting high on pot, so a lit joint always became a challenge for him.  Personally, I’d always refrained from it.  Frankie reprimanded me for showing such poor taste.  “I guess it’s just not the drug for control queens,” he grunted and I wanted to hit him for calling me that in front of Bill.

Having Bill sitting next to me was intoxication enough.  Feeling more relaxed, he removed his shirt and sat there in a white tank top.  As he inhaled on the joint, my eyes lingered on the luster of his bronzed shoulder, the tattoo on his arm.

When we got to the Spa and everyone had lined up for admission, Bill realized he didn’t have his ID.  He explained politely that his agenda for the night hadn’t included anything that would’ve required one.  There was no stopping everybody else from going in.  As far as they were concerned, this little hustler had already caused them enough delay and the pot had only been equitable reparation for it.  Adrian, the first one in, had already been alerted that there was at least a two-hour wait before a room might become available and the rest of them had already given me that accusing look upon hearing the news.  I called them a pack of bitches in violent heat and offered to drive Bill back to the street.  Kitty would have to trust me with his new Mustang.  Bill excused himself and offered to wait for me in the parking lot so we could discuss this in private.  That’s when Kitty vehemently said, “Just-a-forget him, will you?  He fin’ way back, don’ worry.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about, Kitty, it’s me.  I want him!  If I can’t have him, I certainly don’t want anything that’s in there!”

He shrugged and started to hand me his car keys, knowing it was futile to argue with me.  “Suit yourself.  So… you come back or what?”

“No, actually I was hoping you guys could catch a bus home.”

He closed his palm on the keys quickly.

“Don’t be stupid!  Of course I’ll be back.  I just don’t know if I’ll see you right away.  Give me a couple of hours, okay?”

“Be careful, please?”

“Yeah, it’s not like I’m going to some bathhouse or anything,” I said wryly and pocketed the keys.

“I means with the car!”

“Oh, of course,” I said.

“And of course, with him.”

I practically danced my way out of that infernal place.  I’d always hoped an attractive man would rescue me from those despicable places but had never quite pictured that such deliverance would come from a hustler.  Outside, Bill was already chatting with a couple of guys who might have been on their way in, as he leaned against the Mustang, his shirt hanging from the seam of his jeans.  Men like him, I thought, walking over to him stealthily, drew a following like bees to a hive.  I felt instantly irritated, but when he noticed me and quickly excused himself from them, it pleased me immensely.  On their way in, the two white boys threw me a derisive glance, and I thought, stupid little bitter queens!  Nothing like other fags to horn in on your action.  

“I’m sorry, man,” he said.

“Sorry?  Whatever for?” I asked, using the remote to unlock the car.

“You know, for messing up your night.  You don’t have to worry about me.  You can just go in there if you like.”

“And what will you do?”

“Hey, man, I can find my way back, no need to worry about that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you could,” I said, walking to my side of the car.  “But I don’t really want to go in there anyway.” 
No, I’d much rather be in bed with you.

In the car, I looked at him before turning on the engine, my fingers paused on the ignition key.  “Look, I can take you back there if you want.  I mean, what time is it?  Three?  Three-thirty?  It’s probably not too late for you to still make something out of this night.  And I’m sure your boyfriend’s gone by now,” I said deliberately.

“My boyfriend?” he winced, laughing.  “Andy’s not my boyfriend.”

“Well, your boss or your ex or whatever you call him.” 
Your pimp?

“Psycho,” he said.

“Okay, psycho’s good.  He’s probably back at the Bates motel by now.”

Bill thought for a moment and then shook his head.  “I’ll tell you what,” he said.  “I’m completely out of weed.  Can you take me to get some?”

“Weed?  Where?”  I asked dubiously.

“It’s not far.  Just right off Western.  It’s safe, I swear it.”

I hesitated.

“Hey, believe me, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything dangerous.”

I gently sighed as I switched gears and started to back out of the parking space.  I tried hard not to stare at him, not to touch him, although under the circumstances it could hardly have been considered inappropriate.  I wondered if he could sense my craving for him.  I felt that he did.  A man like him, always, even in moments of modesty and feigned innocence, knew his power over those around him and when to use his looks to achieve whatever he desired.

Had I begun my interaction with him in a manner more seductive, emitting charm and confidence as I might have in a bar, it could’ve been different.  But I had already fallen into a role.  Into a different persona.  One that required me to struggle with my desire for him instead of pursuing him flagrantly, to set myself apart from those he was accustomed to and, perhaps, elicit his desire for me.  All this for a hooker!  I prayed that he would find a way to take us beyond such restraint.  Maybe lay his hand on my lap or twiddle his fingers in the nape of my neck.  Images of us naked, far beyond the point of such bridling, roistered in my mind.  But he just sat there with his hands on his lap, his fingers gently and incongruently tapping to the music score that I had lodged into the cassette player. 

“Okay,” I said as the wheels kissed pavement.  “How should we do this?”  

SHORT CUTS

We were in a part of the city that I dreaded, one that would never be depicted in glossy postcards or grace the itineraries of sight-seeing tours.  Every city has its pockets of shame, even this proverbial city of angels, and Bill and I perambulated through one of them in search of marijuana.  As I looked around, a feeling of depression fomented within me, an uneasiness that made me want to escape from it quickly.

The streetlights cast a uriniferous glow that felt heavy on the eyes.  All around me was the commerce indigenous to such an area: the liquor store, a coin-operated Laundromat and, towering sinisterly over unkempt buildings, the billboards.  Not Bijan’s opulent vulgarity or Cybill Shepherd validating herself through her pre-owned Mercedes, but glamorously attired ethnic people frolicking over a bottle of liquor.  They looked as if they expected a genie to pop out from the tempting oblations of dark rums and malt liquor, or, as if they were celebrating their discovery of some messianic entity that had brought smiles to their faces, making them look so much different from the patrons that wandered into the liquor stores to procure these potions. 
It’s what the rest of the world is hoping they’ll believe too.  That salvation, at least temporarily, awaits only to be uncapped from a bottle on the shelf.
  Only Colonel Sanders tried to bring some unimpeachable relief with his trademark, bespectacled beam as he inquired in Spanish,
“Lunchamos?”
I’d no idea that he was bilingual.

The streets were deserted when I pulled up by a bus shelter.  I noticed beer cans strewn all over the ground in spite of the trash can sitting idly by the vacant bench.  The poster for a John Singleton movie was lodged into the shed’s advertising panel, a film alleged to have provoked gang violence in parts of the city.  How ironic that we were incapable of decoding simple messages.  To grasp the intended moral in popular art.  The movie exposed the perniciousness of gang life, yet it had somehow managed to trigger more of it.  Everything was scrambled.  We saw only what we wanted.

Sliding the gear into park, I turned to look at Bill, the discomfort apparent in my eyes as he glanced around furtively.  “This is going to be quick, right?” I asked.

“Yeah, absolutely, man,” he assured me.  “Just drive all the way down to that McDonald’s there, you see it?  By the time you drive back, I’ll be done.”

“That one right there?” I asked, as if there were fifty of them around.

“Yup, that’s the one,” he said, getting out of the car. “To those beautiful golden arches.” 

Before he walked away, he leaned down and knocked on the window pane.  I searched for a handle and then, remembering it wasn’t my car, pressed down on the power button that I’d so often wished my own car had been equipped with.  The veil slid from between us.

“You’re not going to leave me here, are you?” he asked.

“Leave you?  Why would I do that?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  See you in a couple of minutes?”

“Of course,” I said, looking at him strangely.  “What a weird thing for you to say.”

“Not really.”

“Be careful.”

He gave me the benefit of his most seductive smile and a reassuring nod.  A ripple of excitement ran through my body, and I nervously looked away to keep him from catching it.

“Hey,” he called, and when I looked back at him, motioned for me to put the window up.

The pane of tinted glass slid between us.  I put the car into gear and drove off to the comfort of the golden arches. 

Driving down that desolate street, I placated myself for being convinced into coming here with the possibility of having sex with him.  Between the vision of Bill’s passionate lovemaking (I even found myself chanting God’s name –
Ya Ali… Ya Ali… Ya Ali)
– and acknowledging that I was being a little melodramatic, I told myself,
I’ve succeeded in becoming a rabid, God-fearing prima donna like my mother. 

My mind raced back to Kenya.  I thought about how I’d always felt something akin to terror when faced with poverty.  Even as a child, I’d never felt comfortable in downtrodden areas.  It wasn’t that I’d feared for my safety, or that I was apathetic about the less privileged, but that I might have been able to relate too much.  I had come, after all, from a family where money had always been a source of contention – my parents’ absence had often been blamed on their working too hard for money; my aunt and uncle lamented how their entrepreneurship had been snubbed by the lack of it; and I’d overheard Mummy claim the reason my father had forsaken us to lay with another woman was the Rolex she’d bestowed on his wrist.  Poverty and its many faces of impoverishment had always depressed me to the point of nausea.