Paulyanna, page 29
But I didn’t have one. How quickly he changed from an attentive devotee that hung on my every word to someone who evaded, unwilling to even converse with me about my dilemma. A warning light must have flashed HALT! He was no longer desperate to validate his intellect. No longer interested to get into my pants and, to be honest, as every one of his flash thoughts was revealed on his face, neither was I. As well as mentally, I watched as he distanced himself physically. He then took the first opportunity available to meander towards the pool table. My faith in human nature was fast disintegrating. I questioned the notion if I was ever a good judge of character.
Sunday afternoon, eight days missing and still no word about Richard. I was at the home of the chiropractor with whom I was further along in the dating process. Being quite dishy, whatever the bases were, I had passed them with him. I told him about Richard. I didn’t expect much in the way of response and wasn’t even looking for sympathy. Perhaps it was a test. He failed. I got the exact same avoidance as I did the previous day. I didn’t storm out straight away in a huff but made my excuses and left.
I think this was the last straw for me. It didn’t matter if the men were protectors, professors or practitioners: they were all useless. Great at group cheering in celebration but totally unreliable in a crisis. I fucking hated America and all Americans. Heartless people with no time for anything that conflicted with their idea of success. I had travelled along the entire spectrum of despair and had no idea there were that many degrees of helplessness. I was lower than I'd ever felt. My mind now rested on thoughts that were laced with vengeance and spite. I honestly wished for the ‘Big One’ to happen whilst I walked. That giant earthquake predicted to strike sometime in the future. One so powerful that it would annihilate the city and destroy what I now regarded as a fake town full of weak-minded, shallow braggers and liars.
My journey took me past what I assumed was a kindergarten. Behind a solid security gate I heard young children at play. Out of a crack in the hard dry concrete a lone yellow flower, perfectly formed, crisp and radiant, shook gently in the breeze. There was no other vegetation along this stretch of sidewalk so it stood out all the more. Although merely a weed, its simplistic charm, along with the sound of children’s laughter, distracted me. A flash of optimism penetrated the gloom. I did like my symbolism and often searched for mystical meanings in what were often insignificant happenings. This was one such instance. I couldn’t fail to recognise it, as it shone like a beacon against the harsh greyness. I had been manipulated into acknowledging its beauty and, for a split second, it had lifted me. School yard sounds backed up my vision and reminded me that goodness and innocence still existed, regardless of what was happening in my own life. Straight away I was repentant for my callous wishing for the ‘Big One’. It actually felt sinful branding the existence of a whole city worthless. I’d disregarded the sanctity of life, which of course included small children and cute puppies. Suddenly aware of His ever-present attention, I was ashamed. I immediately apologised to God, recanting my voodoo.
Monday morning the phone woke me. I jumped to answer it. I was glad to hear Gerry on the other end. He thought it important to tell me Richard hadn't taken his toothbrush. I wondered if he had taken anything at all, including his passport. Like a yo-yo I was up with growing hope that this could be relevant information. I asked Gerry if he knew. I got a flat no. Then, with childlike expectation, I suggested he go check his luggage. His response flabbergasted me. He considered it unethical to go snooping through Richard’s personal things. I assured him, in a common way, that being missing for ten days warranted this intrusion into Richard’s privacy. However, Gerry stuck to his guns and refused to search his belongings. My strong urge to scrunch a cushion was conveniently met in the form of a pillow.
“All right then, I’ll do it! I’m comin’ round," I snapped at him and slammed down the phone.
It had suddenly become vital for me to know if his passport had gone. That might indicate that he went somewhere, by choice. For all I knew, Richard may have headed home in a strop and left behind some of his unwanted luggage. I was desperately hopeful for any straw to clutch at.
As public transport made me feel nauseous, I hadn’t bothered with it. So I hadn’t a clue which bus went where. As a result, a laborious trek took me to West Hollywood. I pressed on the entry-phone intercom a good few times before a voice I didn’t recognise told me Gerry was not home.
“Fine, don’t get riled. I didn’t need him anyway,” I told myself.
Still chatting into the box of electronics, I explained who I was. It appeared the voice was already aware of Richard’s disappearance. I told him I’d come to search for Richard’s passport. He told me he couldn’t let me in, as Gerry wasn’t at home. I relayed my recent conversation but he still wouldn’t buzz me in. I felt like gouging my own eyes out. My pleading for him to use his better judgement was also futile. So, as cool as a cute chilli, I shouted a few profanities and threatened to rip his throat out, then I left, steaming mad.
I decided, as I was already that side of town, to stick around and call Gerry a little later. A couple of hours passed before I rang back. I listened to the telephone as it rang its extra extended single “briiiiiiing” as they do in America. It was quickly picked up.
“Hello?” The unmistakeable monotonous and docile sound of Richard’s voice impacted me as it had never done before. Starting from the bottom of my feet, I felt a huge surge of pressure flow directly up through my body. Like the venting of a pressure cooker, an instant and continuous stream of negative energy was released. The feeling was undeniably euphoric. My body’s comprehension of this new turn of events was faster than my steamed-up brain. Although it didn’t take long for the rest of me to catch up. I told him I was heading straight there and then informed the girls without delay.
CHAPTER 31 The Holiday Is Over
I was only a five-minute dash away from Richard’s gaff. But this time I got there in half that time, even after making some phone calls. When I saw his stupid face I had to choke back a sudden urge to blub. Unable to talk, I greeted him with one long hug which in itself was out of character. We were never huggy-kissy friends and from Richard’s perplexed reception, it dawned on me he was totally oblivious that the wreck before him, without sounding too dramatic, had been on a terrifying ten-day ride aboard an emotional roller-coaster.
I kept my promise and I didn't have a go at him. I asked him where he had vanished to. He explained that he and Carlos had been picked up off the boulevard by a rich guy in a limousine. He had a chauffeur named Gregory. Richard and Gregory had gone to buy some drugs off the street somewhere. Whilst in the process they were robbed. Which I didn’t doubt. The rich guy suggested that, as they were so shaken up by the experience, they spend a week or so in Reno to help them get over the trauma. At this point he quickly backtracked and added that the muggers had pointed a gun directly at his head. As it wasn’t the sort of detail I would overlook, I had my doubts about that part, but it didn’t matter. I was so relieved just to have him back in one piece.
I wanted to know why he didn’t phone to inform anyone of his whereabouts. His answer was simple. In all the upset he just couldn’t recall any of the telephone numbers correctly. This was perfectly feasible as Richard tended to be a bit peroxide at times. It was always he who was late and constantly misplacing things. Now he was back all I wanted to do was celebrate and enjoy myself again. We planned our night out: first some much-needed drinking and then a spot of dancing. I was eager to take him to Motherlode and the nearby night club that I’d visited on my first trip.
As we were leaving he shouted, “Oh Gerry, if Gregory rings, can you tell him I'll call him later". Unbelievable, but Richard hadn’t even noticed. For Gregory to be able to ring would mean Richard had given him Gerry’s telephone number. I said nothing. Although he could be a touch spiteful, I didn’t believe Richard had meant anything malicious by his ten-day absence. He wasn’t that manipulative or cruel. He probably wanted an adventure – one of his own, something exciting to tell everyone about later. He must have known I was wondering where he was. Perhaps he thought every day without word added a little more mystique to the episode and that phoning me would have weakened the surprise. Funny thing was, that excluding this short explanation, he never got his chance to regale us with details regarding his exploits. Any excitement he initially had got buried beneath my concern.
We headed towards the boulevard to begin our pub crawl. I heard singing from across the street. “Girlfriennnnnnd.”A person waved over at us. Richard sang back, excited to see his friend. They began singing the lyrics from a recent American billboard music-chart hit, called ‘Supermodel’. It was all the rage on the LA gay scene, performed by an American drag queen, named Ru Paul. I thought it was a terrible track. I reckoned my own taste in music was somehow more credible and superior to that kind of pop garbage.
Michele headed across the road to join us. Six foot tall and ultra slim, like a department store mannequin, he was by far the campiest black guy I’d ever met. His effeminate mannerisms surpassed those of even the most flamboyant lady-boys Santa Monica had to offer. Dressed in a white body-hugging tee-shirt and yellow hot-pants with light blue ladies’ tights and orange leg-warmers, he was hard to miss, day or night. He resembled a packet of highlighter marker-pens as every bright coloured garment was a garish florescent shade. My first impression was that he looked totally ridiculous, like he’d just finished an 80s aerobic workout. His facial expression, beneath the plastered layers of foundation, was intense – a mixture of shock and judgement. Like a stern headmistress. He had bulging eyes with a penetrating blue-contact-lens stare, flared nostrils and very large pursed lips.
Resting on the tip of his nose was a pair of red Donna Karen glasses. Designer labels were very important to him; he mentioned them often. He also said that he was a trust fund child and had a financial benefactor. He was very theatrical and mega pretentious. From out of his Louis Vuitton clutch bag he retrieved a rather ornate compact mirror. He felt the need to reapply some more face powder to his already caked face. Boy, he didn’t half jangle as he also had a thing for gold bracelets and bangles. I thought I had a pretty high embarrassment threshold, thanks to hanging out with Richard, but this guy mortified me.
Michele looked me up and down and, after a non-committal silence, decided that he wasn’t up for a night out dancing. He suggested to Richard that they go somewhere else. I had my heart set on clubbing and made my wish clear to Richard. Michele was also adamant and stuck to his guns. Richard dithered. So I made it easier for him and continued walking. Still hesitating I called back to him. “C’mon Richard!” my annoyance reflected in my tone. This conflict of where his loyalties lay offended me greatly. After a few more stubborn steps I looked back to see the two of them sashay off in the opposite direction.
I stuck with my original plan. I spent most of the evening in Rage, the pretentious bar. I found myself drinking alone and chatted to nobody. Later I visited Motherlode and then went on to the club, as planned. Despite relief being my most dominating emotion, I felt a little dejected. I had no enthusiasm to dance so had the most boring time ever. After an hour I left and headed to the boulevard. As I casually sauntered along with my eyes cast downwards, I kicked at discarded cigarette butts and the like. I wasn’t terribly depressed, just pensive. I noticed something small and brown gliding along the ground. I gave it another boot and watched as it slid off before me. Then I recognised it for what it was and quickly picked it up. I could see through the darkened glass that the vial wasn’t empty; in fact it was almost full. I unscrewed the cap, which had a black hinged-type spoon attached, and waved the bottle under my nose. It smelt sharp, like an unclean pub urinal. Then I did what I’d seen done countless times in cop movies. I dabbed a bit of the contents on my finger and touched it to the tip of my tongue. I felt it tingle and become slightly numb. I knew it was cocaine – plenty of it. At a guess about three grammes’ worth. Never slow at coming forwards, I dipped in the spoon and filled my nostrils.
I was way too high to be interested in business, so just drifted around aimlessly on the boulevard hoping to bump into Richard. It was a bit crap being so charged with nobody to have a laugh with. I visited Fat Burger just for something to do and, much later, an all-night supermarket. As I entered from the darkened pre-dawn sidewalk, I got blinded by the intense glare that came from the overhead florescent tubes. Like walking onto an empty stage, the place was completely deserted. I purchased a box of Ritz biscuits, an additional highlight to the night. It seemed no matter which country I visited, that red and yellow packet could be found in most food stores. I ate the whole box and washed them down with a carton of half and half milk. When I spotted the police cruisers out on patrol, I was worried that if they searched me they wouldn’t believe I’d found cocaine on the sidewalk. I decided to have one final snort and keep the rest for later.
Around dawn my energy was flagging, so I headed to the House of Pancakes for breakfast. Inside I met an eighteen-year-old girl from Texas. She had come to Hollywood like me to work the streets. It was so much harder for girls out there. All my fears about hassle from pimps, being caught up in drugs and random street violence were not unfounded and were manifested within her tale of woe. In town for two days, she had already been beaten up by some pimp who had stolen all her hard-earned dollars. She was obviously addicted to something but I still believed her. I saw the yellowing signs of a not yet fully matured black eye. I gave her ten dollars but was not so generous with my coke, which I kept hidden. A touch hypocritical of me I know, as I didn’t tell her I was renting, but advised her to head back home to Texas.
After speaking with her, I wasn’t so enthralled with my adventure anymore. The excitement and possible gains of strange encounters had lost their shine. I was wrung out after my long worry and physically shattered because I’d been walking for hours and I still had a long trudge back to Los Feliz before I could sleep. So, after wishing the Texan well I left the diner and headed for home. I hadn’t gone that far before I was overwhelmed by fatigue. My eyelids weighed heavy and my legs felt like jelly. My brain began shutting down as it drifted in and out of dream mode. I was actually falling asleep whilst still walking.
I focussed everything I had on crossing a car park to reach a public telephone. My vision wavered whilst I staggered like a drunk. I needed to rest so badly and I couldn’t fight it anymore. Liz found me sleeping on a bench near the junction of Santa Monica and Fairfax Avenue. Although I know I must have told her where I was, I can barely remember much more than pleading to be rescued. She drove me to her downtown warehouse where I slept the entire day, not waking until evening.
In regards to my hunt for digs, I was back at square one. My advertising cards had yielded nothing more. The notion of having to schmooze with potential accommodators all over again on such a hit or miss venture was not appealing. The strenuous effort involved playing a role of an ordinary sweet person in a bid to endear them was tiresome. I was often forced to divulge personal details just to keep the conversation flowing. This was beyond the pale as my inner being was still regarded as highly precious, whereas my exterior body I considered a mere shell. I much preferred the honest indifference of regular straight-up customers. People who came, paid and then went. Ones that didn’t feel the need or have the time to delve deeper and with whom my simple streetwise character that disclosed little was sufficient. They made everything a whole lot easier. Besides, I knew at the end of the day they all wanted the same thing – sex. Whereas I only wanted cash and not counselling.
My last customer in LA was this rather cute black guy with a pencil moustache, Terry. I was out with Richard on the boulevard and we were both high on my coke. Terry cruised past us in this blue and white open-top Suzuki jeep. I saw him do a U-turn up ahead and knew he was interested. It turned out he lived up in the hills in a very impressive designer home that appeared to incorporate a large portion of natural rock face. It stretched two storeys up and made up one complete side of the structure. The rest of the building was ultra-modern with a lot of opaque glass, with highly polished chrome finishes on the open staircase and metal gantries. There was a large mezzanine with enormous electrically-operated draped windows showing views out onto the hills. I could have been comfortable lodging there.
Terry was in his late twenties and worked in the movie industry as a photographer. On his walls hung many accolades along with pictures of well-known movie stars. He pointed out a large billboard from a certain film I had seen advertised whilst in LA. I really liked him. He was amiable and spoke to me with respect and without too much boasting. Despite him being so good looking, as well as charming I still had a struggle getting aroused. Being high on coke didn’t help, nor the fact that, “Oh, so it’s not true,” flashed across my face, or at least I imagined it did. It could have been me just thinking that he was thinking that I thought that.
As a multitude of cocaine-induced thoughts ran around my brain, I had a really hard time – or not, as the case was – and the whole affair was a flop. I explained to him it was the drugs. It was all very amateurish, I thought he got a raw deal and would have understood if he refused to pay. Uneasy, I ended up offering to finish the job another time. He took me up on my offer and I’m glad he did. Although I was not even an escort, but only a common street worker, he asked me out to dinner at a swanky restaurant. Thankfully I was dressed nicely enough, like a normal British lad. White 501s and an untucked but ironed aqua blue YSL shirt which had been a Christmas gift from Russell. I only ever bought affordable brand names, never designer gear. Terry looked very cute with his clipped moustache and also quite dapper in his sharp Boss suit. He drove us there in his other car, a black four-door Mercedes. Without cocaine I was able to focus much easier and I managed to fulfil my obligation: call it professional pride. After this second visit I decided it was not racism I should worry about but perhaps, classism. Terry really liked me. He invited me along to a Hollywood wrap party as his plus one. If only I had met him earlier. I would have gone, but I had already decided to head back to England the following week. I didn’t keep his business card or pass on my London details.
