Remembering Tim - 16. Chapter 16 - Welcome to Sunny LA

Until I went down to California to spend three weeks with my Uncle Walter, I had never been in an airplane. Dad, of course, flew all the time when he was selling pipe, but the rest of us were relegated to ground transportation. Mother, Sally, and an unusually passive Johnny took me to the airport.

Johnny was upset about me getting to leave for three weeks, when he, Scott, and the new kid, a strange, ugly, schizo named Norman, had to stay home. I think the only thing that saved us on the drive was Johnny’s new meds that kept him super subdued all the time. He was never happy, but never sad, either. He was accompanying us simply because he wouldn’t be a problem. He couldn’t be a problem. I kind of felt sorry for him.

What the other three boys didn’t know was that Doctor Randall was trying to figure out how to get me out of the group home environment on a permanent basis. As far as he was concerned, I was practically over whatever it was that made me want to kill myself. The dark ogre had been defeated. I figured the easiest solution was to find another house for the group home and allow our house to revert back to a regular home for Mother, Doctor Randall, Sally and me; except, no one seemed to be working in that direction. All the effort seemed to be directed toward getting me out. Even Mother seemed to be okay with the idea. Sally, of course, was oblivious to all of it.

What I didn’t know, at the time, was that Uncle Walter was in on the act, too. It seemed my three-week adventure in Movieland was to be a sort of test to see whether I was compatible with Uncle Walter’s lifestyle, which included extended trips out of town where I would be required to fend for myself, for the most part. He did have a butler of some sort who took care of a lot of things like my airplane ticket, which was one way. If I wasn’t such a pushover, I might have questioned that.

Mother and Sally were kind of teary eyed when they said their goodbyes. Johnny, on the other hand, just kind of hung his head down, staring at the floor. I wanted to kiss him, but all I could do was give him a chaste hug and whisper in his ear, “I’ll be back in three weeks and we’ll do something. Just us. Okay?”

He looked at me, but the sparkle wasn’t in his eyes anymore. There was half of a smile and he kind of nodded, but it was so slight I wasn’t sure. I could have sworn the old Johnny was still in there, somewhere trying to get out, but the new Johnny kept everything covered up.

“Come back,” he said, as a little tear dribbled down his cheek. I brushed it away with my finger and turned away from him.

I showed my boarding pass to the ticket agent and walk down the ramp to the airplane. My adventure had begun.

I had a window seat in first class, but since I’d never flown before I didn’t have a clue what I was missing back in coach. The stewardess, who looked like she might have been only a couple years older than me, asked what I wanted to drink. Something about her demeanor suggested she was more than ready to kneel down in front of me and give me the blowjob of my life. It was her hands that betrayed her, though. She worked for a living. She used those hands a lot and they were definitely a lot older than her face.

“How much is a Coke?” I asked.

“It’s free,” she said. “Have you ever flown before?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

I could imagine a scared, little kid being nervous about being enclosed in a long metal tube for an extended period of time. I read about airplanes. I knew all the physics about flying. I also knew that a two hundred and fifty-pound man could be sucked out one of those little windows if it accidentally broke. I was less than a hundred twenty. I’d be tomato sauce in a couple seconds.

“No, I’m not nervous about flying. Could I have some water?”

“Sure.”

All I could think about was being in LA for three weeks with Uncle Walter. It was hard to imagine what it would be like to live with a man who was just as queer as me. I didn’t suspect he had orgies because he was too business-like. On the other hand, maybe he had a boyfriend, someone young, in college, cute, who was secretly planning to seduce me. We’d spend three weeks at Uncle Walter’s beach house in Malibu, which he never told me about, but I assumed he had because he was in the movie business and that’s what you were supposed to have. Or, maybe, just lounge out by the pool while Uncle Walter’s butler, or whatever he was, served us Cokes and rolled joints for us.

I didn’t think Uncle Walter was the type to smoke marijuana, though. He seemed more the scotch and soda kind of person; maybe rye whiskey with a splash of spring water.

What I didn’t know was what I was going to do. Three weeks in a house in a city I wasn’t familiar with; and, during the summer. Where was I going to meet other kids? I certainly hoped I wasn’t going to be put to work. I was too smart to be expected to do manual labor beyond cleaning my room, or giving another guy a demonstration on how well I used my hands. I was beginning to dread going down there.

And, then, the plane started down the runway. There’s that moment when the world drops out from under you and the plane takes off. That critical moment when an untightened screw, a missing bolt, or some other kind of screw-up sends the plane careening down the runway as it bursts into a raging ball of fire.

The plane took off.

**********

When I got off the plane in LA I wasn’t looking for Uncle Walter. I was looking for movie stars. Since I didn’t watch television enough to know who was starring in what, I was placing all my hopes on seeing a movie star, but there weren’t any. Actually, there wasn’t even an Uncle Walter. There was a man, though. He was older, like maybe sixty or something. Grandfatherly he wasn’t, more like distinguished, like a butler. I walked toward him, but a little girl got there first and he picked her up and kissed her on the cheek.

“Geoff? Geoff Johnson?” A voice asked at my shoulder. I turned and saw a tanned, blond haired, man in a light gray suit probably not more than thirty, I guess. He was maybe six feet tall, taller than me, of course. Green eyes. I’d never met anyone with green eyes before, but this guy had green eyes. His face was angular, but his hair was nearly down to his shoulders.

“Yes?”

“I’m Bertrand, Mr. Johnson’s assistant. I’ve come to fetch you.”

“You’re British.”

“No, I’m not.”

And, he turned and walked away. I followed. Well, he certainly sounded British, or at least what I expected British to sound like. One thing, though, he had a cute ass and his shoulders were broad. I was beginning to wonder how he assisted Uncle Walter.

We retrieved my luggage, but he had a skycap take care of it. There wasn’t that much and I could’ve carried it, but I guess that wasn’t done. We got into a cab, Bertrand sitting on the driver’s side and me on the other. He gave the address and no more words were spoken the whole trip. He seemed standoffish, pompous, maybe. Like going to the airport to get me wasn’t something on his list of duties.

I was trying to pay attention to which way the driver was going, but after we passed Sunset Boulevard Bertrand started talking.

“I’m from a Dunedin on the South Island of New Zealand, originally. My parents moved all of us to York, in England, to be close to my grandmother who was dying. I guess there was some inheritance Mother was expecting. I was at Cambridge when Walter met me in London. I’d come down to visit a friend and we sort of bumped into one another in Harrods buying shirts, I think. I’ve been with Walter for nearly ten years, now.”

“So, that makes you his?”

“Assistant.”

“Okay.”

Boyfriend was my guess, but maybe he was Uncle Walter’s assistant. I didn’t know Uncle Walter at all, since he and my father never spoke. But, Bertrand certainly looked like a boyfriend. With that ass of his, I certainly was ready to make him my boyfriend.

Uncle Walter’s house had a wrought iron gate, but it was already open. The house didn’t look all that big from the street side, but after the cab left and I had to tote my own bags, the house started to get bigger. We went in the front door and Bertrand stopped.

“You will use the side entrance from now on,” he said. “The front door is for guests. If you have friends over, they will use the side entrance, too. If not, you will instruct them accordingly.”

“You don’t like me, do you?” I asked. He was too cold, too formal. He certainly gave off a “don’t touch me” feeling.

“It is not my place to like you or not like you,” Bertrand said. “You are Walter’s nephew, therefore, you are family. Whatever your relationship with Walter is, it is not my concern.”

Well, maybe, he wasn’t Uncle Walter’s boyfriend.

We were standing in the foyer and it was the kind of foyer you think about when you’re trying to imagine what a foyer might look like. It was probably as big as our living room and the floor was some kind of polished rock, kind of pink, white, and gaudy. The walls had paintings, abstract I think, certainly not paintings I would have put up.

“Your room is upstairs,” Bertrand said, turning and starting up the staircase that seemed out of some Busby Berkeley movie. I expected a bevy of ballerinas to come bounding down, but they didn’t. Bertrand still had a cute ass, though, and I decided I’d follow it anywhere.

At the top of the stairs two hallways went off in opposite directions. I looked over the railing and determined a head first fall just might do it. You get that way when you’ve been on suicide watch, looking for ways to do it yourself. You kind of get the ability to judge heights. The only problem with this one was there wasn’t enough height to get vertical before hitting the cold stone below. You’d hurt a lot, then probably die, but you’d hurt a lot. Suicidal people aren’t looking for agony, they’re in agony already. They’re looking for quick relief.

“Was there something?” Bertrand asked.

“No, just admiring the view,” I said. He looked at me then shook his head. He was definitely an adult, no sense of humor.

“Your bedroom is this way,” he said, heading off toward the right.

“What’s in the other direction?”

“Your uncle and I have our suites on that side of the house. You have no business going that way.”

And, a very unwelcome to you, too.

“This is your room,” Bertrand said, opening a door halfway down the hall. “Walter decided you’d do better with the morning sun.”

First of all, there wasn’t a bed. That was the first thing I noticed. Then I noticed the room was about as big as our house. There was a pool table in the middle of it. A couple of black leather sofas and a television along the left side, a fireplace and French doors leading out to a balcony on the far side, a bar with stools and a refrigerator on the right side along with double doors which led into the bedroom. I could see myself living here for the rest of my life, except I’d have to get rid of Bertrand.

The bedroom was big, not as big as the other room, but still big. The bed had to be at least a king. Plenty of room for lots of boys. But, it was the mirrors that threw me off. The closets had mirrors. There was a mirror above the bed. There were mirrors on the walls.

But, it was the painting that stopped my heart. It was a portrait, sort of. The two boys, well, not really boys, but certainly not adults, were naked. Not nude, naked. There’s a difference. They were very much wrapped up in what they were doing and it wasn’t building model airplanes or picking raspberries. I couldn't see any genitals, but I knew they were there. That was as obvious as hell. I swallowed.

“You have orgies in here?” I asked. It certainly looked like a room where you’d want to have an orgy.

“No, oh the painting, that’s one of Walter’s. Do you like it?”

“Uncle Walter painted that?”

“Yes. Does it bother you?”

I heard the condescension in his voice. I’m a real queer, you’re only a boy, from the sticks, besides.

“No, I’m not used to seeing art like that.”

“If it bothers you too much, I might be able to find something more to your liking. Bambi, maybe.”

“Look, I like it, okay? I’ll jerk off looking at it the whole time I’m here. Okay? That’s what you want, right?”

Okay, I was a little mad, no a whole lot mad. This pompous ass, who was still cute, though, was making me mad.

He stared at me for a moment then slowly walked the few steps that separated us and brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers. He was smiling.

“Walter said you were queer, but I didn’t believe him. Your bedroom is this way.”

I followed him back out into the hallway and we headed toward the other end of the house.

“If you bring any friends to the house, they can use the television and pool table, but the other room will be locked. If you want to have a tryst, use your bedroom.”

“Where do I find friends around here?”

“I believe Walter is arranging that.”

My bedroom was a bedroom. The bed was probably a queen, snicker, snicker. And, there weren’t a lot of mirrors. It had its own bathroom which was about as big as my bedroom at home. The bathtub was almost big enough to swim in. The shower stall had room for four boys, not that I intended on having four boys in my shower, but there was room for them. The toilet was in its own little room. Everything was polished rock. A geologist’s dream bathroom, certainly not my dream bathroom.

The bedroom had two paintings, naked guys doing naked things to each other. There was a French door leading out to a small balcony, high enough to take care of business if I was so inclined, which I wasn’t, anymore.

“I like it, I guess,” I said. “Are all the paintings of naked guys?”

“Don’t you like nudes?”

“Oh, I like nudes, but those guys are naked.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose you’re right. Do you want something different?”

“No, if I don’t meet anyone, I can always jerk off looking at the paintings. Kind of like an in-home dirty magazine.”

“It’s meant to be art.”

**********

“Hi! I’m Brian.” He was a tad shorter than me with wavy, sun bleached brown hair barely touching his ears, rosy cheeks, a thickening of peach fuzz on his upper lip, a practiced smile, and hands that were too big for the rest of his body. He may have been cute when he was ten, but adolescence was tearing his good looks to shreds.

“I’m Geoff,” I said holding out my hand, which was ignored.

“I guess I’m supposed to hang out with you while you’re visiting sunny LA,” Brian said. He hadn’t made a move to come inside. Frankly, he looked bored. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, khakis, and brown penny loafers, definitely not my idea of hanging out attire, which was blue jeans, a t-shirt, and broken in black high-tops.

“Yeah, my uncle said you were coming by this morning. So, what do you have in mind?”

“Well, I guess we could go over to my place so I can dress down a bit.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

When Uncle Walter came home from a dinner engagement the previous evening he seemed really excited that he’d arranged to have a television star hang out with me during my stay.

“I don’t watch that much television,” I said. We were out by the pool. Bertrand brought us iced tea and disappeared.

“You haven’t seen ‘Treasure Island’?” Uncle Walter asked. His eyes sparkled in the late evening light.

“Oh, that kiddy show Sally watches. Yeah, I’ve seen it a couple times. So, my new friend is on that show?”

“Brian DeBree plays Jed.”

“Oh, the big kid with the weird smile. I always thought his named was pronounced Deb-ree.” I’d seen it a couple times when Sally needed watching. Built in babysitter has to watch what baby wants.

“Yeah, the smile,” Uncle Walter said. He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon seed. “Anyway, his agent owes me a favor. The kid is supposed to be nice away from the camera, a real down-home American kid.”

Brian was driving a suped-up ’57 yellow Chevy coupe that he drove like a tractor. We didn’t talk all the way to his house, which was down the hill from our place then left a little bit. Basically, he drove busy street to busy street, when a few side streets might have shortened the trip by a couple miles. His house was a family home, a three-bedroom rambler. I imagined there was a mother, father, Brian, a little brother, and maybe an older sister. There was a cocker spaniel inside. She looked old, tired, and worn out.

“I’ll be right back,” Brian said, leaving me in the foyer. There didn’t seem to be anyone else at home, which was confirmed in a few minutes when he came back without any clothes on. He went into the living room and was rummaging through a stack of magazines. There wasn’t a break in his tan, but his ass was flabby. It kind of hung from his hips like a heavy curtain. His dick on the other hand wasn’t anything to write home about, but definitely had a certain appeal, maybe too much appeal for me.

“You like it?” Brian asked, standing in front of me, his dick perking up. “Why don’t you suck it?”

“Sure, why not,” I said. I could’ve said no. I could’ve said I didn’t suck cock on a first date, but it had been a few days since Scott and I had spent some time together. I knelt down and got the silly thing going.

Then the phone rang.

“I’ve got to get that, it might be my agent,” Brian said, pulling his swollen dick out of my mouth. “Oh, come on, you can do it while I talk on the phone.”

I followed like the puppy dog I was. I had him in my mouth before he picked up the receiver.

“Hey, this is Brian … Oh, hi, yeah, haven’t talked in a while … No, been busy trying to get on that new Walter Johnson project … You are? … Well, his nephew is sucking my dick right now … Would I kid you? … No, a real pushover … Yeah, good tongue action … Why don’t you and your brother come over? … No, but I bet you can fuck him … No, he’s easy.”

I pulled off. I might have been a pushover, but I was not easy. And, who asked me if I wanted some stranger’s dick up my ass.

“Wait, I’ve got to go,” Brian said. “Something’s come up.”

I stood up and headed for the door.

“Hey, you’re not done,” Brian said.

“Yeah, I am. Call him back and offer your own ass. Fucker!”

I walked out the door and when I reached the sidewalk, turned right, which is the way I thought we’d come. After two blocks I came to a busy street and crossed at the light. I figured all I had to do was head west and uphill and I’d eventually come to a street I recognized from yesterday.

After walking for about a couple hours, or so, I came to a busier street. There was a payphone on the corner. Time to call Bertrand for a rescue. Luckily, I had my dime. My mother always told me, “Never leave the house without a dime in your pocket.” When in doubt, call.

“Johnson residence.”

“Bertrand? This is Geoff.”

“Is something wrong? Where are you?”

“Brian’s an asshole.”

“I could’ve told you that. Where are you?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big, busy street. Lots of cars. Uh, I’m looking at an Italian restaurant across the street. Mama something, pizza …”

“Is there a street sign?”

“Yeah, Santa Monica Boulevard and King’s Road.”

“There’s a small café, I think it’s behind you on your left?”

Glancing to my left there was a blue neon sign. “Yeah, Jimmy’s Place.”

“Go in there and I’ll be down within the hour. You know, you could’ve picked a better part of town to get lost in.”

“But, I prefer pizza.”

“Don’t go in the pizza place. You’re much too young for Mama’s.”

“Serve liquor, huh?”

“Yes, but it’s not the liquor. Just go in Jimmy’s.”

He hung up. I wanted a pizza, but I guess I’d have to settle for a hamburger. Jimmy’s was a diner out of the Thirties or Forties, lots of chrome with booths across the front under the smoke stained window facing the street. There was a counter with black upholstered, chrome trimmed stools. There was a sour smell of old grease. All the booths were full. The stools at the counter were empty, so I sat at the one next to the cash register.

Ever have that feeling all eyes were looking at you? That’s what I felt like as soon as I sat down. I glanced around and there were only men in the place, except for the waitress who was walking over to me.

“Got any money, honey?” she asked. Only, up close she looked more like a he. She reminded me of Darling who definitely didn’t do a very good job of looking like a she.

“Yeah, I’d like ah, um …”

“Here, look at a menu,” she said, pulling a piece of paper from behind the salt, pepper, and sugar holder on the other side of the counter. Her name tag had “Sugar” engraved on it. She was wearing a loose, frilly top like Darling always wore, the kind that emphasized nothing, especially the lack of breasts. Her blond wig reminded me of Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot. There was too much makeup, but there wasn’t a hint of beard. Actually, there wasn’t a hint of facial hair, smooth as a baby’s bottom. The hands, though, were a dead giveaway. Those were guy hands, strong, muscular, and probably used to jacking off on a regular basis.

“You’re staring,” Sugar said.

“Oh, sorry, you remind me of someone back home,” I said, trying to figure out whether a BLT with chips sounded better than a Hamburger Deluxe with fries. They didn’t have Coke, it was the other shit. I’d have to settle for Seven-up.

“And, where is home?”

“Up north of Seattle, I’ll have the, uh, Hot Roast Beef Sandwich.”

“No, you’re more the Grilled Cheese type.” There were a couple chuckles from the booths. “You’re staring, again. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it wasn’t polite to stare?”

“Yeah, but you look a lot like Darling. I just never believed …”

She looked like she’d seen a knifing out on the sidewalk behind me. “You know Darling?”

“Yeah, I said that.” Looking behind me, but there wasn’t anyone outside.

“Wait a minute, let me get a good look at you.” She came out from behind the counter and said, “Stand up, kid. Go on, get off the stool and let me look at you.”

I did as she asked, even turned around because she probably needed to see my ass for confirmation of my identity. Knowing Darling, she definitely needed to see my ass.

When I turned back to face her, she had the biggest smile I’d ever seen. “Well, I’ll be damned! You’re Geoff, aren’t you?”

Sitting back down on the stool, I said. “Yeah, you know Darling?”

“We’re practically sisters! But what are you doing here? You’re not on one of your crazy binges, again?”

I shrugged a little. “No, I’m down here visiting my uncle and kind of got lost, so his assistant told me to come in here and he’d come and get me. What was weird was he said I was too young for the pizza place across the street.”

“Oh, honey, you’re definitely too young for pizza.” There were some more chuckles from the booths. “So, honey, what was this assistant’s name? Is she cute?”

“Bertrand. Am I missing something here?”

“Bertie! Then you’re the nephew we’ve all been hearing about.” She turned toward the kitchen and yelled, “Jimmy! Set the kid up with today’s special.” Turning back to me she smiled softy. Her hand lightly touched my wrist. “So, Geoff Johnson how do you like sunny LA?”

“Not too well, so far,” I said, frowning. “My uncle set me up with a kid to hang out with, but he turned out to be a jerk.”

“Your uncle is a producer. He probably called Casting to see if they had an extra kid hanging around.”

“He called the kid’s agent. Something about a favor.”

“This town runs on favors, honey. You want to hang with some real kids? I’ve got a couple nephews myself that might be interested in getting to know you.”

“That’d be great.”

Bertrand walked in and everyone stopped talking. He walked straight up to Sugar and they did that fake kissy-and-huggy thing with their faces. I couldn’t help noticing Sugar’s hand went right into Bertrand’s crotch. I was beginning to think this might be some kind of everyday queer hangout or something. I glanced out the window wondering what was going on over at the pizza place and why I was too young to be there.

My meal showed up. Sugar and Bertrand were talking, so I started eating. In between bites, I started glancing around the place, but I couldn’t tell if any of the other patrons were queers. I heard a few slightly effeminate voices, but that didn’t confirm anything, either. But, Sugar and Bertrand were certainly queer. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, a hand crossed my ass. I turned and the guy smiled. It wasn’t a leer, but there was a tinge of lust in the eyes. I looked over at Sugar and Bertrand.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Sugar asked, taking the man’s money. I felt his friend walk behind me. He didn’t touch me, but I definitely felt him.

“Do you have a booth I can sit in? I feel like a chicken on display at the butcher’s.”

I know my face turned red when everyone, including the cook, started laughing, but what was the joke? I hated not knowing what I said that was so funny. They just kept laughing.

When the laughter finally died down to an occasional giggle, Sugar helped me move to the empty booth. She smiled, “You’re so young and so cute!”

But I still didn’t know what was so funny. I was going to have to ask Bertrand what the joke was because suddenly the subdued atmosphere came alive. It was like I’d turned a switch and the movie started.