Novel Excerpt by Brian Harrison - 2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The Saintress And Father Night

My descent into Hollywood general was quick and unnoticed by me. I was lost on the wave of an herbally enhanced introspection when I realized that the corner of Highland was already at my feet. I was not alone there. My brethren whisked by me occasionally, caught up in the currents of suburban thrill seekers and misinformed tourists; the former glittered in comically loud attire that someone must have told them was suitable for the Hollywood streets; the latter, easily spotted, pressed tightly around their fascinated children, confused and frustrated as they attempted to photograph the bird-shit encrusted names of forgotten starlets on the sidewalk.

We noticed each other, my brethren and I, but only in glances. We were still in neutral territory. Weekend mercenaries, derelict surfers, junkies and misplaced queens, lined up in front of the Gold Roast, a seedy little restaurant, world famous for its off-menu delights. These boys feared no reprisals from the phobes, this was after all neutral territory, but no overt overtures were tolerated.

Such concerns faded quickly as I strode along Highland, over the threshold of Sunset, and onto the sanctuary of Santa Monica Blvd, matron of rejected youths and the men that seek their favors.

The Saintress lies still and patient, ever tolerant of the shiny metal boxes callously sliding over her body. Her eyes wink at them as they pass along her smooth black surface; green first, in welcome, then an amber whisper that they should pause to consider their surroundings. Occasionally she stops them, glaring a stern red reproach. "Do not ignore my beautiful children," she says with this look, "they are here for you." Their father, The Night; aged, calloused patriarch that he is, stands above, clenching the city in his fists, wringing from it his savage nourishments. Invisible in his black cloak, he is indifferent to the suffering of his little ones. They stand at bus stops, these offspring; gather in the dark pockets of alleys and anonymous motels, restaurants; the benches and bathrooms of darkened parks that lie along her limbs. Her blood flows through these tributaries, which branch off into the glittering depths of West Hollywood; it feeds them, as they feed those who come to drink of her.

I was flowing with her heartbeat then, sweetly buzzed and zipping up after a piss; moving out of the mouth of an alley. It was the same alley in which this tale would conclude decades later... but I was not aware of these things. They had yet to occur. Across that expanse of time a gust of laughter on the breeze and distant sirens would compete with the thick groan of the Blvd to remind me of this moment.

The groan was always there, and the sirens did not concern me, yet... so I did not acknowledge them. Peanuts and Meagan, however, were the source of the laughter, and they immediately caught my enhanced attention.

‘The Sisters' by nom de rue, they strode along the sidewalk in that quick confident gay-boy gait, an intentional and effective exaggeration; chins high, undaunted by the potential jeers of passersby, faces full of that androgynous beauty that phobes love to hate. They were clad in a teenage sexuality that makes older men sneak a guilty second look; Madonna vogue in Corey Haim drag, torn tank-tops; trim white asses pressed into ragged revealing jeans that no one can ignore. They made no affectation of femininity, however. These were all-American boys, engaged in the most capitalistic of pursuits. They shot anticipatory glances at cars that slowed as they passed.

On the boulevard, no one rides for free.

"Hey girls," I said.

Peanuts pretended to not hear me. Meagan, in his little-sister innocence, smiled and ran over to plant a kiss on my cheek.

"Mmmm," I hummed. "Don't stop now."

Peanuts finally stopped and turned to fix me with an impatient, ‘this is business' glare.

"Do you have a joint you can spare," Meagan inquired using his best sweet 16 pose. I rolled my eyes and pointed out that such manipulations were unnecessary. Then I slipped into the shadows and ripped a small piece of the baggie loose, filled it with enough for a puff and handed it to Meagan. He snatched it and somehow managed to stuff it in the pocket of those too-tight pants.

Big sister was standing at the curb, arms crossed, getting more impatient with each potential customer that passed. Meagan acknowledged him with an apologetic glance and then his little hand rolled up my thigh to squeeze a blatant invitation. "Are you going to Cokie's party?" he asked with a wink.

"I think I might come," I replied, making the pun a little more obvious for Meagan's sake. "Where?"

"The Westerner. Old Toad knows the room," he replied quickly and then squeezed my growing fascination once more before he was whisked away by another impatient grunt from Peanuts. "Tony is gonna be there!" he teased over his shoulder as he sauntered away.

"Too Tall?" I asked urgently, hoping for the lesser evil of the two Tonies.

Meagan clucked his tongue to let me know my fears were well founded, and then ran to catch up with Peanuts. The Sisters moved along the street quickly, fading into the warm motherly hue of the matron's streetlights.

Shit, I thought. Tony. One of a series of regrettable indiscretions. But I didn't want to think about that. I let the two get far enough ahead that I wouldn't interfere with their business, and then continued making my way to the Zone.

I passed The Saddle and The Strap, and numerous innocuous leather clubs wherein mustached body clones were already sweating their way into their first of many weekend orgasms. I passed past Cukoo's, where tattooed, Harley riding bull-dykes clustered at the bar, easily outdoing their male counterparts in obnoxiousness; then the Corral, a restaurant in psuedo western motif, where all the aged, obese trolls gathered to watch the boys pass by and rant about how tacky this one is, and how ‘that one gave me lice' and 'he has the fucking clap, don't you know'.

I slowed as I neared Pookie's, a dank little fast food diner where the working boys ended their shifts, shared stories about tricks and fueled up on perquisite chemicals before heading to the clubs. This place beckoned me and I slowed, eyeing the boys gathered under the winking neon lights. The pretty ones, the dangerous ones, the macho and the queens; all huddled together against the night for warmth and camaraderie. Some knew me vaguely, others intimately. They nodded their heads or looked away depending on the nature of their recollection. One of them, a Spanish boy standing outside of the throng, rolled his eyes and looked away when I glanced at him. The disdainful reaction heated my imagination and caused me to consider a brief detour. But I moved on when he wouldn't acknowledge my lingering gaze. I'd see him again.

As I walked, a few passing johns mistook me for merchandise, but I successfully ignored them and stepped up the pace. Flattered for sure, but no thanks. I wasn't in the mood to flop meat on some flabby-

"Hey, Leon."

It was one of the last voices I had wanted to hear. I cursed under my breath and turned, smiling, wishing that there were someway to pretend I hadn't heard him.

"Cowboy," I said, pretending to be pleasantly surprised "What's up?" Please don't ask for any fucking money, I thought.

"Heyyyy..." he said, nodding his head, a goofy grin of missing teeth plastered on his constantly dumbfounded expression. "Got a couple of bucks?"

Godammit. "Yeah sure Cowboy." I yanked a couple of singles out of my wallet and relinquished them to his grubby little hands. Please don't ask for any dope.

"Thanks," he smiled and crammed the bills into the dirty pocket of a pair of jeans he must have been wearing for the last year... at least. I felt a wave of sympathy and disgust at once. He looked up suddenly, as if he just remembered something important. "Hey! Got any-"

"So what ya been up to?" I interrupted conversationally. He was all that was left of a local celebrity. Before my time... a decade gone; raking in $1000 tricks back then, renting party rooms a week at a time. A pretty boy, gone man, gone insane. No more party nights for this one. Icarus descended, drowned in a sea of cocaine and broken promises.

Cowboy pondered my question for a moment. "I got that degree finally," he said, running a hand through greasy black strands that fell into his weathered face. "I'm officially a doctor now... and I can do heart surgery... but I gotta get my card or something..." he trailed off then, apparently not remembering how the fantasy was supposed to go.

Poor insane creature, I thought. "Congratulations, man," is what I said though. "I gotta go. Get something to eat with that!" I yelled over my shoulder as I beat a quick, guilty retreat. He belonged to the Saintress now. She had played her part in his descent and will take care of whatever time he has left. When there is nowhere else to go, when no one else wants him; when all the best days are yesterdays and even those have been revealed as wanting, She will wrap him in her asphalt embrace and rock him gently to sleep. He is not the first... and will not be the last.

But I forgot these uncomfortable truths as I turned down La Cienega walking quickly past the closed imported rug dealerships and overpriced knick knack shops; hearing those first distant drumbeats echo off the storefronts; the thumping tribal anthems of the nights troubled children.

What sweet music they make.