Novel Excerpt by Brian Harrison - 3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Zone

The Zone sat on the perimeter of West Hollywood, both in a literal and figurative sense. It was an anonymous structure by day, its true nature obscured by the glaring placards of the obtusely modernistic shopping malls that surrounded it. In the night however, it came to life attracting my brethren and I who swarmed to crash against its dance floors until the tedium or horror of our daily lives relented and passed away. We who comprised the Zones' patrons had yet to be distanced from the mainstream of "gay" culture as it would eventually makes its plea for normalized status, pandering to the theocratic hypocrisy of middle America, preferring, it seemed, to be known as a gathering of harmless pofs with a Streisand persuasion rather than the lost flotsam/jetsam of misplaced children or the ragged working-class band of merry cock-suckers and glory-hole sodomites of which I was proudly a member.

The Zone was approximately 248 miles from the little desert hovel from which I had escaped to come here (the name of which will remain unmentioned, not only for its irrelevance to this story but for my utter disdain for its pathetic little pretensions), but it might as well have been light years away. In real-time the drive was about 4 hours, 3 if I was at the wheel and especially considering what I was leaving behind. But it was really a lifetime of difference; a lifetime away from the fumbling drunken gropes and sweaty backseat blowjobs and "don't fucking tell any of your fag friends, dude"; a lifetime away from the closeted football heroes that lined the halls of failed aspirations, aged abused egomaniacs casting fleeting glances at what might have been, while hustling insurance and cocaine, huffing poppers and salivating against the crotch of another miscast young hopeful.

My memories dispersed into nothing during the fraction of time between the sonic humps of sound that plumed out across the empty street in front of the Zone. It was a heartbeat; that drum beat. Its relentless pulse engorged me as I ascended the steps to the entrance, synchronizing my own heart to the rhythm of the night. The moment I walked into the door I was transported into another realm, a Neverland where lost boys were easily found. They were fantasy characters under the shifting disco lights that sparkled off the face of the great mirrored-ball floating in the center of the room like The Eye of God, dispersing Its omnipotent beams in thin rays that entranced, obscuring the chipped counter of the bar, the worn stains on the carpet and the sweaty musk that lied beneath the perfumed façade of imaginary debutants.

I was noticeably dark in that darkened hall, for it was, and still is, all too common for my brethren to fall victim to the occasional societal normalcy. After all, are we not men? The 15% policy was observed as casually here as it was in the pseudo-posh restaurants that lined the vacant corridors of La Cienega Boulevard. But the provocation of Leif Garret's image on my shirt pronounced me blatantly "fag" and I passed with color.

There was a transformation that occurred during those first steps into the club. It was like that first hit of a cigarette, or the first line of blow. It was an "ahhh... that's the spot" sense of relief and a feeling of being someplace where you belonged. Home, perhaps.

Fat Penny was the first face I saw that night, propped atop the bumping, grinding throng. Her luminous face-paint was already running from exertion; puffy cheeks, glittered eyes and a crass of shock dyed blonde against the backdrop of shifting purple/blue/red lights. She was being propelled along by the gaggle of little queens who used her as a foil for their insecurities: Kim, Little Paul and Misha; valley boys before the Zone; now street girls, the Saintress's youngest daughters.

Penny's eyes rolled as if to say, ‘I've got something to tell you if I can get these little fags off of me!' But her loyal entourage was insisting that she attend to their needs, chattering like nestlings competing for mother's nourishments. I flashed a quick "later" with my hand and worked my way through the crowd and dashed up the spiraling staircase to the second floor balcony, where the trolls gathered to watch writhing young bodies flex and gyrate under the all encompassing Eye.

I gazed over the balcony to see that almost everyone was already there. Carlo was already shirtless and twisting his muscular brown torso in rhythmic acrobatics for the benefit of the middle-aged loners already gathered along the balcony. They were doing their best to pretend they didn't really notice. Michael Angelo and Tinker were already hustling a frantic ‘pas de deux', sweeping the corner of the room clear of casual dancers, marking the territory for the serious practitioners, who had yet to arrive. Nick the Dick was already making his rounds, an irritating smirk on his scared face. Security was not just a job for him; it was a calling. He was a wife beater in the making and before the night was through he was sure knock some drunken dancer off a stand or drag some misbehaving faggot out of the club and toss them into the street just for the fuck of it. No one knew why The Greek hadn't fired the asshole and no one cares whatever became of him.

The Greek himself was noticeably absent. He was usually propped at the entrance, posing a cool stoicism; a look that said, "this is my place, so don't piss me off." But I saw him nowhere.

"Leon?"

Oh shit. Another voice I would've rather not heard. I was certain that this was what Fat Penny wanted to warn me about.

I turn with a look of pleased surprise. The surprise, at least, was genuine.

"Tony! Hey babe," I said with what I hoped was convincing enthusiasm. He responded appropriately enough, pressing against me with an exaggerated sigh. The chemically induced pheromone muck in his hair assaulted my face and nose.

"You driving tonight?" he asked which properly interpreted meant "do you have the car" which really meant "let's go fuck in the car," which was actually "let's go fuck in the car someplace where we might get caught."

I was blessedly unblessed with a car that night.

Tony didn't know that though. He was under the impression that I owned an oversized 65 Lincoln Continental. A person of average wit and intelligence having met me, perhaps at my angry little apartment, and seeing how I lived, would have immediately realized the improbability of me owning such a vehicle. But Tony was not of possessed of an average anything.

I met him while driving the car in question, which had been lent to me in exchange for picking up some contraband, the nature of which will remain unmentioned. But my mission did take me to Pookies and that is where I saw Tony that night. We'd exchanged prerequisite niceties after which I got him high and then fucked him quite heatedly in the back seat of the car. He had never forgotten that particular fuck, though it was perhaps not the fuck itself that made such an impression, as much as it was the place and circumstance. Apparently, it was during this indiscreet romp, parked right outside of one of the more homophobic establishments along Sunset Blvd, that Tony realized how much he liked public forays and this realization caused him to confuse me for his soul-mate.

Tony couldn't be squeezed into any archetype; a genum unfamilia, unaccounted for in any of the mainstream fag-watching manuals. Unfortunately it took a while before one realized what a complete lunatic he was; or maybe it just took me that long.

"No, I don't have the car," I explained quickly and added " tonight," sure that I would eventually benefit from this continued deception, as well as his dangerous obsession. His exit was as close to instant as common courtesy would allow.

I had other things to do anyway.

The patio needs no explanation. It was patio. It protruded from the side of the building, separated from the gas station on the corner by a stucco wall sufficient to keep economically challenged kids from crawling over, but not so high to keep fresh air, or what passes for fresh air in Los Angeles, from slipping in the space between the wall and the awning. Sparking lights tossed in the row of ferns against the wall, and amber spots snuggled behind vases of fake plants, created a convincing air of class that allowed many of us at least the illusion of an elegance that escaped our everyday lives.

The place was not yet crowded but sufficiently populated to leave few seating options. Excited voices were raised to compete with the booming heartbeat of the club. Kip was there, stretched out on a bench, hiding the THC induced glaze in his eyes behind dark glasses and disconnected laughter as he talked to a plaid-clad macho boy whose blue-jeaned legs were propped on one of the flower pots. A couple of young queens were talking loudly, practicing what they thought were new insults on one another, much to the annoyance of everyone around them, who'd heard all the lines before.

I nodded to Kip and he broke from his conversation long enough to blow me a kiss. I returned the gesture and wondered if Steven had seen who he was with. Then I saw Allen, The Untouchable. His token girlfriend; vacantly blonde and glittering, was planted firmly on his arm while he pretended to stretch a yawn, flexing his sun-buffed torso and basking in the adoration of passing queens. I knew that his closet would get stuffy eventually, and I only hoped to be in the vicinity when the door creaked open.

Stephen spotted me finally and rushed through the gathering crowd, leaving a mustached blue-jean boy mouth agape in mid-sentence.

"Joint," he whispered, gleaming a toothy David Johanson-esque smile underneath a gaze of mock-desperation. I surrendered the requested contraband quickly and he shuffled me off to the corner of the patio to cover him while he puffed it to life. He pulled deeply and then sighed, releasing a plume of smoke that drifted and settled over the crowd who immediately began searching for the source of the aroma.

"Fucking rich, Steven," I hissed. "Now the whole world knows." He shrugged a typically unconcerned response and stubbed the joint out for later.

"That little sissy is here tonight," he said, tucking his stash in one of the assortment of superfluous pockets that lined his pants.

"Yeah, Tony, Fuck. I know. I should'a never done that."

Steve grimaced a disdainful glare at me. "Tony? You mean Ms Platinum paste?" His face twisted as if I'd just picked my nose. "Jesus, Leon! You'll fuck anything." He recovered sufficiently from his disgust and corrected my assumption. "I meant that little Bambi looking thing you've been fucking."

He meant Vince. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah, shit," he seconded, essentially changing the substance of my exclamation. "If you bring that doe-eyed freak to the apartment, I swear I'll kill it," he reminded me. Again. Having a general distaste for anything soft and fluffy, Steven had been proclaiming some impending doom about most of my pursuits ever since we'd moved in together a year before. It was all posturing. Maintaining that baleful punk image wasn't easy for someone as slight as Steven, but his Johnny Rotten façade served him well. In spite of his repeated warnings, he usually wound up getting drunk and grandstanding for my dates until I managed to pull them into my lair. I had a feeling though that he might be serious this time.

There was something that irritated Steven about Vince more than the others, and I felt he really wasn't being fair. But then again, neither was I.

I was spared more of Steven's tirade by the appearance of a tall stoic figure that moved slowly onto the patio, draped in white slacks and a polo shirt, casual 70's lounge attire. His dark Mediterranean eyes passed quickly over the throng to alight on Steven. That's all it took from The Greek. Steven was a sudden flurry of activity, picking up empty glasses, dumping ashtrays and dashing for the sliding doors to fill orders that had probably already been forgotten by those who made them. But the Greek had apparently been unconcerned about Steven's untimely break. As I watched, he beckoned Steven over, and his face was obscured behind my roomies spiky Mohawk, as he whispered something urgent, his eyes scanning the crowd as he talked. I'd never seen the Greek anxious about anything before and was quite absorbed in pondering the reasons for this when a soft voice beckoned me.

"Hey, Leon," it said in just above a whisper. Oh Shit.

"Hi Vince," I responded, feeling the warmth of him as he saddled up next to me. His breath was still deep from dancing, the faint tang of sweat and poppers rose from him and I stirred reluctantly as he cupped my arm in his, planted his head of curly red locks on my shoulder and hummed deep in his chest. Vince was the archetype of cuddly boys; soft spoken with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose, his cherubic features punctuated by the ‘doe-eyes' that caused Steven so much ire and left every one else feigning conversations with me until the moment they could ask, with plausible nonchalance, "so, who's your friend?" Ordinarily his possessive embrace would have been quite all right by me. I had, as a matter of fact, encouraged it for quite some time. But on that night I had other plans.

"Soooo..." I started, realizing I had not bothered to prepare a way out of this completely predictable encounter. It was just before my ‘soooo' had exhausted that I admitted to myself I had no idea what to say next.

"You going to Cokie's party?" Vince asked quickly, perhaps sensing that I was about to opt out of something that his embrace of my arm had inferred. The complexities of this situation were intensifying. Tony was here, probably going to Cokie's, unless of course he found someone who wanted to risk their life by fucking outside of some metal-head club. Vince was probably going to go because he was more than likely under the assumption that I'd be there which was not entirely off base. It was likely I'd go, yes, but I had only one intention in going and that intention was Gil.

Oh... I haven't mentioned Gil, have I? This would be a good time to introduce a character that plays such a critical role in the tale.

I can only express Gil in abstract terms. Admittedly those terms have to do with the baser elements of human relations, which is of course what was so great about being 18 and I cannot sincerely apologize for my obsession with the beauty of the male form, for it is at the crux of the tale.

First let me explain that Gil was JB's boy.

Oh yeah. JB. Excuse my poor adherence to chronology, but JB must also be explained. Not so much for his role in the story, but for the critical element of his absence.

First off, I have no idea what the initials JB stood for. He was a 35ish, balding, be-speckled guy who had all the allure of a CPA and always seemed to be wearing Hollywood High sweatshirt and baseball cap, probably under the misconception that it made him look young. He came to the club once a week or so, whispered to the Greek for a bit before he retired to the poolroom for the remainder of the evening; only coming to the dance floor at the close of the night to retrieve whatever boy-toy was his fancy. Gil was... or had been, JB's fancy for at least the two months since I had first seen the boy glide onto the dance floor with his disconnected pout; snarl an unguarded disapproval of a drunk who'd bumped him, then proceed to bop the most noncommittal knee bending dance I had ever seen. He was obviously adrift on a sea of his own self-importance. I fell in love instantly.

OK... I admit it wasn't love; rather it was an annoyed infatuation that haunted me as I gazed on the blatantly self-consumed expressions that crossed the androgynous features peeking out from beneath his feathered, brunette mane. It was an ‘annoyed' sensation in that I was already certain that anyone who could not afford to take him to the best parties, dress him in the latest fashions, dine him at the trendiest restaurants or immediately provide him with whatever casual amusements he desired, would be duly ignored. Anyone like me, for example.

"Hey!" Vince pinched me to punctuate his exclamation.

"I'm not sure if I'm going," was all I could manage in response. I was considering outlining a series of plausible falsehoods in order assure Vince that my indecision had nothing to do with any lack of attraction for him, when I noticed the crowd tittering and a shocked expression that jumped from face to face as it slowly made its way toward us.

"Indecision is a sign of insecurity," Vince explained in a sincere tone. "Are you insecure about something?" Vince's sudden and uncharacteristic psychoanalytic inquiry only distracted me temporarily from my growing curiosity about a sudden dismay that seemed to be bubbling about me.

"What the hell is going on?" I muttered to myself as Fat Penny dashed onto the patio, her face glowing with rouge and that look that said she was in sole possession of the tea for this particular party. She quickly dished whatever information she harbored to Kip, who looked surprised and, in turn, whispered something to the muscle boy with whom he'd been cuddling.

"Well, let's dance until you make up your mind." Vince suggested, pulling on my arm. I hesitated and pulled him onto my lap as Penny made her way to Allen, cupping her mouth to his ear in a posture of imparting some privileged confidence. Then she spotted me and rushed to my side with a walk that was as much a mockery of stealth as her breathy stage whisper.

"Girlfriend! JB is dead!"

There was a moment of stillness. Vince's sharp intake of breath seemed genuine enough, but I could make no reaction. My mind was doing a strange balancing act. I was hovering over an instant abyss of numerous incalculable potentialities, and at least one improbability. On one side I saw Gil, draped in the fabric of fantasies, whispering some erotic enticement; inaudible, but having the general implication of "nobody here but me and you."

On the other side I saw a more likely possibility, and that had something to do with not ever seeing Gil again; that perhaps he too may have been taken in whatever unfortunate circumstance that had led to JB's demise.

"Don't call me girlfriend, girlfriend" is what somehow escaped me instead of the appropriate inquiry as to the nature of JB's death. Penny ignored my objection and scooted Vince over to sit by me.

"They said someone shot him! The police are all over his place, honey!" Penny stopped and glanced around as if to make sure this was a private conversation, craning her head in a manner that would surely alert everyone in the vicinity that this was something they should overhear. They'd found him in his car, she'd explained, in the parking lot of a building whose location had not been clearly elaborated. He was bullet ridden and dead for hours. "What is goin on here, girlfriend?" she had finally concluded.

"Gary just died last month!" Vince reminded us quite unnecessarily, getting into the spirit of things.

"That's what I mean!" Penny hissed and cocked a suggestive eyebrow. I had no idea what the suggestion might be.

"And what about his boyfriend?" Vince whispered.

"You mean Gil?" Penny asked.

I didn't say anything. I feigned innocence, letting my gaze jump back and forth between them to suggest that this was their area of expertise.

"Yeah," Vince said, "Did he... I mean was he ..."

Penny's eyes widened. This was apparently a train of thought that could be exploited to her advantage, at least until the time Gil showed up unharmed, with a more accurate version of what had happened to JB, if anything.

She was gone quickly, heaving her heavy frame around the patio to continue sharing her privileged intelligence one ear at a time, and perhaps to hypothesize on this new alarming question about Gil.

I could feel Vince's eyes on me. I could feel his heart beating against me. I knew he was wondering what I was thinking.

JB was a player. He dealt coke. He ran with people who killed if they found out they were getting stiffed. I'd always felt he was in over his head and apparently, if the story was true, I was right. But none of it really mattered. JB wasn't a friend of mine and should I attempt to speak with Gil, he'd probably misunderstand my approach and toss me some spare change.

A backdrop of drums suddenly pulsed into a rapid tempo. A thumping synth-bass line came alive, underscoring Donna Summer's expose on the ‘Sunset People' and how they could be seen "doing it right, night after night"'

Grateful for the distraction, I grabbed Vince's hand and we rushed into the perfumed warmth of the club. On the dance floor we pressed into the anonymity of the throng and took our place under the shifting lights from the glowing Eye of God. At home with our brethren, in this place where we observed our sacred rituals, we began to dance. Because that's all we ever did.