Damon Knight: Orbit 17

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” He grinned and took another bite.

“You’re keeping the entire AMA at bay.”

He laughed; partly chewed apple dribbled down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. I kept my eyes on the street. “Why don’t you eat soft apples? They’re quiet.”

“I like hard ones.”

We stopped a car with only one taillight and gave the guy a warning ticket.

Then the sun was coming up. It was hitting the tops of the Hollywood Hills and illuminating the Hollywood sign. It looked decent from this far away. You couldn’t tell it was made of rotting timbers and sagging sheet metal clanging in the wind. From here you couldn’t see the obscenities scrawled on it.

We went back to the station, reported, and then into the locker room. The rest of the graveyard shift were wandering in, showering, and changing out of their uniforms. Cunningham has the locker next to mine. He had been on the Pansy Patrol and was wearing a shirt unbuttoned to the waist, no underwear, and pants so tight you could count every hair on his ass.

Wharton, one of the police psychiatrists, was leaning against the lockers talking to him. Doc was on his favorite theme again. He was telling Cunningham why he, Cunningham, was so successful on the Pansy Patrol. The fags recognized a kindred spirit; the fags always knew one of their own kind; if Cunningham would only stop fooling himself, just stop deluding himself that he was straight, just know himself, just start living a conscious life, he would be a happier, more fulfilled person.

I had been on the Pansy Patrol with Cunningham a few times and had seen him operate. I wasn’t completely sure Doc was wrong. Cunningham was peeling off the tight pants and I watched in fascination, although I’d seen it before, as the sizable bulge in his crotch stayed with the pants.

Poor Cunningham.

He was standing there naked with a slight smile on his face, putting the pants neatly on a hanger, listening to Doc’s clarinet voice. He looked a lot like the cop on “Adam-12,” whatever his name is, the kid. The boys had even called him “Adam-12” for a while until they got tired of it. I couldn’t keep from comparing him to the guy I had seen at the wreck, but Cunningham didn’t compare at all. He was just a good-looking kid with a slim muscular body, and not much equipment. But it didn’t seem to bother him. He always grinned and said it wasn’t size that counted, it was technique.

I took off my own pants and looked at myself. I wasn’t as young or as good-looking as Cunningham, but I did all right on the Pansy Patrol. I was bulkier and more heavily muscled and hairier; I guess I appealed to the rough trade crowd. I was never very comfortable without underwear, and thank God I didn’t have to wear padding.

Wharton finished his catalogue of Cunningham’s emotional failings. Cunningham looked at me and winked. “I don’t really know anything about it, Doc, but maybe the reason I’m not interested in sex with another man is because I’m just not interested in sex with another man.”

Doc’s lips got a little tight and his face was slightly flushed. I knew Cunningham had been reading Kingsley Amis again and had probably maneuvered Doc into the whole conversation—and Doc was eminently maneuverable. I’d heard most of it before, so I got a towel and started for the showers. Cunningham followed me and Wharton followed him.

“You’re right, Cunningham, you don’t know anything about it!”

I turned on the water and began soaping. Cunningham got next to me and Doc stood at the door, still talking. Cunningham looked at me and grinned and said loudly, “Sorry, Doc, I can’t hear you with the water running!”

There were about ten other guys in the shower, grinning at each other. Cunningham leaned toward me. “Hey, Rankin, you notice how Doc always manages to look in the showers?”

I shrugged.

“According to him everyone is either a fag or a closet queen.”

“What about himself?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Getting him to talk about himself is like catching fairies in a saucepan.”

Carnehan came in, pitching an apple core into the wastebasket. I could see why he had never been on the Pansy Patrol. Then ... I don’t know why I thought of it, but the thought crossed my mind. I wondered what the guy at the wreck looked like naked.

I left the station and got into my five-year-old Dart. It looked like a nice day. There was enough wind from the ocean to clear away the smog. Of course, the wind was packing it into the San Gabriel Valley, but that was their problem, not mine. I went straight home and went to bed.

I was scrambling some eggs and watching The Price Is Right when the phone rang. They were doing the one where the screaming dame has to zero in on the prices of two objects within thirty seconds. When she names a price, the MC says “Higher” or “Lower.” This keeps up until she guesses the price. You can get it in ten guesses maximum. She started at a hundred on a color TV and worked up ten dollars at a time.

“Hundred and ten!”

“Higher!”

“Hundred and twenty!”

“Higher!”

“Hundred and thirty!”

“Higher!”

She got to three-seventy before her time ran out. Dumb dame!

It was Camehan on the phone. “Hey, Lou, Margaret wants you to come over for dinner tonight.”

“Hell, Camehan. I wish you’d said something this morning. I’ve already made other plans.” You stupid jerk! Don’t you ever wonder why your wife is always inviting me to dinner?

“Got a heavy date, Lou?”

“Something like that. Some other time, Camehan.” No other time, Camehan. Margaret’s a pretty good-looking dame for her age, but not good enough to take chances with. You didn’t even notice how her hand stayed under the table all through dinner last time.

“Margaret says how about Wednesday?”

“I’ll have to let you know later.” And you never even had a suspicion about what goes on after you fall asleep in front of the TV, Camehan. If you ever found out . . .

“Okay, Lou. I’ll remind you Tuesday night.”

“You do that.” And I’ll have a good excuse ready. Not that I give a good goddamn if you do find out, but you could make a stink at the department. I don’t want to lose my job, Camehan. I like being a cop.

“ ’Bye, Lou. See you later.”

“ ’Bye, Camehan.” I hung up the phone in time to see a granny-lady have an orgasm over winning a dune buggy.

I usually eat dinner about eight o’clock at David’s. I know it’s a fag hangout but the food’s good and, since I let it be known I was a cop, the service is even better. I spotted him as I was leaving about nine. He went into the gay bar next to David’s. It was called Goliath’s, of course. I only glimpsed him from behind but I was sure of the red hair and body. Wouldn’t you know he’d be a queer!

I paid my dollar and a quarter cover charge and went through the black curtains after him. I don't know what I was planning to do, but I hadn’t been able to get him out of my mind. I stood for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and my ears to the plaster-cracking music. There were three small stages with naked boys dancing on them, wiggling their little round butts for all they were worth. There were also five screens showing movies of naked boys doing everything it’s physically possible for naked boys to do and a few things I would have thought impossible before I joined the force.

Then there were the customers. A few were at the bar and a few were scattered around but most of them were packed like Vienna sausages against one wall. There was plenty of room and no need for the press of bodies—no need but one, and the busy hands told what that was. A few watched the movies but mostly they watched each other. One of the dancers was waving around a hardon and was getting some attention but not much. A couple of dykes at the bar watched him. I guess this is the only chance they have to see one.