T. Boyle - Budding Prospects

“Pick your hole,” he said, handing me a ticket stub.

“What’s this?” I said.

“This place is hetero, right?” Gesh’s voice was slow. He was already standing before the wall, fumbling with his zipper.

No one answered him.

“The ticket goes in the hole, pal,” Tom-&-Jerry said. And then his face changed expression for the first time, the hint of a grin lifting his lip a millimeter or two. “Like at the movies.”

I moved to the far end of the wall, feeling foolish, feeling ashamed and naked, feeling stoned. The hole was neatly cut, edges smoothed, but it was encircled by a corona of dirt and some sad joker had scrawled Abandon hope, all ye who enter here just above it. What is lust? I thought, dropping the ticket into the aperture. What is flesh? What is mind? I unfastened my zipper, found that I had an erection, and penetrated the wall. Gesh was laughing, Rudy concentrating. Beside me, pressed to the wall like a penitent, Raul moaned softly, his features bloated with rapture. I could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, sadness crushed me like a fist and someone — something — took hold of me with a grip as moist and gentle as love.

Grim, silent, dehydrated and disappointed, hemmed in by eight bags of clean laundry, miscellaneous groceries and three coolers of ice, we passed under the great arching portals of the Golden Gate Bridge, skirted Sausalito and plunged into the blistering hellish heat of Route 101 North. We had six dollars left — for gas — the ravaged exhaust system screamed like a kamikaze coming on for the kill, and a cordon of semis — STAY BACK; DON’T TREAD ON ME; PETROCHEM LTD. — spewed diesel fumes in our faces. Gesh lit a cigarette. I flicked on the radio and got fire and brimstone, static, and Roy Rogers singing “Happy Trails.” We were on our way back to bondage.

The previous day — the Fourth — we’d awakened sometime after noon to a barrage of cherry bombs and the tat-a-tat-tat of firecrackers. Startled from concupiscent dreams, I thought at first that war had broken out, made the groping but inescapable connection between the hiss of Roman candles and the birth of the Republic, and then snatched desperately for the glass of water standing on the night table. If I could just manage to reach that glass, there was a chance I might survive; if not, I was doomed. Sun tore through the curtains like an avenging sword, the sky was sick with smog and the stink of sulfur hung on the air. Straining, my fingers trembling with alcoholic dyscrasia, monkeys shrieking and war drums thumping in my head, I managed to make contact with and knock over the glass, and I lay there gasping like some sea creature carried in with the tide and left to the merciless sun and the sharp probing beaks of the gulls. My eyes failed at that point and I dozed (dreams of staggering across the Atacama Desert, ears and nostrils full of sand, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth), until I was jolted awake again by the next concussive report. There was nothing for it but to get up and drink a quart of orange juice and six cups of coffee.

Gesh was sitting at the kitchen table, calmly spooning up poached egg with ketchup and green chili sauce, when I stumbled into the room. I tilted my head under the faucet and drank till I could feel it coming up, then tossed the coffee pot on the stove and found a can of orange-juice concentrate in the freezer. Gesh cracked a beer and smoothed out the sports page. “So what’s on for today?” he said without glancing up.

As the block of orange juice sucked back from the can and dropped into the pitcher with a fecal plop, the ramifications of Gesh’s query hit me, and I realized with relief that he was no more inclined than I to dwell on the previous night’s debacle — spilled milk, water under the bridge and all that — but was looking instead, with courage and optimism, to the future. “There’s a cookout,” I said, and explained that I was planning to visit some friends, consume charred meat and watermelon, and lie creatively about my whereabouts over the course of the past four months. After that, there were the fireworks at Fisherman’s Wharf, and then I was going to check out Aorta’s band, the Nostrils, at a club on Haight Street.

Gesh scraped an English muffin and said he thought he’d pass on the cookout. He’d been thinking about getting cleaned up and going downtown around six for dinner and the fireworks.

When I got back at six-thirty, Gesh was just heading out the door. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that featured yellow parrots and blue palm trees, his hair was slicked down with water and he reeked of aftershave. “Great,” he said, too loudly. “I thought you weren’t going to show up. Listen”—he was drunk, excited, wound up about something—“can you give me a ride downtown?”

“Where to?”

He drew a crumpled bar napkin from his pocket, read off an address and then hustled me down the steps and into the car. “Listen,” he said, “I’m going to have to can the fireworks — if that’s all right.”

I shrugged, watching him. “Sure.”

It seemed that he’d wandered into a bar full of women that afternoon—“Incredible, Felix: all of them foxes and they must have outnumbered the guys three to one”—and had made a date with one of them for the evening. Her name was Yvette, she was tall and high-busted and wore a slit skirt. Gesh tapped his comb to the beat of the radio and rhapsodized about her all the way downtown. “See you later,” he said as I dropped him off, and he sauntered up the sidewalk like the romantic lead in a Broadway musical. Suddenly I felt depressed.

The fireworks went up and came down. Pop-pop. Bang. I watched them glumly, had a couple of greasy eggrolls and then drove over to the club where the Nostrils were playing. Three dollars at the door, a handstamp that showed two pig’s nostrils like a pair of bifocals, more earrings and pink hair. I picked a table near the stage, chain-drank tequila and tonic because I felt conspicuous— who is this joker sitting by himself, anyway? — and settled down to wait for the show to start.

An hour later the Nostrils stepped out on the darkened stage, tuned their instruments and blasted into a pulse-pounding version of “God Bless America” as the lights came up. Almost immediately people began slam dancing under the stage, and a couple of harried-looking waitresses in change aprons began to clear the tables out of the way. I got up, stood at the bar, and because service was slow, ordered two drinks at once.

The Nostrils were an all-girl band. The lead singer, who looked like Bela Lugosi in drag, played guitar and fronted the group, while Aorta, standing beside a co-backup vocalist so emaciated she could have stepped out of one of the photographs of Dachau, ululated weird falsetto chants over the buzzsaw guitar riffs. At the rear of the stage, huddled over their instruments like praying mantises, the bass player and drummer hammered away at tribal rhythms. The music went on, without change, for an hour. One song segued into another, and all were alike — or perhaps they were simply doing an extended version of a single song. I couldn’t tell. Then, in mid-beat, the music died so abruptly I thought the plug had been pulled, the lights faded and the dancers stopped slamming one another long enough to bellow incoherent threats through the sudden silence.

“Felix,” Aorta said, threading her way through the crowd. “Glad you could make it. Got the weekend off, huh? How’d you like us?”

I shook her hand, forever cold, and wondered how to respond to this effusive rush of communication. For Aorta, this was practically filibustering. “Gesh and I came down for the weekend,” I said.