CHAPTER II
"Les! You out of the shower yet?"
Even with the bathroom door shut and the water on full blast I could hear Bobby's voice resounding from the kitchen, loud and clear, as if it were electronically amplified and blasting through a speaker located inside the shower stall.
I had often thought, 'What a pity he's tone deaf. With a set of pipes like his what a hell of a baritone he would make! Maybe even a dramatic tenor! And with his six-foot-four height and Greek God physique and blond hair and matinee idol profile...'
"Les! You dressed yet? Gotta hurry UP!"
The 'gotta hurry' came out on four notes of a baritone's upper middle register. Then the 'UP' soared up – literally – to a dramatic tenor's stentorian high B. That voice, without his having to strain in the least, could be heard a mile away. That super-human resonance came from every cavity in his body: his massive chest, his thick neck, his leonine head. Any would-be Opera singer would kill to possess such phenomenal vocal equipment.
But Bobby couldn't sing. Aside from being tone deaf (also known as 'singing in the cracks') he had no musical talent.
Not that he didn't try. He tried constantly. And I tried to help him. But to no avail. All the ear training and rhythm exercises I drilled him on couldn't sink into his beautiful head. On the simplest four-square tune he would skip a beat on one phrase and come in late on the next. And any interval wider than a third would go disastrously sharp.
It was a joke among our friends. Jerry Connors said Bobby ought to return to his roots in Texas where he most certainly could win the blue ribbon in any hog calling contest. He didn't say it in front of Bobby but I chewed Jerry out for saying it. True, his looks were all Bobby had going for him. An uneducated country boy, he was a misfit in the big bad apple. But he was worth ten of Jerry, who was one of those superficially intelligent types with no depth, no wisdom, no heart.
Bobby, who was all heart, had a sense of humor about his impossible singing. He knew. And I knew it hurt him. But, bless him, he didn't let anyone else know how fervently he wished he could sing.
He even regaled our friends at parties with his audio-surreal impersonation of Mario Lanza singing "Be My Love." I would accompany him on the piano, trying as best I could to minimize the damage by changing keys when he did and skipping beats when he did. But my hastily improvised adjustments could not disguise the sublime ridiculousness of that uncanny voice hitting notes that weren't even on the piano. And Bobby's ardent sincerity served only to heighten the ludicrousness of his performance. When he took the final high note it was nowhere near the right note but he held it and held it and held it with super human reserves of breath.
Bobby's mangled rendition was rewarded always with hysterical laughter. Bobby laughed too, pleased that his efforts were not a total waste so long as they could provide comic relief at parties that were inclined otherwise to be rather dull affairs.
I alone did not laugh. I felt very strongly that Mother Nature had played a cruel joke on Bobby and, like Queen Victoria, I was not amused. To have such a great natural instrument and not be able to control it. To have music imprisoned deep in your soul and not possess the key to let it out. Not funny. Not to Bobby who I knew would offer his sweet soul to the Devil in exchange for the ability to sing.
"Come on, Les, damn it, you don't wanna be late!"
I was out of the shower and dried off. But I couldn't decide what to wear. And why, I wondered, had I been meditating so intently on the voice of the gentle giant I lived with instead of the voice of Paul Kleist, the legendary Wagnerian tenor with whom I would be face to face at four that afternoon?
"I'm almost ready!" I shouted, but with the kitchen so far away, and the high decibel competition from an ambulance's siren screaming through the heavy 46th street traffic outside, I doubted he could hear me. I had only normal human vocal chords.
We had one of those crazy railroad apartments in a crumbling tenement on 46th Street near Tenth Avenue. The bedroom overlooked 46th and the kitchen was half a block away at the opposite end, overlooking the grimy courtyard of another tenement on 47th.
At last I was dressed in the suit I didn't want to wear. It was lightweight, at least – one of those form-fitted jobs with 'natural' shoulders and narrow lapels that had come into fashion in the early fifties. It was 'wash and wear' and I had washed and worn it until it shrank. The pants were much too tight. But it was the coolest outfit I owned. And with an extra sheer, short-sleeved white shirt with a collar starched enough to accommodate a regulation rep-stripe tie I felt I looked respectable enough. Of course I would have to leave the jacket on as the shirt was almost transparent and would call attention to my large dark nipples – unless I wore an undershirt, which was unthinkable in that weather.
Would any young person today believe the dress codes for men in the 1950's?! We were expected to wear jacket and tie regardless of the heat. And – can you believe it? – few men were bold enough to leave off their undershirts when the thermometer reached the 90's.
There were exceptions, of course, and Bobby was one of them. When a young man was so masculine, tough, and sexy-dangerous looking that he could pass for a truck driver or a member of the Actor's Studio (Was there a difference after the likes of Marlon Brando and Steve McQueen?) he could get away with the same cruising uniform associated with gay men on the make.
With my portable tape-recorder hanging by its strap from my shoulder I walked through the cramped, narrow boxcar shaped rooms linked together like a freight train to find Bobby in Levis and T-shirt, standing in a pose of mock command beside the kitchen table on which was a glass of milk and a tuna salad sandwich.
"You vill eat it unt you vill enjoy it by order of Der Furher," he snapped, in his charmingly unsuccessful impression of a movie Nazi. "You didn't eat a bite of breakfast. You do that interview thing on an empty stomach and you'll get a headache, and your stomach'll start growlin', and the tape recorder will pick it up, and when you play it back that's all you'll hear: Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r-rrrr!"
"I don't dare show up late."
"You got time for a sandwich and milk. That's why I hurried you. And I'm gonna drive you and pick you up. So no more argument. Sit. Eat."
I obeyed and was instantly glad I did. He had fixed the tuna salad the way I liked it: lots of mayonnaise and very finely chopped celery. One bite and I realized how hungry I was.
"Thataboy – And there's enough left in the bowl for another one when you finish that."
"No. One is all I can manage, really."
"You're sure?"
"Definitely. You eat the rest."
"No way. I ate a big breakfast. Remember?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Gotta watch my weight."
"Your weight is perfect."
"Yeah, because I watch it. Two pieces of bread with breakfast. Then no more bread for the rest of the day. No sweets, no liquor, no starch. All that stuff is out from now on. Guy I work out with at the Y, he says sugar and white bread are both deadly poisons. And, like – wow – I was hitting all that deadly poison like crazy when I was trying to give up cigarettes. Gained eight pounds. Was starting to get a spare tire around my middle."
"Doctors tell us cigarettes are poison."
"Yeah, but smoking helps me to keep my weight down. Plus working out and eating right."
"You never looked better. You look terrific."
"Thanks."
He flashed me his dazzling smile as he pulled his T-shirt up and off. He posed for me, half naked, flexing his Tarzan-the-Ape-Man muscles.
"Look at these abs!" he cried, as he shoved his Levis down to well below his navel.
I beamed. I applauded. I wanted to tell him that looking at his fabulous body gave me such a hard-on it hurt inside my tight jockeys. But I didn't. That kind of talk coming from me made Bobby uncomfortable – I was expected to show my admiration without getting too down and dirty about it.
Yes, he loved to be admired. And he knew I worshipped him. But his narcissism wasn't in the least offensive. There was no arrogance in it. It was as if he knew that his beauty was the one and only thing he had that no one could underestimate or subject to ridicule. No wonder he was terrified of losing it or allowing it to depreciate. No wonder that in his mid twenties he was already obsessed with fear of growing old. And yes, he was a cock-teaser.
After holding his spectacular physique pose long enough to make his point, he put his T-shirt back on, seated himself across from me, and silently watched me eat my sandwich to the last bite.
I glanced at my watch, saw that we still had plenty of time, and settled back to relax and digest for a few minutes.
"So, Bobby, what are you going to do with yourself while I'm interviewing Herr Kleist?"
"Thought I'd drive on out to Montauk Point. See the lighthouse. It's not too far out from were he lives, is it?"
"Oh Bobby, you're asking the wrong guy. My knowledge of the geography of Long Island starts and stops with Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, which I read in English class. Teacher told us Fitzgerald deliberately fictionalized the geography of Long Island for symbolic effects, like all those necks and eggs, East and West."
"Necks and eggs! What does it mean?"
"Don't ask me. Then after omitting the entire borough of Queens, he has Northern Boulevard copulating with the Long Island Railroad, and their illegitimate offspring is named 'Valley of Ashes.'"
"A pretty name."
"Isn't it? Especially for what in real life is a swamp filled with ashes, garbage and manure. Or so I've heard."
"So what is it you're trying to tell me exactly?"
"Only that I don't know the first thing about Long Island because I've never been there. All the rest was just me camping it up. When there's something I don't know or can't understand I camp it up to relieve my anxiety."
"Well you don't have to worry 'cause I got a map."
"Terrific. Can I see it?"
"It's in the jeep. But I don't think I'll need it. I was out that way once. I remember – it's straight and narrow."
"You were on the straight and narrow, eh?"
"Hardly. I meant Long Island. The road through it. It's hart to get lost if you–"
"Follow the straight and narrow."
"Ah, come on, Les, you're puttin' me on."
"Affectionately, Bobby, don't get sore."
"Aw, I'm not sore."
"Good. So when was it you went out to Long Island?"
"Before I met you, of course."
"Of course."
"Soon after I came here to the Big Apple. I had just started hustling. Hanging out at the Astor Bar. I had heard that James Dean used to hang out there and get picked up by rich guys."
"Not that he was really gay, of course, tut tut. I believe he called it 'research': trying everything out, at least once, to enrich his acting."
"More than once, I heard, because gay or not, it paid better than waiting on tables."
"And more fun besides."
"Yeah, that's what I figured. Boy was I wrong. My very first john – he picked me up at the Astor and drove me out to his huge mansion on Long Island. Oh boy! A Long Island Millionaire! I had struck it big time! My Sugar Daddy would buy me fancy clothes; take me to the best restaurants; hook me up with a Broadway agent who would get me into the Show Business. Ha ha, oh yeah, turns out he wants strictly the one-night-stand and he'll be generous enough to pay me a hundred bucks if I let him tie me up and whip me – then screw me for good measure. He went on and on about what a thrill it would be to have a big, strong, handsome stud like me at his mercy. You know the rest, I'll bet."
"No, I don't. You've told me a few things you had to do to keep from starving but you never told me about that episode. But then I've never pumped you to tell me anything you didn't want to."
"I woulda' told you but I pushed my one and only Long Island gig out of my mind until you told me, the other day, how you'd scored for an interview with this famous Opera Star who lives in style out there. Then it all came back to me."
"So – you know I'm curious. Do you want to tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"Did you, or did you not, accept the slime ball millionaire's offer?"
"Yeah, I did. That's how much I needed the money. It was bad enough just going through it. What made it worse was – he – he – reminded me of – of–"
"Your father."
"Stepfather."
"Oh, right. I'm sorry my appointment has brought back shitty memories for you."
"Naw, it's O.K. At least I know for sure the famous Opera Star you're gonna interview ain't the same guy who picked me up at the Astor. Your guy would have to be much older and – I remember for sure – my hundred dollar john didn't live nowhere near so far out. I remember 'cause he drove me out himself then sent me back to Manhattan in a cab the next morning."
"Did he give you cab fare too, I hope."
"Yeah. And a bottle of lotion to rub on my whip welts."
"Thoughtful of him."
"Yeah, real polite when he wasn't doing his rope and whip act."
"I'm curious – tell me – was there ever an occasion when it was the other way around?"
"You mean – did guys ever offer to pay me to use a whip on them?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I mean."
"Yeah, but I wasn't very good at it. You know – my heart wasn't in it."
"You mean your dick didn't respond to it."
"You could say that. I couldn't get into that scene."
"Too bad I wasn't around then. You could have practiced on me."
"Are you serious?"
"Not necessarily."
"You ever let a guy whip you?"
"No. I've thought about it."
"You mean – you've thought you might like it?"
"I'm not sure. It would depend on the other guy. He would have to be the right type – the kind of guy I would want to submit to – in that kind of way."
"And you haven't met him yet."
"Apparently not. I have my fantasies."
"Really."
"Yeah, really. My fantasy life is very active. In it I offer myself, body and soul, to the man of my dreams – to be his sex slave – to let him do anything he wants to me."
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