Maybe—Tomorrow/Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
GAYLORD TURNED TO FACE THE man. Stared at him with a bewildered look. He had been so completely happy, but here again abruptness and ugliness had ended it. He was like a person who had received a stunning blow without warning and who in the first moment of shock does not realize what has happened. Gaylord withdrew from the touch of strange hands, and his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.
"How about it baby?" Again the heavy-coated words. "How about let's wiggle the frame."
Gaylord did not see the drunk really. What he saw were black pits where eyes should have been, crooked fangs in place of teeth and poison gas instead of breath. It was not an odor that was familiar to him. It was sickening and repulsive. He wanted to run, slap the clutching hands, but even as he thought this he knew it was senseless, that what he was thinking was impossible, and yet he could not stop thinking.
Again he tried to speak … to point out the mistake … to say he wasn't a girl, but no words came from his quivering lips. The impulse that had carried him forward had vanished, replaced by something strange and grotesque. How could he cope with this? What should he do?
Gaylord shrank against the dark wall and the hands about to encircle him were magnified and distorted. He was petrified. No longer did he hear the music or the shuffling of the crowd. No longer did the stars twinkle. The ecstasy was gone, the fright which had been with him when he had first come into the auditorium was meek in comparison to the way he now felt. If he could only run … run away from everyone.
Suddenly, the hands retreated and from the dark pits, blood-shot eyes beamed at him like monstrous huge-eyed fish. The man rocked back, laughing with surprise. Gaylord stared, attracted and repelled at the same time. Then the man's shoulders were snatched up and replaced by another and in the soft light the new shoulders looked broad and strong. Someone was freeing him from this horrible ordeal. Immediately he thought of Blake. Blake had come to his rescue. God, how wonderful he was … how nice of him … he didn't want to run if Blake had come to help.
"Come on, Max. You drunken bastard." No, the outline of shoulders wasn't Blake. Blake hadn't come to his rescue after all. The strange voice continued. "Can't you see this kid ain't a dame?" it laughed. "You old son-of-a-bitch." Gaylord heard a loud slap. "I didn't know you were so damn drunk you couldn't tell the difference between a skirt and a pair of pants."
"The hell she ain't," Max coughed, bending down and studying Gaylord's face. He stood swaying like a pendulum from an old grandfather's clock and his breath came rapidly and sickeningly. "You're too damn pretty to be a boy, sonny," he hiccoughed loudly. "Yeah, too damned pretty … ya sure fooled me …" He reached down and pinched the pale cheek. "Ever fooled the boys before, sonny? Ya sure look like a broad … a damn good-looker too …"
His face colored and his cheeks burned. "I've never fooled …" Gaylord sputtered but was interrupted by Max.
"I'll tell ya what, sonny," he broke in with a gurgle. "Come on out to the car with me and I'll fix ya up. You'd like a drink, wouldn't you … sonny? Damn … ya'a cute little fag!" He grinned, went on. "Got some good whiskey … best money can buy … let's get out of this damn joint … come on, let's go out to my car … I wanta show ya … a …" he tried for Gaylord's cheek again he lost his balance and with a loud "Whoops!" fell into the frightened boy's lap, his hand going between Gaylord's legs.
Gaylord drew back, holding a scream in his throat. "Leave me alone … I don't like whiskey … please leave me alone," he cried. His hands were as numb as his paralyzed legs but he managed to shove away the demanding hands grabbing his legs.
"God, how awful," thought Gaylord. "What can I do? Soon everyone will hear him … why won't he leave …" He couldn't see the man, he only heard people around him talking.
"God damn, Max … I didn't know ya went for boys too, you dirty bastard." There was a certain excitement in this voice. It continued, "Leave that quail alone 'fore someone hears ya." Then, with a chuckle and a nudge, the voice continued, "I've got a real skirt for ya … says she's ready for anything you've got. Ain't that what ya said, Babe?"
"That's what I said, Sid. He's just my type … rough and ready," a woman cried out. "I'll take that drink, Daddy." She helped Max to his feet. "And anything else ya got … what else ya got, huh?" She giggled at Gaylord and he noticed the outline of a frizzy head, light in color. "He's drunk, honey," she said to Gaylord, "but he's harmless. Ya not scared, are ya?" Gaylord shook his head. "No need to be … he's just drunk. I'll take care of him."
She shouldered Max up and ran a hand through his tangled hair. After several unsuccessful attempts, she pressed her lips on his and felt his groin. "Nice … honey …" She grinned at Max, "Really nice."
"It's all your'n," Max yelled with mirth. He kissed her. "Let's get outa here." He started to walk, looked back at Gaylord and with a drunken stare, grinned and mumbled, "I'll be back for you later … don't leave … you beyootiful doll."
The woman tightened her grip. "Not when I get through with you, baby," she challenged. "When I get through with you … you're going to be pooped … Beautiful doll, huh."
The three left and Gaylord's stare followed them … Max, swinging his arms around the woman, gallantly trying to escort her through the crowd. "Let a lady pass … damn it," he heard Max shout to a couple. Whereupon he stuck his hand out and pushed them aside. The woman trotted along beside him in her high-heeled shoes and cast a spell over him with her loud fluttering voice. She can sure have him, Gaylord thought … what a mess they are … it's funny …
It was funny. It was a comedy but he had been the error. They would have laughed at him in the same hidden smiles if they had known. It was as if he was made to be laughed at. It was the thought of a puzzled and tormented boy, driven into a kind of fatal acceptance.
Gaylord now sat rigidly on the bench, and the constant shaking of his feet on the floor was in unison with the beating of his heart. He felt naked and wondered how many had noticed. His mind shouted for him to go, to get away before the drunk returned, but he was not sure of his legs. He tested them to be sure the weight from his body would not cause them to fold.
When Gaylord rose to go, he passed through the crowd shuddering, and with his eyes cast downward. He was still confused but he knew his way past the swaying mass, past the blur of faces. Someone taunted:
"Hi, Gay … you're not leaving so soon are ya … I didn't even know you were here."
He smiled back at the boy but never stopped. He didn't care if he was almost running. He was afraid he'd ask him why he was shaking and he wouldn't be able to tell him. He liked him and didn't want to be rude but he could find no excuse or lies for his nervousness.
He arrived at his car like a tornado. In a state of exhaustion, he unlocked the door and leaped inside the car, his heart pounding inside him. Had the ignition switch grown smaller? Why wouldn't the key fit the slot? He tried again in a perspiration of impatience. He kept looking around but he was alone. Was he really alone? Had Max followed him? No, because that woman wouldn't have let go of him so soon. Still he had said that he would be back.
Tremblingly, Gaylord tried again and this time the key went into the slot with ease. He immediately turned the key and pushed a button that lowered the door glass. But just as soon as the glass had disappeared, it appeared again. "Better keep it up," he said out loud. "That fool might come up this very instant." The thought made his stomach turn. He pressed down the door lock and looked into the darkness. Max's vile breath seemed to fill his nostrils again and another shudder wracked his whole body. He knew he was going to cry. He put his teeth over his bottom lip, and bit down hard to stop it from trembling, to keep back the tears.
Suppose his car wouldn't start. Large drops of perspiration ran down his forehead, and the cords in his neck tightened as he pressed on the starter. Suppose the battery was dead. His mind was as tangled as the curly hair over his forehead. Suppose he had flooded the engine. No, he couldn't have done that … but, but suppose … and supposition possessed him. He pressed harder on the starter. The motor started immediately and his sigh was lost to the sound of loose gravel spinning under the wheels as the car lunged backwards.
At last he was free. The car lights gave life to the rocks on the road, like spot lights on a stage, and their colors of rusts and tans were bright. They had been laid down like a mask on something formless, warm, dusty. Brought from a lost riverbed where they had been born, to remain here until their spirits were broken and shattered. Like me, thought Gaylord, like me. They, too, fought back, hitting under the fenders, fighting hard, but their efforts were lost under huge crushers that bade them lie down and be silent … like me, Gaylord thought again … just like me.
It was fight, fight, fight, all his life. Other boys felt richer than he. They didn't wear as good clothes as he did but they had something he lacked … self-assurance.
He guided his car recklessly, not even stopping for traffic lights to change their blood-like color. To his eyes it seemed they were not there at all, but the buildings on either side seemed to close about him. He changed his glance to the road, watched it stretch front of him. Danger hung in the sullen air; danger lay like an oily film across the street; danger tinted with a brassy hue the arched and silent sky. Somewhere out there was the drunken figure of Max. He pressed on the gas, impatient to be in his room, impatient for security.
His home looked as dark and blank as the rest of the street, as he parked his car in the garage. But when he stepped onto the steps of the porch he saw a low glow through a small opening in the front door. It was somehow a soothing and restful light. Gaylord pulled the front of his shirt together and shrugged. His mother was very likely in there waiting for him.
With a deep breath he turned the door knob. It was unlocked. He closed and latched it behind him. Inside, the hallway was quiet. No … there was no one waiting for him. Gosh, he was glad. He breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed the living room, turned off the lamp. Gaylord felt suddenly relieved with the familiar odor of the house and the hallway, the smell of flowers, polish and clean carpet.
"Thank God I'm home," he said.
There was a moment's hesitation. Then, with a deep sigh, he walked upstairs to his room, and switched on the light. He stood there just gazing, wondering why he had ever left it.
His Hollywood bed stood modern and elegant on the carpet. It said plainly, and the bleached mahogany cabinets at its side repeated it: "I was custom-made." He looked at the tall lamps gracing the cabinets with the same air. They depicted nudes of opposite sex, seated on an open rock from which flowed growing ivy, and were made of crudely sculptured clay. Their shades were in the modern vein, covered with raw silk. Flanking the lamps were several books, a stud box and a piggy bank, a present from his favorite aunt.
Most boys didn't care whether or not there were draperies at their bedroom windows. Gaylord did. First there was gossamer-thin celanese that hung like gathered mist next to the Venetian blinds. Over that, hanging in deep folds at each side, hammered satin, woven in grey and chartreuse zig-zag lines, touched the carpet. A wide cornice duplicating the material of the draperies and bedspread framed this expensive display of fabric.
From this, his gaze fell on an etching of two wrestlers, their naked bodies tied in a sweating knot, masterfully done and framed in an antique mirror. It dominated the wall over his desk and was his pride and joy.
Gaylord's solitary thoughts left the room, gnawed at another bone. Why was I mistaken for a girl, he asked himself. Is my hair too long or did I have too much powder on? Just why did he think I was a girl?
Questions with no answers dominated him as he unbuttoned his shirt and threw it over a chair.
With a sudden flash of intuition, he went into his bathroom, turned on the light and looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. He hadn't changed. He was handsome but he certainly didn't look like a girl. He ran a hand over his face and leaned over to peer at it. His eyes narrowed on his cheek. It was faintly bruised and a red mark discolored the fair skin. His teeth clamped and he uttered a sigh of disgust. He noticed his hair, curls going in every direction. Taking a comb he ran it through the shiny blackness wondering again if perhaps it wasn't a little too long. He noticed his eyelashes. They were longer and heavier than the average male's. Maybe they were the reason. Eyes were very noticeable and his were sort of girlish-looking.
And then he wondered what it would be like to be a girl. He thought of the conversations he had heard in the school lavatories. Conversations dealing with sex and female bodies. He pictured himself a girl and what he would do in case some strong male seduced him. Men were always seducing females. Even in school it had occurred. He had heard of these things. It had been repeated over and over again. In fact several boys, younger than himself, had wished for this. Had even had erections right in front of him and several other boys. They didn't seem to mind who saw their sex organs. They weren't embarrassed, but he was. Why was he? They talked and looked as if they knew something more than he had learned. But he had learned lots these past two years. All about doctors girls went to when they were pregnant, about diseases. He got frightened when he realized that awful things could happen to him, and every time he saw a boy the gang called "Gonde" he remembered the disease this boy was supposed to have had. He still shrank away every time he saw Gonde, and thanked God it had not happened to him.
He left the bathroom and strolled into the bedroom. This room had been his idea and now, looking at it, he was aware that he had created a room of harmony and comfort. He loved every bit of it from the tops of the polished tables to the walls of dull satin paint. He had a flair for coloring and good taste in choosing furniture. He often wondered why. Other boys he knew didn't care what kind of room they slept in. But to him, his room was part of his half-dream world.
Carefully folding the bedspread, he placed it on a chair. Freshly turned-down sheets were tucked all the way around the bed. A fold in one was thrown back to a pair of soft pillows with starched slips, their creases still showing.
He kicked off his loafers and flung himself on the bed. The soft light cast shadows of light yellow across him and deepened the colors of the leaves of the hand-printed paper that rose behind his bed, not stopping until they had reached the ceiling. He lay there on his back, not seeing the ceiling, listening to the words, "You're too pretty to be a boy … good-looker too … come on and dance … the finest whiskey …" hearing them repeating … "good-looker too … come on …" again and again.
A little smile crossed his face and he seemed pleased. Then, with a frown, he was uncertain just how he did feel. He certainly didn't want this to happen again, but, even with the pain it had caused, there now was some compulsion that forced himself to admit he was thrilled over the mistake.
He lay on his bed thinking what he would have done if he had been a girl. No, he wouldn't have danced with that trash, Max. That drunkard. He would have told him to go chase himself. Without devious reasoning or complicated emotional processes, Gaylord became a girl. Gaylord, the boy, took a blackout and Gaylord, the girl, did wonderful things among a crowd of people.
"I'm sleepy," he finally admitted, yawning, "guess I'd better get undressed and go to bed."
But before he went to sleep he thought of the drunk again, the red spot on his cheek, and of Robert Blake. And then, after he was asleep, he dreamed he was a girl and in Blake's arms.