lights.
“You got a light?” one asked me lonesomely. I gave it to him, and walked on.
Behind me, this islandcity glittered like an electric, magnetic animal....
With that silver-haired man just now, I had realized this: It would not be in one apartment, with one person, that I would explore the world which had brought me to this city.
The streets... the movie theaters... the parks... the many, many different rooms: That was the world I would live in.
I walked back. The man who had asked me for a light still sat there.
PETE: A Quarter Ahead
1
THERE WAS A YOUNGMAN I HAD seen often around Times Square. Like me, he was there almost every night; and like me, too, he was, I knew, hustling. I would learn later his name is Pete. Although each of us had noticed the other—and it was obvious—we avoided pointedly more than glancing at each other whenever we met: He was very cocky, a wiseass; and, I figured, I struck him much the same way.
One night I saw him by the subway entrance on 42nd Street talking to an older man dressed in black. It was a warm night. After a series of wintry ones, the warmth returned miraculously and the street is crowded tonight, each person clutching for one last taste of a springlike night.... Theyre glancing at me, Pete and the older man. They talk some more, the older man nods yes, and Pete swaggers up to me. He said: “That score digs you, spote—” (He said sport like that: “spote.”) “—he’ll lay ten bucks on you—and itll be like cuhrazy,” rolling his eyes. Pete’s in his early 20s, not tall, very well built, dark; knowing eyes, sometimes moody, dreamy. Hes wearing an army fatigue cap rakishly almost over his eyes, so that he has to hold his chin up to look at you.... I turned and looked at the black-dressed man, and he smiled broadly at me, walked toward us. If he had worn a white collar, he would have looked like a priest. Pete says to me: “This is Al,” indicating the older man, pats my shoulder—“Later, spote”—and disappears jauntfly into the street, almost bouncing into the crowd.
“I havent seen you before—youre new?” the man in black was saying. He didnt wait for an answer: If he asks too many questions, he exposes himself to the possibility that he will get an entirely different answer from the one he wants to hear and it will shatter his sexdream.
I went around the corner with the black-dressed Al, down from 42nd Street—wordlessly—to a large room in an apartment house. “I dont live here,” he explained as he opened the door into an almost-bare room: a bed, a table, two chairs. “I just keep this place—well—as a Convenience.” He asked me to take my clothes off, but, “Not the pants, theyll do,” he tells me. He went to a large closet, and brought out some clothes. Theres a black leather jacket with stars like a general, eagled motorcycle cap, engineer boots with gleaming polished buckles. He left the closet door open, and I could see, hanging neatly, other similar clothes—different sizes, I knew. On the floor were at least seven pairs of engineer boots, all different sizes. “Ive reached the point,” Al said, “where I can tell the exact size by just glancing at the person, on the street... Here, put these on.” I did, and they fitted. “Fine!” he said. “Now lets go.” Im startled. “Where?” I asked him. “Outside,” the man says, then noticing me hesitating suspiciously: “I just want us to take a little walk. Dont worry—I’ll pay you.”
That night, for about an hour, I walked with him through Times Square, from block to block in that area, into the park, silently—just walked. A couple of times I was tempted to leave, walk away with his
“You got a light?” one asked me lonesomely. I gave it to him, and walked on.
Behind me, this islandcity glittered like an electric, magnetic animal....
With that silver-haired man just now, I had realized this: It would not be in one apartment, with one person, that I would explore the world which had brought me to this city.
The streets... the movie theaters... the parks... the many, many different rooms: That was the world I would live in.
I walked back. The man who had asked me for a light still sat there.
PETE: A Quarter Ahead
1
THERE WAS A YOUNGMAN I HAD seen often around Times Square. Like me, he was there almost every night; and like me, too, he was, I knew, hustling. I would learn later his name is Pete. Although each of us had noticed the other—and it was obvious—we avoided pointedly more than glancing at each other whenever we met: He was very cocky, a wiseass; and, I figured, I struck him much the same way.
One night I saw him by the subway entrance on 42nd Street talking to an older man dressed in black. It was a warm night. After a series of wintry ones, the warmth returned miraculously and the street is crowded tonight, each person clutching for one last taste of a springlike night.... Theyre glancing at me, Pete and the older man. They talk some more, the older man nods yes, and Pete swaggers up to me. He said: “That score digs you, spote—” (He said sport like that: “spote.”) “—he’ll lay ten bucks on you—and itll be like cuhrazy,” rolling his eyes. Pete’s in his early 20s, not tall, very well built, dark; knowing eyes, sometimes moody, dreamy. Hes wearing an army fatigue cap rakishly almost over his eyes, so that he has to hold his chin up to look at you.... I turned and looked at the black-dressed man, and he smiled broadly at me, walked toward us. If he had worn a white collar, he would have looked like a priest. Pete says to me: “This is Al,” indicating the older man, pats my shoulder—“Later, spote”—and disappears jauntfly into the street, almost bouncing into the crowd.
“I havent seen you before—youre new?” the man in black was saying. He didnt wait for an answer: If he asks too many questions, he exposes himself to the possibility that he will get an entirely different answer from the one he wants to hear and it will shatter his sexdream.
I went around the corner with the black-dressed Al, down from 42nd Street—wordlessly—to a large room in an apartment house. “I dont live here,” he explained as he opened the door into an almost-bare room: a bed, a table, two chairs. “I just keep this place—well—as a Convenience.” He asked me to take my clothes off, but, “Not the pants, theyll do,” he tells me. He went to a large closet, and brought out some clothes. Theres a black leather jacket with stars like a general, eagled motorcycle cap, engineer boots with gleaming polished buckles. He left the closet door open, and I could see, hanging neatly, other similar clothes—different sizes, I knew. On the floor were at least seven pairs of engineer boots, all different sizes. “Ive reached the point,” Al said, “where I can tell the exact size by just glancing at the person, on the street... Here, put these on.” I did, and they fitted. “Fine!” he said. “Now lets go.” Im startled. “Where?” I asked him. “Outside,” the man says, then noticing me hesitating suspiciously: “I just want us to take a little walk. Dont worry—I’ll pay you.”
That night, for about an hour, I walked with him through Times Square, from block to block in that area, into the park, silently—just walked. A couple of times I was tempted to leave, walk away with his
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