clothes—but Im curious and I need the money. At the end of the hour we returned to the room, I removed the clothes. He didnt touch me once. He hands me $10.00. I looked at him surprised. I thought somehow I had disappointed him, and I felt grossly rejected. “Thats all,” he said; he smiles. “You were fine, just fine,” he says, sensing whats troubling me. “But, you see,” he said, rather wistfully, “thats all I want; to be seen along Times Square with a youngman in those clothes.”
A few minutes later, I was back on 42nd Street, and Pete was still there, slouched outside the spaghetti place. He smiled at me. “Some scene, huh?” he said.
“Did he give you anything for it?” I ask him.
“What do you think, spote? He gives me five bucks for everyone I get him. I meet him once every two, three weeks. He spots someone he digs, I introduce him. Hes too shy to talk to anyone, so I do it for him, and he lays some bread on me—and I dont have to do nothing,” he says smartly.
“Did you ever go with him— spote?” I said.
“Oh, sure!” He laughed. “And thats all he digs, spote. He dresses everyone he goes with in that motorcycle drag—and it bugs him for me to call it that. Then he walks around with them. Hardly anybody ever walks away with his clothes—theyre too curious. Hes hung up on that drag, thats how he gets his Kicks.... Oh, sure, I been with him.” Then proudly—his gaze shifting back and forth from me to the street, pegging people—he adds. “Im the only cat he walked around with two nights— in a row!”
2
Pete was a familiar figure in that world of Times Square. With his slouched army fatigue cap and his thick shaggy army jacket which he had dyed brown, his bouncing walk—it was easy to spot him in any crowd.
After that first night, I would meet him often, never by arrangement, but always at about the same time, around the same place. We would hang around together for a while, and then, compulsively, we’d split. Often, minutes later, we would meet again standing in the same place.
Although he wasn’t much older than I—but because, as he told me, he’d been hustling the streets since he was 16—Pete liked to play the jaded, all-knowing street hustler, explaining to me how to make out. He had a series of rules: Walk up to people, dont wait to be asked; if you do, you may wait all day. Forget about the vice squad, and you’ll never get caught. A quick score in a toilet for a few bucks can be worth more than a big one that takes all day. Stand at the urinal long after youre through pissing. At the slightest indication of interest from someone in one of the cubicles, go up to him quickly before he gets any free ideas and say. “Ill make it with you for twenty.” But go for much less if you have to.
As we sat in Bickford’s in the cold light, he told me without embarrassment that once he’d gone for 75¢. “It was a slow day”, he explained, “and I had only four bits, just enough to make the flix. I thought, Do I buy a Hotdog or make the flix and try to score? It was raining—no one on the streets. So I made the flix. No scores. Then someone wants to give me 75¢, and Im in the balcony anyway, so I let him. Hell, man,” he adds pragmatically, “I was a quarter ahead—I could still have that Hotdog.” And he goes on: “Youll learn; sometimes youll stand around all day and wait for a 15-buck score, a 10-buck score, even a deuce—all day—so, hell, take what comes, spote—so long as it dont louse up all your time—but always ask for the highest. Ask for Twenty. That way they think they got a Bargain.”
Part of Pete’s technique as a hustler was to tell the men he’d been with that he knew other youngmen like himself, and
A few minutes later, I was back on 42nd Street, and Pete was still there, slouched outside the spaghetti place. He smiled at me. “Some scene, huh?” he said.
“Did he give you anything for it?” I ask him.
“What do you think, spote? He gives me five bucks for everyone I get him. I meet him once every two, three weeks. He spots someone he digs, I introduce him. Hes too shy to talk to anyone, so I do it for him, and he lays some bread on me—and I dont have to do nothing,” he says smartly.
“Did you ever go with him— spote?” I said.
“Oh, sure!” He laughed. “And thats all he digs, spote. He dresses everyone he goes with in that motorcycle drag—and it bugs him for me to call it that. Then he walks around with them. Hardly anybody ever walks away with his clothes—theyre too curious. Hes hung up on that drag, thats how he gets his Kicks.... Oh, sure, I been with him.” Then proudly—his gaze shifting back and forth from me to the street, pegging people—he adds. “Im the only cat he walked around with two nights— in a row!”
2
Pete was a familiar figure in that world of Times Square. With his slouched army fatigue cap and his thick shaggy army jacket which he had dyed brown, his bouncing walk—it was easy to spot him in any crowd.
After that first night, I would meet him often, never by arrangement, but always at about the same time, around the same place. We would hang around together for a while, and then, compulsively, we’d split. Often, minutes later, we would meet again standing in the same place.
Although he wasn’t much older than I—but because, as he told me, he’d been hustling the streets since he was 16—Pete liked to play the jaded, all-knowing street hustler, explaining to me how to make out. He had a series of rules: Walk up to people, dont wait to be asked; if you do, you may wait all day. Forget about the vice squad, and you’ll never get caught. A quick score in a toilet for a few bucks can be worth more than a big one that takes all day. Stand at the urinal long after youre through pissing. At the slightest indication of interest from someone in one of the cubicles, go up to him quickly before he gets any free ideas and say. “Ill make it with you for twenty.” But go for much less if you have to.
As we sat in Bickford’s in the cold light, he told me without embarrassment that once he’d gone for 75¢. “It was a slow day”, he explained, “and I had only four bits, just enough to make the flix. I thought, Do I buy a Hotdog or make the flix and try to score? It was raining—no one on the streets. So I made the flix. No scores. Then someone wants to give me 75¢, and Im in the balcony anyway, so I let him. Hell, man,” he adds pragmatically, “I was a quarter ahead—I could still have that Hotdog.” And he goes on: “Youll learn; sometimes youll stand around all day and wait for a 15-buck score, a 10-buck score, even a deuce—all day—so, hell, take what comes, spote—so long as it dont louse up all your time—but always ask for the highest. Ask for Twenty. That way they think they got a Bargain.”
Part of Pete’s technique as a hustler was to tell the men he’d been with that he knew other youngmen like himself, and
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