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Authors: Stephen Goldin, Ivan Goldman
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hangover, but once that was behind him he returned to his old cheerful, sometimes cynical, self. By some implied understanding, neither man mentioned their talk of the night before. Nonetheless, Hawker knew they had turned a corner in their relationship.
They saw Symington occasionally as the big man dashed to and fro through this playground city. Hawker at least found a chance to take Symington aside and tell him—without going into details—that Green’s refusal of the girls was a personal problem that had nothing to do with being gay. Symington, easy-going as he was, accepted this explanation without question.
For the most part, Symington was too busy to care. He was always either chasing women or gambling—or both—and seemed to be having more success with the former. At one point, after a week and a half, he came to Hawker and Green for a stake to help with his gambling, and the two were convinced he’d squandered his entire bonus already. He repaid them, though, the next day—with interest—and never brought the subject up again, so they could never be sure what his situation really was.
For Hawker and Green, though, the time passed more quietly. They went to all the big shows and gambled a bit, losing somewhat more than they won and writing the losses off to experience. They spent some time in the bars, watching basketball games on TV and arguing with other sports fans. And they lounged about the swimming pool, soaking up the sun and getting a modicum of exercise. They avoided any further personal discussions. Much of the time they didn’t talk at all, and when they did it was of superficial matters. The one subject that was completely off limits was Project Banknote. The future would hit them fast enough— they were here to forget it in the meantime.
The problem was, neither of them could forget it—and as their hours of freedom ticked away, they were oppressed by the knowledge that soon they’d be leaving the safe, familiar world behind them.
Although the desert sun shone brightly, Hawker began to feel he was walking underneath a perpetual raincloud. The artificial gaiety around him began to ring hollow.
With a week still to go on his leave, Hawker packed his gear together and took off by himself, leaving behind only a brief note to Green, saying he’d see him again in a week, back at the base. Then Hawker took a taxi to the airport and bought a ticket on the next flight to Los Angeles.
***
Hawker had never been to Los Angeles before, and knew no one there. In part, that was the charm the city held for him. For his last week in the real world, he wanted to bury himself in anonymity. He’d heard about the L.A. mystique, and thought this was a perfect opportunity to experience it firsthand.
He got a room at the Holiday Inn, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. The weather was gray and overcast—unseasonable, the desk clerk said—but Hawker hardly noticed. The leaden skies matched his mood only too well.
Over the next several days he roamed Hollywood at random. He had originally intended to go all over Los Angeles, but the city’s large size made that impossible. Instead, he spent his time wandering the length of Hollywood Boulevard, drinking in its diversity and yet still feeling unfulfilled. Bookstores and music shops, boutiques and emporia, even famous names along the Walk of Fame—nothing could lift the depression that had settled over him. He walked amid the bright lights and the chattering people like a premature ghost, in the world but not of it.
When he walked at night, he received solicitations from both men and women; he ignored them all and walked on. On his second night in Hollywood he encountered a prostitute he couldn’t easily get rid of, a woman in her forties with lipstick so garish on an overly whitened face that she looked almost like a clown. For some reason she attached herself to Hawker and would not leave his side. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he took her
They saw Symington occasionally as the big man dashed to and fro through this playground city. Hawker at least found a chance to take Symington aside and tell him—without going into details—that Green’s refusal of the girls was a personal problem that had nothing to do with being gay. Symington, easy-going as he was, accepted this explanation without question.
For the most part, Symington was too busy to care. He was always either chasing women or gambling—or both—and seemed to be having more success with the former. At one point, after a week and a half, he came to Hawker and Green for a stake to help with his gambling, and the two were convinced he’d squandered his entire bonus already. He repaid them, though, the next day—with interest—and never brought the subject up again, so they could never be sure what his situation really was.
For Hawker and Green, though, the time passed more quietly. They went to all the big shows and gambled a bit, losing somewhat more than they won and writing the losses off to experience. They spent some time in the bars, watching basketball games on TV and arguing with other sports fans. And they lounged about the swimming pool, soaking up the sun and getting a modicum of exercise. They avoided any further personal discussions. Much of the time they didn’t talk at all, and when they did it was of superficial matters. The one subject that was completely off limits was Project Banknote. The future would hit them fast enough— they were here to forget it in the meantime.
The problem was, neither of them could forget it—and as their hours of freedom ticked away, they were oppressed by the knowledge that soon they’d be leaving the safe, familiar world behind them.
Although the desert sun shone brightly, Hawker began to feel he was walking underneath a perpetual raincloud. The artificial gaiety around him began to ring hollow.
With a week still to go on his leave, Hawker packed his gear together and took off by himself, leaving behind only a brief note to Green, saying he’d see him again in a week, back at the base. Then Hawker took a taxi to the airport and bought a ticket on the next flight to Los Angeles.
***
Hawker had never been to Los Angeles before, and knew no one there. In part, that was the charm the city held for him. For his last week in the real world, he wanted to bury himself in anonymity. He’d heard about the L.A. mystique, and thought this was a perfect opportunity to experience it firsthand.
He got a room at the Holiday Inn, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. The weather was gray and overcast—unseasonable, the desk clerk said—but Hawker hardly noticed. The leaden skies matched his mood only too well.
Over the next several days he roamed Hollywood at random. He had originally intended to go all over Los Angeles, but the city’s large size made that impossible. Instead, he spent his time wandering the length of Hollywood Boulevard, drinking in its diversity and yet still feeling unfulfilled. Bookstores and music shops, boutiques and emporia, even famous names along the Walk of Fame—nothing could lift the depression that had settled over him. He walked amid the bright lights and the chattering people like a premature ghost, in the world but not of it.
When he walked at night, he received solicitations from both men and women; he ignored them all and walked on. On his second night in Hollywood he encountered a prostitute he couldn’t easily get rid of, a woman in her forties with lipstick so garish on an overly whitened face that she looked almost like a clown. For some reason she attached herself to Hawker and would not leave his side. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he took her
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