City of Night by John Rechy Read Free Book Online

kid,” he goes on, “not what I would call Handsome,” he says indifferently, “but—umm—youll do—”
               He lost points.
               “—but kinda Sexy, maybe, if you like your type—”
               He gained the lost points, plus a few.
               “—maybe a little new—but Available—” He hurled the last word at me.
               And he lost the points hopelessly.
               “—so, cummon, whattaya wanna hang around the streets for?” he went on. “Go on back Home and marry your girlfriend—you gotta girlfriend?—and raise lots of snottynosed little bastards, and I’ll tell you what: Keepem away from New York—all those fuckin cities—are you from L.A.? No? Keepem away from there too—you look like you could be—I was there once, L.A.—too many creeps for me, though: like a nuthouse.... That Pershing Square!—it’s a loony asylum!... 42nd Street, thats the lowest, though. All those lights, sure you think theyre Pretty—Im tellinya, listena-me, they aint: It’s bullshit—got the same fuckin lights in New Orleans—are you really from the South? New Orleans maybe—no, you wouldnt be so nervous if you were—12 years old there and youd know Everything: hell, I know a 12-year-old boy there, hustles. But all this shit aint worth knowing, like I say. It was Chicago for me,” he said. He squashes the cigarette into a butt-crammed ashtray; the butts squirm like gutted white worms.
               “You still wanna make the ten bucks?” he asked me abruptly.
               I panic. I think hes lost interest; and I realize uncomfortably how important it is, to me, that he still want me. “Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound casual.
               “Yeah!—say yes sir, punk!—aint you got Respect for your elders?—hell, Im twice as old as you are, dont forget that... Greedy bastards—allasame.... Well, then, for chrissake, I aint even got a quarter’s worth from you,” he says, coming back to the bed. “Now stop squirming and dont hold it—relax, if youre gonna go along with it—at least pretend you enjoy it—what the hell, I should pay and you act like you dont give a damn?—punks, allasame. I was like you once—you believe it?” he says, “and now look at me, playing the other side of this goddam game. What the hell, pal, people change, remember that, dont forget it for a moment, remember that and dont be so fuckin cocky. Now lay back, close your goddam eyes and stop staring at me like Im a goddam creep—hell, I aint ashamed of nothing. Pretend Im some milkfed chick back in—wherever the hell youre from.... Thats it, thats better.... Relax.... Thats it....”
               Later, he adjusted his robe modestly again, reached for his pants, handed me a $10.00 bill. “Thats what you came for, aint it?—so take it,” he said looking at me very long.
               I take the bill, crush it quickly into my pocket. Suddenly the room is explodingly hot. I want to leave quickly.
               “And say thankyou, cantcha?” he adds, looking away now.
               The roles we have just played for each other seem to materialize harshly now that it’s over.
               “And heres three more bucks for cabfare,” he said. “It’s always goodluck to give cabfare,” he added. “You-wanna-come-back-sometime?... Hell, I dont care. I can pick up a different punk any night, see—and no skinny wiseass punk pulls any shit on me, pal, I know judo like the best of em.... But youre kinda new, I like that. Available, but kinda new.... Take my advice, I know what Im tellinya, go Home and get Married,” he says guiltily, “that streetll swallow you so deep you wont know where you got sucked in, and it wont even throw you up like bad beer, itll digestya—” He gnashed his teeth harshly. “Hell, youll become a part of the 42nd Street army of