It started with a whore on the way to Oklahoma. I provided the car; Steve the whore provided the drugs. From Kansas City it is six hours each direction.
Leaving Friday night on the freeway Steve said "Stick this under your tongue." We were headed to OK City to see a punk-new wave band that had crashed at my house the weekend before.
After thirty miles I was wondering exactly what was melting under the heat of my tongue. At eighty in the fast lane everything seemed a blur of white lines. Images were moving along with the scenery. All Steve could manage was giggles. Giggles from what was normally a staid business professional. Anything for a price. He was a friend; this wasn't business.
By the time sixty miles had lapsed, I no longer felt in control of the car. From my adolescence I still had understanding friends strung out across the western states. By understanding, I mean that there was usually a bottle of whiskey to be found. It was a tough trip up the stairs to Mal's second floor six-room complex of tiny rooms. A drink is what I needed, something to bring me to a familiar plane.
Mal was a true host, even clean glasses. The rest of the evening was spent in bliss. The conversation was engaging; the eventual sleep was needed. Reports from the morning told of several broken glasses and a beer-stained sleeping bag. Somehow I missed most of the exciting parts even though I was present.
The sun was high in the sky by the time Steve and I arose. It was the kind of clear Kansas morning you read about in serial novels. Mal had gone to work but left coffee on the stove. Somehow I needed it. After several cups the car was loaded and ready. For the day's travel Steve wanted the top stowed in the trunk. It was still summer; hot and sunny in excess of ninety degrees. As far as I was concerned, there was no better reason to own a Porsche. Given my druthers, I'd own a vehicle from the three classes: luxury, sports convertible and a motorcycle.
Several miles outside town, Steve managed to soak the dashboard in Budweiser foam. Noting the fact that he was drinking warm beer for breakfast, I suggested that we stop for some cold ones. Pulling into small town Kansas in a foreign sports car for beer at noon tends to garner some stares. Looking hungover didn't help much.
Back on the road with cold Bud in the crotch, the warm sun gave us both refreshing warmth. I was restraining myself from using heavy drugs for the daylight hours. We were staying with the bass drummer's mother while in OK City. I thought it might be nice if I could pronounce the words, "Hello Mom."
We hit the Kansas-Oklahoma border doing 90 and didn't slow till we hit the outskirts of OK City. What a flat town.
From the sketchy directions I found the house. He was home; brother was home; mother was home. Such a change from what I had expected. I assumed that the bass player from the Slow Voids would live in a ramshackle place, not gentrified innercity. So much for assumptions.
Dinner and off to the show. Arriving early we got the privilege and boredom of watching the Voids set up. The only challenge was not falling over from the free drinks and ludes. The ludes were a present from Steve the whore to the band and groupies. The bassist's girlfriend was more than happy to take several.
Meanwhile the bar was filling with people. Steve and I sat near the back at a small table by the john. The whole place was filled with heteros. It's a weird feeling being the only two gay guys in a straight country western bar listening to new wave punk music; not to mention the fact that it's Oklahoma City in the summertime.
As our pockets empty, our bellies fill with beer and the whiskey smuggled in. I know that I'm drunk. Steve is one step removed from reality. His mouth is running over with obscenities toward the bassist's girlfriend. After verbal threats Steve slows down to the point of slumping over in his seat next to the stage where we had moved after the first set. I had taken up cruising the bar for something a little livelier than Steve. I returned to the table to find Steve being brought to by the club's bouncers. That got him as far as the parking lot, where he collapsed in the exit lane. Did you ever watch one drunk try and move another drunk out of the road? Had I just been watching I'm sure it would have been funnier.
How we made it home that evening I'm not sure. I don't think I drove. I do remember getting breakfast in bed served by the bassist. After what I remembered of the evening before I was surprised by his generosity. Maybe this sort of thing is a regular occurrence in OK City. His reaction to us curled up in bed did surprise me since he had told of his brother's "affliction." "As long as I don't have to look at it" was his attitude. He didn't go for it much when we were playing grabass on the couch. I can't really see why. Did I throw up when he was sucking on his girlfriend's tits?
After the night before, we decided it was prudent to leave soon. Maybe that's why we got breakfast in bed; it's quicker. Burnt out but well fed, we hit the road for the capital of the Midwest, Kansas City. The only stops along the way were for beer, cigarettes and gas.
Steve had left his lover at home for this weekend journey. He was never able to explain to me how you can be a prostitute and have a lover, too. He said it was human nature. I couldn't swallow it.
Benny was waiting for us. He had the look of a man who had been waiting all weekend. The apartment was a studio, the kind with a Murphy bed that folds from the wall. The kitchen was literally covered in Budweiser cans. Benny had a friend visiting to kill the time till Steve and I showed up.
Joey had fiery red hair hanging neatly to the sides. It was nice to be around gay men again. A weekend in the straight world had left me rather burnt-out. My body was still pulsing with the amphetamines, pot and alcohol of the day's drive. I sat spread over the width of the overstuffed chair. The conversation was low-keyed and relaxed; my body could stand no more.
Time drug on. My mind was frazzled. I offered Joey the chance to split this pop stand and he agreed. I guess he was as tired of hearing of the weekend's revelry as I was. He left his truck at Steve's and we took the Porsche to my place.
He was as impressed as the rest of my tricks were at the inside of the 914. It was, after all, a nice car. Joey had the class not to drool, however. Although it was three miles between Steve's place and mine, the journey though city traffic was swift.
The house where I rented my room was a sight to behold. If you like flamingos, it was heaven. There were flamingos of every variety: stone, plastic, oil painted, ceramic. That, in combination with my collection of neon signs, made the place be know as the Neon Flamingo Palace. My room was over the lining room; the Boom Boom Room as it was known to weekend guests. Three of us made our home there: the rotund woman who owned the place, the cocaine salesman's woman friend and myself.
When Joey and I arrived, no one was about. The place was never crowded during the day, but did begin to fill up around the midnight hour. On rare occasions we would have a sit-down family style dinner. Out of the upstairs bedroom I pulled a bottle of whiskey for Joey and me. I never left any alcohol downstairs--it would never last. The whiskey helped the transition from newly acquainted to lover easier.
We spent that evening in each other's arms. It was wonderful to have six feet of the free-spirited redhead in my bed. To say the least I was smitten. Both he and I had work in the morning. It made me wish I had spent the weekend with him instead of Steve.
Work seemed to go slowly. I longed to be in Joey's grasp again. It seems what when I find a man who measures up to my standards of intellect, cuteness, and street sense...I want to be around him all the time. This desire has killed off a good many relationships that I've started. My friends call it "burning itself out before it has a chance to start," sort of like a campfire without enough kindling.
That evening we were together again. It seemed as wonderful as the night before. Eating dinner, drinking, smoking, it was all of a dream. The time together had the spark of magic that neither of us wanted to end. It seemed as if the rest of the world were standing still just to let us go on. We made love upstairs, downstairs, outside, in the car, wherever and whenever.
Things were not going as well at my workplace. I think that it paled in comparison to my love life in the off hours. Joey was working in a mall and just as frustrated as I was. It was my idea to load up both our vehicles and head west. It sounded like a positive step at the time. I gave notice to my landlady--Joey have notice to the friend he was living with. Both of us told our employers. Life and its commitments were changing fast and furious. Soon we would have only ourselves to depend on.
In the process of settling accounts with my landlady I found myself sleeping behind my best friend's couch for three weeks. It got a little crowded with both Joey and me back there. Both of us learned the art of humping quietly. Raul, my friend, was very understanding about the arrangement. He knows I would do the same for him in a minute if the need was there.
The day finally came for us to leave. The Porsche was loaded to the gills, Joey's pickup truck was full, including the trailer filled with my neon and other oddities. Juan had decided to join us on the trip, splitting his time between Joey and me. It would be nice to have company for both of us, I thought. Of course the weather had to be shitty; the rain was coming down lightly over grey skies.
Trouble started less than thirty miles out of town of the freeway. The right front end of the Porsche dropped as I heard a loud snap under the hood. I pulled to the side, Joey following, to find what I had expected. Another tie-rod had snapped. The same one had snapped six months before.
I really love making split-minute decisions on the edge of the roadway. Back we went. We nursed the car back to my mechanic in North Kansas City. It being the weekend, no one was there. The only thing to do was to leave a note. "Please replace tie rod and sell. Will send pink slip." After a quick phone call to my father explaining the details, we loaded the truck with more stuff and headed out again.
By the middle of the night we had reached the house of a friend on the outskirts of Denver. It was a well-deserved stopping point. With three of us crowded into the front seat of Joey's pickup, we were glad for the breathing room. Out host made us feel welcome with glasses of sweet mulberry wine. Sleep was what we needed with an early day facing us.
The day's goal was Yellowstone and the Old Lodge. I thought it would be nice to stay in something old and wooden. As it turned out, the old lodge was closed for the winter. And what with the snow, half the roads in Yellowstone were closed. We felt lucky to have made it through with the trailer.
With the rangers wishing us good luck, we headed out of Yellowstone. In West Yellowstone we found a cheap motel. Eighteen dollars for the three of us, which included a hot tub, sauna, and two beds. Such a deal--it was the off-season. That was fine with us, Juan in one bed with Joey and me in the other.
It being the off-season, half the businesses were boarded up. We found a local's cafe for a quick breakfast and the purchase of some tacky postcards. The city of Olympia in Washington was the destination for this day's travel.
The plan from here was that Joey and I would start looking for work in both Seattle and Portland. We would then settle in whichever city one of us found work in first. I had friends in Olympia so we would have a place to stay for a couple of weeks.
As it turned out Joey had a friend in Portland who was an old teacher of his. After calling her up, we decided to settle in Portland since it looked as if she could get him some kind of job with her firm. The next chore was to find a place to live.
On a Sunday journey south with the want-ads in hand we started making calls. A duplex in the Northwest part of town sounded promising enough to drive by and see. From my friends who had lived in Portland before I had learned that the Northwest was "the" area of town for the young white professionals and students.
The landlord described the place as the upstairs of an older home. She warned of a drunk lady who lived downstairs. Along with everything else she said that the shower would hold one comfortably, but probably not two or three. Why she thought we were interested in this I do not know. Before she would give us a tour, she gave me the address so we could go by and look to make sure it was up to our "standards." At that point my only standards was a cheap roof over my head.
We rented the place on the spot. There went any money for food. It was time to call daddy for more money.
Somewhere along the line things between Joey and me got more tense. With a base of friends in Olympia to feed my ego, I tended to let Joey fend for himself. That, coupled with my money worries, job worries and doubt, was working a wedge into our relationship. The world was once again present.
The amount of furniture we brought with us looked bare in the two-bedroom apartment. Both of us were busy looking for work so it didn't much matter that we had little to sit on in the living room. The bed worked and that was what was supposed to count.
With all the job hunting, our conversations tended to be business communication. No longer were there walks in the park holding hands. Work, work, lack of work.
In a couple of weeks I had found a job. Joey still was looking hard, but I could tell he was 2,000 miles from home looking for a job in an economically depressed area when he had no trouble finding work in Kansas City.
After many a tearful session, Joey decided to pack it all in and head for the security of home. I guess it had been too many months with no security, no firm base from which to operate. With no secure base, I was more tense and tended to take it out on Joey. For Joey there was no support base of friends a few hours away.
A year or so later I still think fondly of Joey. He was a special force in my life,
although I doubt if I ever told him so. In the family I come from, love is taken for
granted, though rarely expressed. This is not to say that we were not a loving family,
only that we never verbalized it. In retrospect I should have been more vocal with my
support. Maybe next time around I will remember the past while adapting it to the future.
Captain Rat has three pastimes-Buggery, Business and Booze. Business pays the bills-buggery and booze provide the entertainment.
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