Dark Streets,
Bright Lights
F. L. RICHARDS
AND STEVE BRUNNER
SMASHWORDS.COM EBOOK EDITION
published by Fideli Publishing, Inc.
© Copyright 2009, F. L. Richards and Steve Brunner All Rights Reserved.
SMASHWORDS.COM EBOOK EDITION
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Registered with the Library of Congress
Authors’ Note
While the events in this book are real, the names of persons and establishments mentioned or described in it have been changed. As much as possible, verbatim dialogue is used. Otherwise, it has been contextually reconstructed but in no way affects, alters or compromises the images and impressions which the authors wish to convey.
Other works by F. L. Richards
Non Fiction (Autobiographical)
Crossroads ... Journey to Wholeness
Poetic Trilogy
In the House of the Father
The Looking Glass
Voice of a Different Heart
Available at: www.flrichardscrossroads.com
Dedication
They stirred us from complacency, challenged us to abandon comfort and compelled us to view life from a very different perspective. Forever committed to our minds and hearts, this book is dedicated to:
Annie Jorge Antonio King Pin Big José Lady Peacock Elder David Roberto Emily Younger David Jay Zeus
Acknowledgments
With grateful appreciation, we would like to thank the following people:
Hal, for inspiring the writing of this book.
Barbara and Rafael, for a treasured friendship of nineteen years and for being a very important part of our life in Puerto Rico.
Anna, always “Mommy,” for gifting us with her loving nature, the strength of an indomitable spirit and the wisdom of many lessons about the generosity of the heart, the contagiousness of joy and the importance of respect for all people. May she rest in peace.
José, for giving us permission to use photographs of himself and his little Manuel.
Zeus, for his assistance with language translation.
Pam, a special friend, for sharing her gifts and talents in the formatting and editing of this book.
Prologue
Puerto Rico is affectionately called Isla Del Encanto, Enchanted Island. Its lushness, intense sun, inviting waters and prolific flora, home to the indigenous tree frog, the coquí, are testaments to its captivating beauty and charm. The geography of the island exudes a charisma that is inescapable and the distinctiveness of its cultural character entices and intoxicates those caught in the web of this tropical paradise. This is how it was for Steve and me during our very first vacation in the summer of 1987.
We became immersed in this euphoric atmosphere and were drawn back, again and again, to savor more of what had been our first taste of delight. That initial swallow of sweetness, however, took on a different flavor during what evolved as an uninterrupted era of almost thirteen years. It changed to one that was bittersweet as we became wrapped up in the lives of many who, under normal circumstances, would have remained unknown to us. Some worked the streets; others just worked. All tried to make life more bearable in a common goal of survival. It wasn’t easy for them, especially those who chose to make something of their lives which extended beyond the immediate, the here and now. The others could not think outside the perimeter of the present because that was all they knew; that was all that mattered to them.
The bugarón, more commonly referred to as boogies, are those we would call male prostitutes. Not exclusively Hispanic, they span the spectrum of age and appearance. Those who are younger, good looking, charming and alluringly sensual have an easier time making connections with gay men who frequent the bars, yet the ones who lack these qualities seem to survive. An ability to speak English is helpful but often not a requirement. The universal language of sex for money needs no translation. Facial expression, body language and gesture are easily understood and help to insure that happy hour will result in a happy ending. Steve and I quickly came to know who they were because of their predictable patterns of behavior. Always having been a people watcher, I found the machinations of cruising both fascinating and unsettling. It took Steve somewhat longer to learn to pay attention to the details I observed very early in our visits to the island.
Although we tried to shield ourselves from the web of seduction, we did not remain exempt from the teasing of those we came to call ‘the boys of the street.’ The chiseled, ripped bodies and monuments of idolatry of some eventually confronted and taunted us as they attempted to lure us into a psychology that was completely alien to the way we lived. Most had stories that were memorized from their retelling and purported a sense of motivation which would make for a better future, yet the substance of their individual scenarios blended like the tightly knit weave of a tapestry pattern. By their own admission, all but one denied being gay. Some had girl friends, wives, children and were just trying to get by. A few of them had ambitions in various careers. This current method of employment was a conduit through which respective goals would be realized in weeks, months or years to come. They were quite adept at conjuring images of lives which helped them to rationalize their present circumstances. This is what they shared in order to create confidence and trust before they made the next move.
At first, we believed what we heard because of their persuasive tone. We soon learned that they shared a common gift — tongues that dripped with honey coated sincerity. It is unfair to say that they were all like this. A few said it the way it was. Dysfunctional family life, drug dependency and/or very easy money catapulted them into an arena with no boundaries or authority figures and made their concept of time a ‘live for the moment’ ideology. Most worked solo, but there were some we heard of who paired up and catered to men who were into that kind of play.
The bugarón were not the only ones with whom we became acquainted. There was another group, a small circle of men and women whose lives also had been filled with a fair degree of adversity, but they made a conscious choice to use different methods and techniques to meet the challenges of daily life. Unlike the ‘boys of the street’, they could not be characterized by a common description of personality, behavior or the way in which they interacted with us. These qualities were unique in source and substance and, with the passing of time, they became our friends.
Steve and I never could have imagined that we would come to find ourselves inside the bubble of such an unlikely togetherness or how these individuals, each and together, would affect us from opposing perspectives. On the one hand, there was the calculated and unyielding pursuit of some to engage us in what we thought to be bizarre. On the other, we sensed the evolution of a seeming extended family. Our hope for all of them was two-fold. We longed for them to come to understand the meaning of unconditional kindness and generosity of spirit. More importantly, we wanted the gifts of self-worth and dignity to be found, once again, by those who had abandoned them and strengthened in others for whom they were shrouded abstractions as circumstances dictated. These were strange concepts which would be learned by some…..for the very first time in their lives.
Dark Streets, Bright Lights is more their story than it is ours. Steve and I were merely supporting characters who, through events and scenarios listened to as well as witnessed first hand, became part of their lives during a decade plus. Although there were many who crossed our path and have been part of personal journals, notes and snippets of writing, the ones remembered in this book most deeply and profoundly affected us.
Like so many who come from a different reality than theirs, we might have sat in judgment of need and want, the aberrant behavior of some and the varying degrees of turmoil visible in all. We chose another route which Steve’s brother, Hal, during a visit to us, called “the ministry of the street.” That is what inspired this writing of our experiences among the hustlers, homeless and hopefuls who found their way to our hearts.
Chronology of events is less important than is the persona of each silhouette you will meet and try to visualize. Some of the descriptions are tender and emotional while others are blatant with no intention to be vulgar. These lives were what they were, so to write about them with compromised candor would distort the naked truth of each lived experience. In ways many and varied, they were fragile souls wanting to be looked upon with understanding and wounded spirits needing to be listened to with compassion.
Before any of us may claim the possession of a caring nature, we do well to consider that it comprises more than listening ears or an understanding heart. A truly generous spirit takes on substance and flesh when there is a willingness to put aside the priority of personal pleasures and embrace the struggle of a fellow human being.
Dichotomy
1
Steve and I studied the thirteen-month-old toddler as he ambled unsteadily upon the beach. His father stood nearby and bore a smile of pride as he watched his son negotiate a path across the uneven sand. He knew the peculiarities of this particular plot because he had worked there for the past twenty three years as a provider of lounge rentals to those who searched them out. The enthusiastic little one turned to his father and began to clap as if to say, “Look at me; I can do it.” All at once, down he went, chuckling as only small tykes can chuckle.
José went to him, swept him into his strong arms and began to dance across the warm tan surface.
This innocent, José Emmanuel Hidalgo Melendez, was safe and secure in a sturdy cradle of love ... his daddy’s embrace.
The face of Manuel could have been any of their faces, the ones called boogies. It is a face unburdened by cares and worries. It is a face that projects joy. It is a face that knows, somehow, what love feels like. We want to believe that, once upon a time, this is what it was like for the bugarón. Surely, they had experienced the same sense of wonder and excitement as very early explorers of the world around them. There must have been moments like this one that were filled with spontaneous happiness. There had to have been someone who loved them and who, like José, taught them what it meant to feel safe and secure. To think otherwise would be a sad commentary that it always had been different, that life wandered in an unchanging repetition from day to day, past to present. The haunting questions, What happened to them? How? Why? are answered in their individual and collective journeys. This poem sets the stage for characterizations and recollections which span a spectrum from the curious and surprising to the startling and unseemly and, ultimately, to the incredulous and surreal:
Dichotomy
The silence of night
Is broken by the whistling wind
And as the sun rises
Once again in majesty,
The waves awaken
And begin to roar.
Tucked between ocean and sea,
An oasis from our desert of reality,
Puerto Rico, the Isla Del Encanto,
Intoxicates us with delight
Inviting us to savor lushness
And appreciate the richness
Of its birth.
Interrupted, then, by so many
Who walk dark streets
In search of bright lights
Their aberrant needs and wants,
Imprisoning them in desperation
And suspending them in fantasies
Of non-existent lives,
Prompt them to forget
Who they once were.
We are moved with compassion,
Becoming sober in the faces
Of these shattered silhouettes,
Trying to find and touch
That hidden place in each,
Longing to have them remember,
Perhaps help them to heal.
Captivating serenades,
Strange music to our ears
Needing embrace in the wake of exhaustion,
The coqu’ make known their presence
In the hush of evening’s evolution.
Like a symphony of lullabies
They soothe us, giving rest,
While those others, gone from the day,
Labor in the shadows,
Forgetting us … for now.
In the House of the Father
F.L. Richards 2006, 2008
Big José
2
As one travels along the Expresso Baldorioty de Castro, it is not difficult to notice luxury condominium buildings which stand as proud testaments to affluence. In the midst of absorbing the pleasant images these tall structures stimulate, others appear. They stand in humbleness yet catch the eye. Their lack of glamour is stark. Their sameness of appearance is blatant. The absence of lush landscaping is obvious and compels a mental contrast to the picturesque scenes of moments before. These are government-subsidized housing . The term is synonymous with poverty. One called Development Luis Llorenz Torres is where José lived with his mom and three younger siblings. There was no dad in the home so, at an early age, he assumed the role of principal provider for his family. José was burdened with uninvited adult responsibility long before he knew what that meant.
By the time we met him during our second vacation on the island in the summer of 1988, his teenage years were but a memory that lacked form and substance since he never had the opportunity to fully enjoy them. He had, instead, done what he could during those years so his family might survive. José was twenty three when we met him. He stood 6´ 5˝ and was all legs. We thought that ‘Legs’ might have been a good nickname so we could distinguish him from others with the same name, but we decided to call him Big José. Our first encounter with him was at the bar we often went to during afternoon happy hour. It was at the end of a side street and faced the ocean. We had seen him there doing odd jobs for the owner. Initially, we thought he was employed as a handyman. There was no indication that he was a ‘working boy’ who exchanged pleasure for money. While on the job, he engaged no one in conversation. Gestures of courtesy, a smile or wave, were the only acknowledgments he extended as the bar became crowded at four o’clock each afternoon.
On the day we arrived for a week of relaxation following summer work in a school, we went to the bar. From where we were seated, we could see the entrance. He stepped inside, paused to speak to a couple of people, and proceeded to walk in our direction. He sat on the stool to my left; Steve was to my right. He spoke some English; that was not his primary way of communicating however. He was wearing orange shorts and a white tee-shirt. Not long after our introduction to each other and our buying a drink for him, his one hand became affixed to his crotch. The movement of his hand was slow and deliberate. As he sat back, he said something to me, forcing me to turn and look at him. It was impossible not to notice what he was doing.
Since I speak some Spanish, I looked at Steve in order to translate. Returning to conversation with José, we bantered about his work in the bar. Indeed, he did work there; that was not his main source of income. He pushed the high bar stool back a few inches and spread his legs. While his fingers walked up and down the target zone, he poked me and said, “No te gusta?” (You don’t like it?) We never had been approached like this, so we were unsure about what to say or do.
Laughing, I slapped his arm and said, “Behave yourself.” I quickly added, in the best Spanish sentences I could put together, that Steve and I were a couple and that this was not something in which we were interested. It was not until he stood up that Steve got a glimpse of what was obviously a sleeping giant.
“Yo tengo hambre,” (I’m hungry) he said as he extended his hand to shake ours.
We gave him a few dollars, and he left the bar. Steve and I looked at each other and laughed. We had just been initiated into the world of hustling with this up close and personal interaction. One way or another, we were going to pay for the time he had spent with us.
During subsequent vacations, usually in August, we got to know José better. Those sexually-explicit actions and words continued, but our acquaintance with him took on a different flavor. He shared with us his family life. When he spoke about his mom, his tone was affectionate. His facial expression, one which was ordinarily sensual, became quite sad. We were fledglings, so we were still unschooled about the hustler mentality. Believing that we were helping him and his family, we continued to give him money. Those early years of getting to know him are difficult to pinpoint chronologically. Of more importance is the unfolding of his story.
We were at happy hour one afternoon during one of our annual returns to the island. We had, by that time, met others who vacationed there each year during the same week as we. That day, Steve and I had more to drink than usual. José appeared; he was wearing tight white jeans, no underwear, and a dress shirt. Clean-shaven and smiling, he saw us looking at him and he approached. We had not yet learned that to look at a hustler was an invitation for the bee to fly to the honey. He joined us for a drink.
As we began to introduce him to the guys who were sitting with us, one said, “We know José … quite well.”
I guess Steve and I initially looked at him a bit too long and intensely because he was clear about his impression that he thought he would be accompanying us to our condo for what would be a sexual adventure with him. As many times as we had told him that we were a couple, the words didn’t matter. He just continued trying to wear us down so we would submit to what he believed was irresistible. The head games were fun; the teasing was titillating. That’s all it would ever be. It was on that day that he finally understood that our interactions with him had nothing to do with sex and that we had, no doubt, given him mixed signals. What did we know? After that day, the complexion of our conversations steered clear of anything to do with his line of work. Not surprisingly, he sat with us less frequently. His attention was on others who were a more certain source of income.
It was not until we bought a condo in June of 1997, nine years after we met José, that we saw the heart of his humanity. Being unfamiliar with areas outside of our neighborhood, he offered to drive us to a number of stores so we could purchase items of all kinds. We had established boundaries long before, so we were comfortable and confident that our acceptance of his gesture would be understood for what it was and nothing more. We waited in front of our building for a nine o’clock pick up. From around the corner, we heard a noise that sounded like a muffler gasping to survive. We thought an army tank was approaching. José pulled up to our building bearing a broad smile. We had not yet started out and we were already two bags of nerves wondering if this wreck of a car would be able to go the distance.
Once inside it, sweat began to pour down our faces. The air conditioner did not work and two of the windows could not be opened. We felt as if we
were driving in a sauna on wheels! We did not say anything to him because he seemed genuinely pleased to be able to help us. Without complaint, we dragged him from store to store until the undertaking of the day was completed. Exiting the parkway was a great tension releaser. We had made it back to our neighborhood in one piece. If something happened then, we were within walking distance of our apartment. Once inside the parking lot, he pulled into a spot close to the side entrance. Steve and I experienced feelings of welcome and relief. We welcomed the silence and were relieved that the car had not expired.
During the many vacation years that had passed, we came to know others like José and were somewhat more refined in our understanding of a mentality that was predicated on engaging techniques of introduction, sob stories and fictitious self-characterizations. These were the trademarks of ‘the profession’ and had become easily recognizable. Miguel had aspirations of becoming an attorney. Edwin spit out the names of human bones and their functions. After all, these are things a mortician had to know! Ricardo boasted about a career in the adult film industry. Juan was a tour guide. These were but delusional impressions of desire, of what might have been, but they had no basis in fact … or reality.
These guys were always hanging around, sometimes from early afternoon to night. When did they have time for anything else? The really sad part was that they believed they were convincing, that what they said was credible and those who heard the tales would be moved by a sense of admiration and compassion by dipping into deep pockets, even if no sexual tryst followed. José was not like the others who were authors of concocted, fictional stories of ambition, but he was a boogie and they were all takers.
As we spent time with him away from the bar scene, José revealed another side of his personality to us. There was more to him than seductive teasing and suggestive gesture. Against the advice of many, we hired him to paint our apartment. We had heard horror stories about guys like José who were invited by tourists to their hotel rooms or condo rentals. They were robbed; some were beaten. Despite numerous admonitions, we proceeded as planned. We knew José well enough to believe he did not fit that unsettling description.
For two weeks, he appeared right on time or early. Steve prepared breakfast each morning. This gave us an opportunity to discuss the day’s agenda and ensure that José had food to eat. When he worked, he was focused. This had not changed at all since the early days when he did odd jobs at the bar. During any given eight hour work day, sometimes longer, he paused infrequently either to smoke a cigarette, use the bathroom, eat lunch or enjoy a glass of soda. There was no alcohol or beer served while he worked. He was not only punctual but quite efficient. He displayed obvious pride as each part of the facelift was completed. Any irritation he felt because of my demand for perfection remained unvoiced; he simply did as he was instructed.
More than once, I caught him looking at Steve. They just smiled and rolled their eyes. Steve had gotten used to my somewhat obsessive behavior during our years together. For José, it was an education. There were several days when he stayed late because he did not want to leave a job unfinished. This was prompted, in part, by an apparent sense of self-satisfaction. Of greater importance was the fact that he just did not want to hear my mouth.
At the onset, we gave him the option of being paid daily or weekly; he chose the former. It would provide steady help at home, at least for a
while. By each day’s end, he was exhausted. Unless something came up in conversation, we all but forgot he led another life. He was away from the street for now and was earning a salary that came from hard work, not horizontal relaxation. Unlike the other ‘boys of the street’ who had to scramble to find work during this time of the year called low season, José was assured of a steady income.
There came a time during those weeks when we left him alone while we did some errands. If others thought we were crazy for allowing him to step foot into our apartment, they became convinced we had lost our sanity for leaving him unattended. The more he saw the appearance of our apartment change, the greater seemed his motivation and effort.
There were a number of bifold louver doors which needed to be primed and painted. He tackled this job last because it was quite tedious. Working on these doors was a three day process involving priming and two coats of paint. Some areas required more because the paint had not dried evenly. This additional work was done because, as he saw me scrutinize what he was doing, he just knew that he wasn’t finished. I didn’t have to say a word!
The condo was completely furnished when we purchased it, but we had made some changes which were more suited to our taste. José was the recipient of a number of items which we did not want, but which were still in good condition. One was a stereo system. On the day we gave it to him, his face glowed. One would have thought he had won the lottery! His mom loved music but was unable to afford such a luxury. She owned a small radio; it was her only source of entertainment.
As we neared the completion of the massive undertaking, we sensed a change in his demeanor. The security and sanity he had enjoyed during this hiatus was about to end and he would return to what had been his life since he was seventeen years old. We wished there was more for him to do so we could prolong his having to strip away his clothes and dignity in order to support his family. We would not be returning to the island until after the holidays; that was months away. On the last day of work, he looked pensive and sad as he hugged and thanked us for everything we had done for him.
During the next days, we put the apartment together again and prepared for our trip back to the states. As we packed, Steve noticed that one of his rings was missing. We had bought a set while on a day trip to St. Thomas during our very first island vacation in 1987 and had worn them as a symbol of our life together. We looked everywhere; it was gone. We were aghast when we reached the only logical conclusion; José had taken it.
I bolted out of the apartment knowing that José would probably be at the bar. As I neared, filled with tension, I saw him standing on the corner of the side street where it was located. He saw my face; it was red with rage. I went on a tirade in Spanish because I did not want him to misunderstand anything I was saying. I think half the neighborhood heard me call him a liar after he denied taking it. I blurted that he had no heart and was just like the rest of the garbage that hung around there.
He tried to speak, but I was lashing out an irreverent litany and did not want to hear anything from him. Finally, he threw his hands up in the air and walked away while mumbling something. I returned to the condo, my anger being more intense than before I had left it. José’s actions confirmed for us the stereotype about which we had been repeatedly cautioned: “You can take the hustler out of the street, but you can’t take the street out of the hustler.” This was a startling wake up call!
We went to the bar that evening against Steve’s better judgment. He saw that I was like a tiger in a cage and needed to get out. Chris, a young American guy who had relocated to Puerto Rico, was the bartender on duty. He saw my face and asked what was wrong. “That bastard … You won’t believe what happened.”
“Don’t tell me,” was his reaction to my irritated tone. He was aware that José had been working in our apartment. Not intending to put salt in the wound, but sensing that something was very wrong he said, with an air of castigation, “I told you to be careful!”
“You were absolutely right,” Steve replied and proceeded to explain the events of the day. King Pin, the one we believed to be the daddy of the hustler den, was in earshot of our conversation. We had seen him at the bar, but we had never spoken to him. We knew of him through Chris, who had described for us his position in the hierarchy.
Unsolicited, he approached us and said, “He has the ring.”
“Who?” I asked.
“José.”
Chris leaned forward from behind the bar and asked him how he knew this. After my confrontation with José, King Pin claimed he heard José asking if anyone wanted to buy a gold ring. Had I squeezed the glass I was holding a bit more, it would have shattered in my hand. Steve had taken me to the bar to relax, but tension mounted to new heights as we listened to the older hustler. Of course, giving us this information would cost us a drink.
He attempted to sit beside me, but my mood was so foul at that moment I said, in an elevated voice, “Véte…tenemos que hablar con Chris ahora mismo” (Go … we have to talk to Chris right now). My statement prompted a jack-in-the-box reaction. He sprang to his feet and made quick tracks to the door, drink in hand. We had no doubt that this brief encounter would be spread throughout the ranks. It was no coincidence that José was nowhere to be found during our last two days. He would reappear once we were gone, but he knew we would return.
We arrived back in New York and had but a few days to get reorganized for a trip to Provincetown, the gay mecca of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Our dear friends, Mike and Chad, had invited us to join them for what would be our first experience in a place completely absent of homophobia, labels and judgment. Steve and I were hopeful that the setting would also provide an oasis from the reality of the ring incident and the resulting myriad emotions which had gripped us like a vise.
On the way to meet them at their beautiful home in Cheshire, Connecticut, we agreed to avoid discussion of what had transpired on the island. Whatever enjoyment lay ahead, we needed to embrace it with unburdened spirits. The five hour drive from their home to the Cape allowed us ample time to plan the week’s activities and catch up on life in general.
Unknowingly, Mike asked how our condo was shaping up. He saw my face in the rear view mirror and knew something was very wrong. Despite our earlier pledge, Steve and I summarized the fiasco. We knew we would be questioned at some point during the week. It was better done and over with before the festivities began.
Our vacation was incredible. The quaintness of the town attested to a New England flavor which was charming. On one of our daily walks, we came upon an artisan who created jewelry. We chose a design and had two new rings made. These looked more like bands than the nugget rings we had purchased in St. Thomas years earlier. We loved the style of these new ones. We walked through the building and found ourselves on the beach. Tranquility enveloped us as we gazed at the breathtaking view. Steve said, “Give me the rings.” He held mine and handed his to me. It was if we were in a bubble of joy as each placed a ring on the other’s finger and said words of recommitment. We could feel the power of love melt away misgivings. This was an unexpected, spontaneous moment that gifted us with the capacity to heal and forgive.
The week passed quickly and we were back in our apartment in New York. I was in the shower while Steve began sorting clothes for our trip to the laundry room. I heard him say something but had to turn the water down to understand what it was. I peeked out from behind the shower curtain. “Do you have your ring?” he asked.
“Which one?”
“The nugget.” I extended my hand and showed it to him. His voice echoed throughout the apartment.
“Oh, my God!” He lifted his hand and opened it. On its palm lay a nugget ring.
I felt the blood rush through me; Steve’s face was ghost white. “Where was it?” I asked as I quickly got out of the shower. He told me that it was inside the flap of blue briefs. Apparently, he forgot he had placed it there at some point during our time on the island. Unseen, it traveled from the island to New York to Cape Cod and back — safe and sound. We stood there, lost for words. The whole thing was incredible!
Our relief quickly turned to tears when the realization hit us. We had falsely accused José of being a thief. The accusation and my nasty, condescending barrage of an obscene litany flashed before me. I felt like the piece of crap I had judged him to be. There was no way to contact him. We had neither an address nor a phone number. We’d have to live with this until we returned to the island right after Christmas; that was five months away.
As the season approached, our usual excited anticipation was replaced with nervous anxiety. An unsettling queasiness sloshed inside me whenever I recalled how I had degraded José in public. That was a no-no. One of the traits we had come to know about ‘the boys’ was their machismo. It was a tough, masculine façade often covering a substance of opposite composition. José had been deeply offended. We knew the exterior bravado, but we had also seen his gentler side. We hoped the latter would prevail when we finally faced him.
More a Hispanic than an American custom, applause always accompanied landing on the island. In the past, we had eagerly participated because we were as happy as they each time we returned to our Isla Del Encanto. The conclusion of this flight was different. That gesture was muted and overshadowed by the task which lay ahead. Until we were able to speak to José, we would not be able to lift the ponderous guilt that weighed heavily upon us.
We left the suitcases packed and walked to the bar. As we rounded the corner of the side street, we saw José walking in our direction. When he caught sight of us, he quickly side-stepped and headed for the opposite side of the street. I called to him; he ignored me and stepped up his pace. We crossed the street, diagonally, in order to head off his attempt to get away from us.
It was as if the incident and resulting confrontation had happened that day. His face was tight and he tried not to look at us. I explained, as best
I could, how very sorry we were for the big mistake we had made. Steve added words, in simple English, to what we were trying to convey.
After we explained what actually had happened, his facial expression relaxed and he simply said, with a less than sincere effort, “It’s O.K.”
We also explained to him what had occurred later that day in the bar. We recounted the conversation with King Pin and that, after hearing his words, we believed that our suspicion was accurate. That was the moment we came to understand another aspect of the street M.O. — there was no loyalty among the ranks; it was each man for himself. Just as exaggeration was part and parcel of their lives, they did not like competition. The older one heard our conversation with Chris and became aware, unless he knew before, that José was working for us. This gave him ammunition for what had clearly been a lie. He had never heard José say anything about having a gold ring to sell. It was an intentional misrepresentation designed to stir the pot and cause trouble. With José out of the way, he could begin the whole twilight zone process, thinking he would have unhampered access to the gringos!
After that unpleasant but necessary encounter with José, his behavior toward us changed. Once cordial, he became cautiously civil. We saw him less and less and, when we did, he never asked for money or a drink. It was not until the summer of 1999, fully two years after the incident, that the José we once knew began to re-emerge.
He had been the first one we met in 1988. It was ironic that, on the day that we traveled back to Puerto Rico to begin another phase of life as permanent residents, he was the first one we saw. He embraced each of us while saying. “! Bienvenidos.. Que alegria!” (Welcome…what happiness!)
Yes, he did do other jobs for us without incident, but we sensed a change. His face did not look as full or healthy as we had remembered it. He had lost weight. His approach to work was noticeably more sluggish, and the hours he spent doing it were greatly reduced each day. He claimed he was attempting to change, but we knew well that he was telling us what he thought we wanted to hear.
During the many years of knowing him, we had engaged him in countless numbers of conversations which were designed to create, affirm and nurture some semblance of self-worth. We knew what was going on; he had been drawn into the web of addictive drug use. Perhaps it had been going on all along, but he had been adept at hiding it from us. There was no concealing it now. We began to see him, along with others, standing at ‘the wall’ — a small area between the bar we went to and another which was across the street. It was a cruise spot. Hungry passersby were given a glimpse of the wares for sale. On any given afternoon, José was in position. If he saw us walking down the long, narrow street, he quickly moved away.
It made us sad to consider that this young man, whose heart seemed to be in the right place, had made a choice which had little to do with reason and sensibility. By the time we moved back to the states in 2001, it was clear to us that Big José was a slave to drugs. There was nothing more we could do and were empty of the motivation to try. We wondered how he was able to provide for his mom and siblings now that his ‘earnings’ were being used to support a different need.
Clearly, he could no longer take care of them because he had given up on taking care of himself. He became captive in a world of unreality as the need to be numb made him oblivious to the importance of familial love and his vital role in its prosperity. We were aware of an addiction that had spiraled out of control and with each return to the island, news of his deteriorating condition disheartened us. Not too long ago, his struggle ended. With a hypodermic needle protruding from his arm, José’s lifeless body was found on the beach. Rather than pondering this ghastly image, Steve and I choose to think about a time when his heart was kind, caring and a compelling sense of obligation to the mother he loved so much directed his youth.
The Davids
3
It was not our intention to remember more than one principal in each chapter. As the process of organizing and outlining recollections moved along, we found weaves in the tapestry of each journey which resulted in a decision to blend them in one body of writing. Like the commonality of the name, JosŽ, we knew a number of Davids. To avoid confusion, we refer to them as Elder and Younger.
Elder
He was in his late thirties and in outstanding physical condition. The bearer of a rock-hard, mesomorphic physique, strikingly handsome face and flawless grooming, he exemplified the extreme of macho. This guy was a head turner!
These qualities, however, were not the ones that made him stand out. Regardless of the time of day, there was an unalterable sameness in his facial expression. It was a mixture of intense and sullen. He usually sat alone, eyes down, and stared at whatever was in the glass in front of him. He always appeared to be detached from what was going on around him even at times when happy hour was raucous. Occasionally, the semblance of a smile would alter his otherwise stoic countenance. It was never prolonged, a few seconds at most. It was as if a fleeting thought amused him. To say that he was not aggressively forward is an understatement. His trance-like condition kept him wrapped up inside a remote location from which he did not often emerge.
We had heard that he was part of the street ranks, yet his behavior contradicted the boogie stereotype. The essence of attractiveness and masculinity, he was quite a piece of eye candy. These qualities provided the potential for excellent business, but he rarely spoke to anyone. Those inclined to cruise him labored to get his attention but were unsuccessful most of the time. Without eye contact, the chase was an exercise in futility and resulted in their having to keep torrid thoughts within the realm of fantasy.
The few times we witnessed an exchange with a fun seeker were on days when he was out of his shell more than in it. His posture erect, he sat with his head up. He appeared cognizant of his surroundings as well as admirers who stared at him. While the other boogies advanced quickly, he never left his seat. Body language and discrete gestures were indications that he was receptive to company. The protracted machinations of foreplay, so obvious with other hustlers, were brief and not blatantly obvious. If there was a connection, it usually occurred within minutes and was followed by a quick departure.
He walked into the bar early one afternoon. It was well before the converging of the crowd for happy hour. At most, there were four or five others besides Steve and me. He was wearing a ribbed, sleeveless muscle shirt. Black leather arm bands accentuated his mountainous muscles which flexed, then relaxed, almost as if their movement was involuntary. Veins protruded under the constricting bands and looked like they were going to burst. He was carrying a small gym bag; apparently, he had just completed a workout.
As he made his way around the interior, we saw that he was quite sweaty. He was pumped … in every sense of the word. This was not at all the same Elder David of absolute predictability we had observed in the past. Despite the fact that most stools were empty, he dropped his bag on the one next to where I was sitting then walked away. We did not turn to see where he went but continued our conversation.
We were unaware of his return until we heard the scraping of the stool legs against the wood planked floor. He exuded a ‘gym’ odor; it was not offensive but pronounced. Chris approached and took our glasses for refills. I glanced sideways, noting what looked like a smile on David’s face. This had been noticed before, so I could not be sure if he was directing it at us or if he was finding humor in a present thought. Chris returned and placed our drinks in front of us while acknowledging and engaging David in small talk.
We both looked left and heard his voice for the first time. “How are you guys doing?” He extended his hand, first to me and then to Steve.
Chris stood there with a look of surprise then asked, “You don’t know David?”
“Now we do,” I chuckled.
We bought him a beer and, as Chris attempted to put the bottle on the bar, David’s hand intercepted it. Extending it, he thanked us.
Steve has always been the quiet one. I, on the other hand, could speak to a wall and get an answer! This, however, was a challenge even for me. Sustaining a conversation with him was a test of endurance, even though he spoke fluent English. His responses were mono-syllabic to a few words at best. Any pause in talking prompted that downward stare we had seen before. My adaptability, usually tension-free in most situations, was tenuous. We decided to leave; that brief introduction had been enough for one day. As we pushed our stools back, David emerged from his trance, thanked us, and returned to the place in his mind from which he had escaped momentarily.
While walking to our condo, we talked about this strange guy. His personality almost defied description. For a fleeting moment, I thought of the term, shy humility. For sure, there were walls around him which seemed to be self-designed, guarded and impenetrable. It would take time, but we were eventually given a glimpse inside this enigma of a man.
As our conversations with David increased in frequency, but not length, we learned more about his stares, the sources of his protracted distraction. We came to know things about his life which placed him in his present position. His family life had not been a good one and, by innuendo, he suggested that he had spent time in jail. He did not explain anything, but his look was one which displayed unpleasant memories. We were not about to ask any questions. In this instance, less was definitely more.
Despite an oddness that clearly encased him in a remote reality, he seemed conscious enough to keep in good shape. Somewhere in the obvious confusion of his mind, he knew what was a turn-on for others. He had to have realized, too, that there would come a time when he could no longer compete with the younger ones. We wondered how he survived. Rarely had we seen him with anyone, yet he went to the gym frequently. The money had to be coming from somewhere. Maybe he had a sugar daddy who supported and allowed him to go out and do his own thing. Maybe he was a high roller and was paid for services commensurate with his raw, sensual appearance.
While only conjecture, either line of reasoning seemed plausible. The one thing about which we were certain was that his approach was different. Absent of the blatantly aggressive nature of some, his was a quiet, mysterious presence that coupled with extreme physical appeal. Those partners did the work for him.
Eventually, there came a time when he joined us for dinner at our condo having repeatedly said how hungry he was while we were at the bar for happy hour one afternoon. Before getting there, he had worked out. He asked if he could take a shower before dinner. Steve and I were working in the kitchen when he rounded the bend from the bathroom. We didn’t notice him standing there until we heard his voice behind us. “Thanks, guys.”
With simultaneous movement to acknowledge him, we turned. “You’re welcome, David.” He was standing with a towel tightly hugging his waist. We had never seen the reality of the term six pack until that evening. His physique was about as close to perfect as one could get!
I made an innocent, passing reference about his great condition. He started to turn around as if he had just received an invitation to model. As he did so, his hands gripped the flaps of the towel, unloosened them and spread them apart. The rest of his body, all of it, was in proportion to that which we first saw when he entered the kitchen. He gripped one of the breakfast bar stools, positioned it diagonally so it faced us, draped the towel over the back rest and sat on the edge of the seat — legs spread and hanging — along with what had just been exposed to us for the first time. The privacy of our home and his apparent comfortability with us must have encouraged him to emancipate his member. It was not until he began to caress it that I grabbed the towel and threw it over him.
“You better get some clothes on.”
“I better … or what?”
“We’re eating dinner on the terrace, and you can’t sit out there like that.”
“Like what?” he countered as he lifted the towel and let us see the dance of the muscle spasms.
“Exactly! Get dressed before the food gets cold.”
He got the message and stood up. The rigid, straight arrow swayed back and forth as he walked. He was some piece of work… no pun intended! Despite our obvious sense of propriety, we were not certain if he understood why we had invited him. He was with us to eat dinner and he was not an item on the dessert menu. The expression, “dumb like a fox,” raced through my mind. It caused pause to consider that, just maybe, he was much more in touch with himself and his actions than he had led us to believe. He exited the bedroom and helped us bring the food and drinks to the table.
As he sat, he smiled at us. “i Buen provecho!” he announced while holding a bottle of beer.
“i Egual!” I retorted. These phrases, invitations to enjoy a meal, were commonplace. The Elder David sensed our awkwardness as we tried to begin a conversation. We really should have been thankful because never had we heard him speak so much. Perhaps he was better able to concentrate when his head was moving in one direction!
“I’m very sorry if I embarrassed you; I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
We confessed that we were more than surprised by his behavior because it was completely unlike the manner in which he presented himself at the bar.
“I keep my business private.” That was an interesting play on words which gave us an opening to explain our motivation for extending cordiality to him. Our reasoning prompted a response that was no great surprise. He had always been under the impression that attention given demanded attention returned. Steve quickly dispelled that myth where we were concerned.
“Before I forget, don’t leave your jewelry out; you never know. If I was high, it would have been gone. Don’t trust anyone.”
His words were chilling and caused Steve and me to look at each other. Not wanting our concern to seem like a knee-jerk reaction, we waited until the end of the meal to make a move. Steve excused himself to use the bathroom; I knew exactly why he said this. He dashed to the bedroom to ensure that our jewelry was there. When he returned, his facial expression was one of relief. That conveyed the message that everything was accounted for.
I went to the kitchen to get dessert ready. When I brought it to the table, I had to squeeze around David’s chair. He had pushed it back and was in a more relaxed position. His hand clutched his member while his legs moved in an open/close rhythm. While we were determined to maintain boundaries, it was not possible to ignore the crowning glory that made him the absolute complete package.
It was difficult for us to pretend that we were oblivious to deliberate, suggestive movements that, no doubt, were designed to make us melt. After all, we are human! To say that there was no mental or visual titillation would not be true. He made it impossible for us to pretend we did not see what, clearly, he thought to be an inescapable god of idolatry. We held our ground, enjoyed dessert and continued in benign conversation for a while longer. He saw me look at my watch.
“It must be late.”
“10:_0”
“I should get going.”
His face reverted to one more familiar to us, the intense, sullen illusion of the bar façade he more predictably projected. No doubt, the unsuccessful attempts of his fleshy assistant caused the quick change to occur. I sprang to my feet and retrieved his gym bag from the bedroom.
As David hugged us and expressed thanks, he pressed his rock of Gibraltar against us. He was relentless! We stood in the hallway as he gave a last wave before entering the elevator.
Once back inside, I just looked at Steve and blurted, “What the hell was that?”
Steve laughed at my tone. “I have no idea.”
This was a wholly different man than the one in the bar. The behavior he exhibited in that atmosphere in no way, shape or form bore the slightest resemblance to what we just witnessed. We wondered whether he was able to adjust his behavior at will, or if it was due more to his state of mind in a given situation. Was his evident laid back, sometimes coma-like presence an M.O. of calculated design? Was the appearance of things intended to foster curiosity and intrigue? The only thing about which we were certain was that he possessed a pervasively depressed nature that, like a pendulum, swayed him back and forth between two different worlds. In one, he was focused, in touch and attentive. In the other, he existed in a seeming twilight zone.
This dinner experience was nothing less than surreal. It was not because he liked being in his birthday suit. It wasn’t even that he was skillful at narcissistic seduction. The real issue was that we had never met anyone with two diametrically opposing personalities, neither of which we were equipped to handle. During those hours together, we were given disconnected snippets of his life that rambled in an aimless circle of repetitiveness. When put together, however, a vague portrait could be painted. The deep, dark, painful information he shared with us made his persona not as completely weird as we originally thought. We wished we had known him longer and better. Perhaps we might have been able to offer suggestions that could have helped relieve the ponderous weight of emotional dysfunction.
We saw him less frequently after that evening. Depending upon his state of being, he’d wave or ignore us. At times when we thought it safe to do so, we bought him a beer. He would hold it up in a gesture of thanks and, before we knew it, he’d return to the outer limits. As time passed, it was clear to us that he was sinking into an abyss from which he was unlikely to return. His stare became blank. It was accompanied by eyes that were completely vacant.
In passing conversation one day, Chris mentioned that David had a sister who tried, more than once, to help him. Whether he was unwilling or too far gone to embrace her outstretched arms of love and hope is something that will remain unexplained. Eventually, he lost his ability to think and reason. His emotionally battered persona appeared consumed by a force that, like an insidious cancer, ate away until it completely debilitated and paralyzed him. He existed in a state of interior paralysis where yesterday, today and tomorrow became synonymous with nothingness.
Once in the vise of irreversible unreality, he lost the will to live. One day, he positioned himself on the ground outside what was believed to have been a randomly selected house . He injected a fatal dose of drugs and released himself from the daunting anguish that had made the prospect of living one more hour unbearable. He went to a place of quiet rest, a place where the demons of emotion no longer controlled him. A place where, at last, the torment was ended.
Younger
The physical appearance of this David was the antitheses of the Elder’s always crisp look. Younger was twenty-four, tall and lanky. His thick, black hair accentuated his deep set eyes. Depending upon circumstances, his appearance spanned the spectrum from squeaky clean to a complete mess. More than occasionally, his clothing longed for a washing machine.
His posture was erect and made his height a characteristic that distinguished him from most others of his age. When he walked, there was a bounce to his step; his heels never touched the ground. While his face was youthful, it bore the tell tale signs that accompany drug addiction. He had been a user since his teen years.
David was a kid who had gone astray at an early age. He had fallen through the cracks and left untapped any real potential for a productive, successful life. Sadly, no one ever grabbed hold of and pointed him in a better direction. His persona did not boast of one who came from a professional family, yet it was possible. Drug dependency does not discriminate. It is an equal opportunity devastator!
We became acquainted with Younger shortly after our move to the island in August 1999. Until then, we had been to only two gay bars.
From passing conversations, we were aware that there was another in the neighborhood but, because of less than flattering descriptions and characterizations we had heard from friends, we never had the desire to investigate this place that catered to a much older crowd and ‘crawled with boogies.’ Our impressions were about to change.
During the summer months, it was always a good idea to get on and off the beach before noon. The sun was punishing during the afternoon hours and, depending upon the humidity index, there were times when the simple, involuntary task of breathing became a labor of concerted effort.