Shane and Carmen: The Novelization Ch. 03

Chapter 3 Be a Man

Shane got out of the car in the middle of a block on Santa Monica Boulevard without looking back at the driver or acknowledging him in any way. She'd seen Clive loitering on the sidewalk in front of a record store, and she asked the driver to stop. He'd jammed on the brakes and as soon as the car had slowed enough Shane popped the door and was out. She sauntered over to a trash can, dropped into it a pair of cheap latex gloves and a condom containing a fresh load of jism, and walked over to Clive. She parked her ass against the building, one leg hooked up behind her, and asked him, "Got a cigarette?" Clive gave her one.

"How much you get?" Clive asked.

"Twenty," Shane said, lighting the cigarette. That was the going price for a hand job, sometimes twenty-five if the traffic would bear it. "Motherfucker started groping me, almost got to my crotch before I shut him down."

"How'd you do that?"

"Told him I'd mace him."

Clive grunted.

In a sense, Shane and Clive were twins. They had both just turned nineteen. They were both effectively homeless. Shane and Clive both wore grungy clothes, but that was the grunge look -- indigent, drug-abusing street hustlers dressed pretty much the same as a lot of young people who shopped in upscale mall stores where jeans with holes in them sold for $200. Shane and Clive both had short, spikey hair, the only major difference being Shane was a natural brunette and Clive was a bleach blond. They were both thin and boney, neither one had tits, and neither had had anything like a square meal with a meat, a starch and a green vegetable in over a year. Both were pale and looked unhealthy. Both abused drugs on the occasions they could afford anything halfway decent; mostly they just smoked marijuana. They were smart enough to stay away from crack, because they'd seen what it did to some of their friends and anyway they couldn't afford it. In the upscale suburbs DIY meant "do-it-yourself" and power tools. In the world Shane and Clive lived in, it meant "dead in a year" and drug paraphernalia.

Shane and Clive earned their livings as faggot street hustlers servicing gay men who cruised Santa Monica Boulevard looking for something quick and a little different. They were both androgynous, what some people might called "gender confused," but the truth was neither one was confused at all. Both knew what genders they were, and had no doubts whatsoever about their orientations. They were both gay as the day is long, always were, always would be. The only significant difference between them was that Clive had a real dick while Shane packed a fake one. It was only other people who looked at them who might have gotten confused trying to figure out their gender, which was understandable. All the markers were ambiguous and neither one gave a rat's ass if they confounded other people. Too fucking bad.

When they'd first met six months ago, Clive was the only one who had a lump in his pants. They'd met in line at a shelter soup kitchen, a couple of runaways in a city of thousands upon thousands of such. They looked alike, and instead of taking offense at it or trying to mark their territories in some sort of macho pissing contest, Clive and Shane thought it was just kind of funny. Shane had gotten fired from a burger joint for stealing food for herself. Clive simply couldn't get hired to begin with. One cold, rainy night they'd decided to go to a shelter together. Like most homeless kids, they hated shelters: They were places to get robbed, beat up, abused, raped. Shelters, refuges of last resort, segregated clientèle into male and female dorms, which meant Shane and Clive would have to spend the night apart.

"Why don't you tell them you're a guy," Clive said, possibly the only really intelligent, creative idea he'd ever had. "Half the people we run into already think you're a guy anyhow. Might just as well tell the shelter people that, too. And that way we can stay together and watch out for each other."

So Shane became a man, and spent the night in the men's shelter, sleeping in the cot next to Clive. When they'd been asked to sign in, the man at the reception desk asked Shane her name.

"Tommi," Shane told him. "Tommi with an 'i' on the end."

The man was unimpressed. "Last name?"

"Hilfiger."

The man wrote it down, and Shane looked at the log book. There she was, Tommy Hellfinger. She didn't bother to argue.

They were hanging out on the street at their wits' end one day when a car pulled to the curb and the driver leaned over to talk out the passenger window. He sized up the two of them, and decided blonds have more fun.

"Wanna go for a ride?" the driver asked Clive. Clive looked at Shane, who shrugged. Clive got in the car and rode away. When he got back an hour and a blowjob later, he had twenty-five bucks in his pocket and a bad taste in his mouth. They walked to a Bob's Big Boy and got burgers.

They talked it over. God knows there were enough fags working the street, they could blend in easily enough. They didn't know much about pimps, but they knew enough not to want one. A pimp would immediately discover Shane's gender, and would also decide what kind of sex Shane would or wouldn't offer. That simply wasn't an option.

"Clive," Shane said. "I'm not blowing anybody."

"You don't have to, Shane. I mean, Tommi. Just give 'em hand jobs."

"Ewww. I'm not sure it's much better."

Clive shrugged. "That's your call. But you get yourself some latex gloves, you slide a rubber on 'em, you jerk away for a couple of minutes while they lie back enjoying the sun and the smog, they cum, you get your money and a ride back, and that's it."

"Suppose they don't like the latex glove or the Trojans," Shane asked.

"Fuck 'em," Clive said. "Don't get in the car. Tell 'em you're not catching AIDS for nobody. But, hell, Tommi, most of 'em won't care. They're all scared shitless of AIDS by now, too. But you'll see. All they want is a quick cum. Nobody wants dinner and a movie."

"You've done this before, haven't you?"

Clive just grinned and shrugged. They were suddenly self-employed.

Within a few weeks they were each doing three or four tricks a day. The money was coming in. As a rule, Clive made a little more per trick than Shane, since he'd do blowjobs and once in a while anal, while Shane only did handjobs. By the same token, though, Clive lacked Shane's work ethic; she was out there almost every day, seven days a week. Clive would do one or two tricks and then get lazy, wander off.

By unspoken agreement they shared what they had. Shane kept all her worldly possessions in a duffel bag -- three changes of clothes -- while Clive kept his in two backpacks. Clive knew a guy named Bobby who ran a gas station and garage/towing service that had lockers and a small shower room in the back off the service bays. For a blowjob every now and then from Clive or a handjob from Shane he let them keep their stuff in one of the lockers, and they could shower once in a while in privacy, something not available in the shelters. Bobby wouldn't let them live there, but they could hang out, especially if the weather was bad. He had a small black-and-white TV with a clothes hanger antenna, and some nights when business was slow they sat around the office watching. Some nights a call would come in for Bobby to go out with the tow truck, and Clive would stay behind to mind the store while Shane went along just for the ride and some air. It also helped Shane learn the geography of the city, since she was a relatively recent arrival and didn't know her way around very well.

Most Friday and Saturday nights they went to clubs, sometimes to the same club if it catered to both sexes, and sometimes Shane went to a lesbian club while Clive went to a gay men's hangout. Once Shane went to one of Clive's places just to see what it was like, but so many gay guys started hitting on her that she began to get worried.

"I'm getting out of here," Shane yelled into Clive's ear over the roar of the music. Clive, who had his hand inside the fly of a biker, nodded. Shane went to her club, and an hour later was out behind it in the alley happily fucking a legal secretary from Van Nuys up against a wall.

At the end of their third week Shane ran into her first piece of trouble when a guy started coming after her crotch, thinking he was going to find a dick there he could suck on. Shane fought him off and managed to get out of the car before the john discovered his mistake. He called her the usual names and then drove off without paying her for the handjob he'd gotten. Shane had had to walk and hitchhike 30 blocks back to her corner. When she got back she told Clive what had happened.

"Fuck, Shane, you gotta be careful. And you know what? I think some people can tell you haven't got anything down there. I think you better start stuffing something in there, or better yet why don't you start packing? Get yourself a strap-on dong, so at least you got a bulge, and if somebody gets his hand down there he'll feel something, at least from the outside."

Shane said that sounded like a plan, so they went to a sex shop and looked over the merchandise. It was a small shop and carried mostly porn DVDs and magazines. They went to another, larger place and, after browsing and giggling for almost an hour under the watchful eyes of a very tall queen, Shane found a strap-on she liked. The dick came separate from the harness and wasn't very big compared to some of the ridiculous monsters on sale.

"Don't you want one of these?" Clive asked, pointing to a 10-incher. "You could be Long Dong Hellfinger, the Santa Monica Mauler. Faggots be lining up three deep to get you up their ass."

"Christ, no!" Shane said. "For one thing I'm not gonna fuck anybody, and I don't want to lug that goddam thing around in my pants all day. All I want is enough to get by, in case somebody cops a feel."

"You ladies finally make up your minds?" the queen asked when they went up to the register. "Going away to summer camp, I take it?"

"It's a present for my mom," Shane said, and the queen laughed.

"Okay, gorgeous, whatever you say. You gals need some lube?"

"No, but thanks for asking," Shane said.

"Oooooh, gonna play dry, huh? You're gonna break some hearts, sugar."

It came to twenty-eight bucks with tax, and Shane only had twenty. Clive covered her for the rest.

"Is this to go, or do you want to eat it here?" the queen asked Clive.

"To go," Clive said seriously. He wasn't very quick. The queen rolled his/her eyes and put the strap-on in a bag and handed it to Shane.

"Y'all come back when you've worn that one down to a pencil dick," the queen said. "Be happy to sell you an upgrade. We like repeat business 'round here, and be sure to tell all your friends Morganza said 'Hi.' We believe in word-of-mouth, if ya know what I mean."

"Morganza. Cool. I'll be sure to tell everyone," Shane said.

Shane told the truth when she said she never intended to fuck anybody with it, but one night a few weeks later in a bathroom stall in a club on Figeroa the girl drummer for a punk band couldn't get enough of Shane and had Shane sit on the toilet with Mr. Happy up in the air while the drummer dropped her jeans and straddled Shane in one quick, practiced motion. Lube wasn't a problem.

***

Two-thirds of Shane and Clive's clientèle were one-timers, but the other third soon became what Morganza had called repeat business. One of Shane's repeaters was a balding man in his forties who drove a new, silver Mercedes 450SL, usually with the top down. The guy, whose name was Harvey Platt, wore glasses and dressed very well, often wearing peach- or teal-colored shirts with a contrasting sweater over his shoulder, and nice linen slacks. He seemed quiet and friendly, but not so quiet that he gave Shane the creeps. Shane's radar was nearly as good as her gaydar, which bordered on supernatural, and if a john gave her the creeps she bailed. Harvey was okay, though, and was one of her favorite customers, unfailingly polite and a good tipper. He came around once a week or maybe every other week, and after he'd found Shane he never went with anyone else. When Shane worked on him, he just relaxed back in his car seat, looking away, his eyes distant, like he was somewhere else, with somebody else. Once she heard him whisper the name "Jack." She wasn't sure if it was a name or an instruction.

Harvey usually came around in the late morning, and his favorite location was one of the empty parking lots near the Hollywood Bowl, where he seemed to know his way around. On this particular morning, after he'd cum, Harvey fastidiously removed the condom, carefully put it into a plastic bag -- he wouldn't litter, unlike a lot of tricks -- and held it for Shane to drop her gloves into. He zipped himself up, and laid back in the seat, eyes closed. Shane was used to tricks wanting a little quiet time to enjoy the afterglow, and she sat patiently. But Harvey sure seemed to be taking his time.

"Mind if I smoke?" Shane finally asked.

"Huh? Oh. No, go ahead. Just don't get any ash inside." The top was down, so the smoke itself wasn't an issue.

"You want one?"

"No, thank you," Harvey said, eyes still closed. "I quit a few years ago. But thanks for offering."

Shane smoked her cigarette and wondered what Harvey's story was. He wasn't a bad looking guy. He was completely gay, of course, and unlike some tricks he seemed comfortable with it; he wasn't pretending to be straight. He dressed well. He had money. So why didn't he have a boyfriend? Why was he picking up street hustlers when he could have walked into any upscale gay joint in L.A. -- and there were only about a hundred of them, you could hardly ask for gayer places than L.A. and West Hollywood -- and met anybody he wanted, of any of a couple dozen varieties, bikers, body-builders, models, actors, fruitcups, tinkerbells, all across the spectrum from flaming to super-closeted. So what was he doing cruising a boi like Shane for? Shane looked over at him. He wasn't asleep, but his head was turned away slightly. He seemed to be in some sort of reverie. Some other hustler would have become impatient, cleared his throat, or otherwise done something to get Harvey to turn on the fucking ignition and drive him back to the boulevard. But Shane had the feeling Harvey needed his little time of solitude, and so she sat patiently. It's not like she had to punch the company clock.

Finally with a sigh Harvey seemed to come back to the present, and looked over at Shane.

"Thanks," he said.

"No problem," Shane said.

"I mean, thanks for just letting me ... sit for a while."

"Sure."

Harvey looked at Shane thoughtfully.

"I know it's none of my business, but when's the last time you ate?"

"Uh ... yesterday."

"You hungry?"

Shane shrugged. "I'll get something later."

Harvey started the car and they headed back. On the way, Harvey pulled into a parking spot in front of a Starbucks, and parked. "Come on, I'll buy you lunch," he said, getting out.

What the fuck, Shane thought. Harvey had already paid her twenty for the handjob, and a ten-dollar tip. She got out of the Mercedes and followed him inside.

"Go head, anything you want," Harvey told her, pointing up at the menu. Harvey picked a pre-made sandwich out of the cold case, so Shane picked one, too.

"Hi," Harvey said to the barista. "I'll have a venti cappuccino." He turned to Shane. "What would you like?"

Shane felt like an idiot. She didn't understand half the things on the menu.

"I've never been in a Starbucks before," she said.

"Ah, well, I see the problem," Harvey said. Even though there were people in line behind them, he refused to be rushed or intimidated. He patiently gave Shane a tutorial, explaining frappuccinos and cappuccinos and soy lattes, and the difference between a grande and a venti.

"I just want a cup of coffee," Shane said, also refusing to be intimidated. "Cream and sugar."

Harvey ordered a French-blend venti for her. When the coffees came they sat at a small table.

"My name's Harvey, by the way," he said, unwrapping his sandwich.

"Tommi," Shane said. "Tommi with an 'i.'"

"Tommi with an 'i.' Okay."

"Uh, thanks for lunch."

"My pleasure." Harvey hesitated. "Like I said before, I know it's none of my business, but you don't look like you eat regularly."

Shane shrugged.

"You boys on the street, you have to be careful. I hope someone's told you that."

Shane nodded. In spite of herself, she felt herself being drawn into conversation with this guy. Who the fuck shoots the breeze with a john? She kept waiting for something bad to happen, or for him to say something hinky. But her radar, her spooky-shit warning system, was dead quiet.

"How's your coffee?" he asked. Shane shrugged. Harvey laughed. "It's lousy, isn't it? Burnt and bitter."

"Yeah," Shane said, smiling.

"That's why everybody orders all those fancy drinks with the foam and the flavors and all that crap. So they don't have to drink the regular coffee. You ask me, 7-11's coffee is a hundred times better."

"I know!" Shane laughed. "I like 7-11 coffee."

"Trouble is, this is Hollywood, and L.A.," Harvey said. "Image is everything. Most people in this town wouldn't get caught dead going into 7-11 for coffee."

"You in the movie business?" Shane asked.

"Me? No. I play the violin for the Southern Cal Pops Philharmonic. I'm what's called the principal second violin. You know anything about orchestras and classical music?"

Shane shook her head.

"Typically, the violin section is divided into two sections, called the first violin and the second violin. The first violin plays the melody, while the second violin usually plays the harmony. Each section of the orchestra has a person who is the leader, and he or she is called the principal. So you have a principal trombone, and a principal trumpet, and a so on. The person who leads the second violin is called the principal second violin -- that's me. The person who leads the first violin can be called the principal first violin, but he or she is more often called the concertmaster, and not only leads the whole violin section but the entire orchestra. In other words, the first violin is the assistant to the conductor. He's the number two person in the whole orchestra, like the deputy, or like the team captain out on the field." Shane barely knew anything about sports, so the team captain analogy meant very little.

"Sounds important," Shane said.

"It is." Harvey looked away and sighed. "I once wanted to be the first violin."

"Why don't you?"

Harvey shrugged. "Things change. Ambitions change." He paused, and Shane assumed he was done talking. He wasn't. He looked out the window, but Shane knew he wasn't seeing anything. "You can spend your whole life trying to achieve a goal. And then one day something happens, and you realize you should have been paying attention to something else. That your career isn't nearly as important as the people around you. That while you were so busy looking one way you should have been looking in a different direction."

Shane had no idea what the fuck Harvey was talking about, but she knew that at some level it made sense, at least to Harvey.

"Where you from, Tommi?" Harvey suddenly asked.

"Texas," Shane said. "'Round Austin."

"Texas, huh? You know anything about pastrami?"

Shane shook her head.

"Next time, we'll stop in a good deli. I'll teach you about pastrami and corned beef. And the different kinds of rye bread. And mustards. In Texas the only thing they do with brisket is barbecue it. But there are other, better things to do with brisket. I will teach you the miracle on earth that is the hot pastrami with Swiss and mustard on a proper Jewish rye. Also, what to do with the slaw. Or the sauerkraut, if you're having a Reuben. Tommi, there are nuances. Yes. And we Jews must be a lamp unto the goyim. Listen, Tommi. In this town, you must know the difference between a hot pastrami and a Reuben. This is a life skill. Hear me."