Jack pushes beans and rice around his plate. Leaning back in his corner booth, he watches the world go by. Pretty young boys and girls parade the Miami Beach boulevard. Two women swoosh past on roller blades, weaving round pavement tables, iPods strapped to their arms. One pirouettes, a dancer, for sure, but not a professional. Her friend laughs. Creases of a smile surprise Jack.
It’s been a while.
In his day it was roller skates and Walkmans. He watched girls promenade beach-fronts half a world away. He takes a forkful of beans, spicy on his tongue. A pull of Sam Adams washes it down. A good drop—perhaps, the only decent American brew—but nothing compares with the bitter tang of the Reschs he drank in Sydney as a lad. A young dancer, hanging with the beautiful people at Bondi Beach, he’d been plucked off the street by a talent spotter and introduced to the world of modelling. The promise of magazine covers and show-biz parties soon palled, replaced by unsuccessful cattle calls, inside pages of clothing catalogues and early morning starts.
Music plays. A bass riff from the late 70s (British New Wave) and the bartender with the dreads and piercings turns it up. Modelling kindled a flame and he saved until he could afford the fare to London. There, he spent evenings in Soho clubs and cafes waiting to be discovered, auditioned for shows, dropped off head-shots around the agencies and paid his way selling second-hand cars on the Mile End Road. Cold rice cloys and sticks to his teeth. The light fades, silhouetting palm trees against the sky. A tooth-pick works loose the rice.
Dreams took him from London to New York. He tried out on Broadway, off Broadway and off, off Broadway. He made the same rounds of modelling agencies he’d made in London, with the same lack of success. Working in car rental agencies put bread on his table, though precious little. But, there was always enough to party. And, boy, did he party.
A waitress brings over a café grandé.
"Here" she said, slamming the steaming mug on the table without meeting his eyes. The coffee’s cold and sweet. Jack’s passed enough lonely evenings here for them to know his routine. Christ, wait staff can be shitty. What he’d give for a shot of West Coast java. Jack moved from the Big Apple to LA, inspired by a guy he met at a party, sharing lines of coke. He pumped weights on Venice beach, dined on Hollywood Boulevard in restaurants he couldn’t afford and did the rounds of studios looking for the big break. In the end, the biggest break he caught was a job in a Beverly Hills Porsche dealership, but he partied on.
He takes a silver box from his jacket pocket, shaking a handful of pills into his hand and washes them down with tepid coffee. A little something to get him through the night. He signals for the check.
Tonight he’s going to indulge himself, even if it kills him. From LA he followed a new dream to San Francisco. He scored a job selling condos, the same gig he has now, dancing and modelling long forgotten dreams. Older, cafes and bookshops replaced bars and discos. Domesticity replaced parties. He even learnt, way too late, to cook.
Jack shakes his head and stands, dropping a roll of notes on the table, the tip more than generous. He doesn’t like mirrors anymore, but pauses at the door to take a quick look before leaving, a last chance to preen. He undoes another button and adjusts his chain, centring the St. Christopher medallion. Some fucking good that’s done.
* * *
Jack bustles through the door of an old-fashioned shotgun bar, more New York than Miami. How many assignations have there been over the years? How often has he told himself, never again? For a while—in San Francisco—he thought those days were over.
He peers into the gloom. The woman he’s looking for sits at the back of the bar, a drink on a paper napkin in front of her. She’s the only woman. Daubed in garish makeup, she’s coarser than the web-site picture suggested, but she has a hard, well-used, body, not an ounce of fat on her. She’ll do.
"Jack," he says, offering his hand.
"Lola." Her grip’s strong. "You got my money?"
No messing around. It’s been a long time since Jack had to pay to play.
"I lead, right?" He holds out an envelope. "You follow."
"Yeah, I get it." She snatches the envelope from his hand, ripping it open and thumbing the notes. "Four hours."
A television perched on a battered bracket flickers in Jack’s peripheral vision. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know it’s tuned to ESPN, basketball.
"I’ve paid for the night. A grand for the night. That’s what the site said."
"How long can you last, old man?" A grin splits her painted face.
How old does this tart think he is?
"No holding back. We're going to kick ass, old-school."
She shrugs.
"We’re going to be in the middle of everything. You get that?"
"I don’t do group stuff, too dangerous fucking around with amateurs."
He shakes his head.
"Nothing like that." He rubs his temple, squeezing his eyes closed. "There’s a scene from a movie I have in mind." He leans closer.
She wants more money.
II
A cab drops Jack and Lola at the venue. He bought her a drink before they left—rum and coke—and got himself a beaker of water to wash down another handful of pills, ignoring the grime around the rim of the glass. Too many pills, but tonight’s a party night. His heart pounds. A sheen of sweat stipples his brow.
Walking through double doors, the noise hits him first, then the press of bodies. Things haven’t started, but already it’s steamy. Strobes criss-cross a cavernous hall. Speaker stacks stand dark and tall at the rear of the room and the concrete floor heaves with bass. The crowd is young, mostly Latino and dressed to the nines. There’s a bar at the side of the room and Jack gets Lola another rum and coke. He sticks to water. Important to stay hydrated, otherwise performance suffers. Every other kid has a water bottle. Things have changed.
It’s retro night, meaning 70s and 80s, which was probably when the club was last decorated. ‘Saturday Night Fever’ belts out, how appropriate. Jack struts to the centre of the floor, Lola beside him. She begins to move. She’s good, but he’s better. Disco’s all in the hips: not many guys can do the things with their hips he can. The steps come naturally. Muscle memory choreographers call it, years of training kicking in. Not just his hips, his whole body moves fluidly. He commands space.
This is his world.
The DJ segues from the Bee Gees to Abba, ‘Dancing Queen’ and Jack gives himself to the music. This was the song of his first kiss.
She was a spoilt rich kid from the Eastern suburbs—they’d call her a JAP here—but she could dance. She was the sort who started with ballet at three or four and never stopped. When she danced, she knew the world watched and she liked it.
One day, they danced. No him, no her, just them. They finished, spent but glowing. The other kids applauded and she leant in, her lips soft and warm. His cheeks burnt. Boys snickered. Something unexpected stirred. He turned and fled.
Next time he saw her, he asked if she wanted to go to the movies--Rocky—perhaps not the best choice. She laughed and walked on, surrounded by her perfect friends.
There’s a short break between songs, as if the DJ’s caught unprepared. Jack’s breath is ragged. Two songs in and he’s struggling. He’s going to have to pace himself.
The music starts again, ‘La Bamba’, the 80s cover, brash and a shade too polished. Little Latino Lola stamps her feet and flicks her hair. Fingers clicking, arms raised, she spins on her points. Her full skirt flares. Flamenco moves to a rock ‘n’ roll beat.
She’s on fire.
She’s almost leading him, her flicks and twirls drawing the eyes of every man in the place. Her skirt rises, petticoats ballooning with unrelenting undulations of her hips, red and white trim flashing. Watchers clap out the rhythm. Feet stamp. She’s the centre of attention. Gold jewellery sparkles. Her red cheeks glow. Teeth bared, her eyes flash. She moves with savage precision, a woman stalking her man, a woman who knows she’s going to get laid. Every stamp, every twirl, every smouldering glare is a challenge.
Jack breathes deep and ups the ante, bringing out moves he hasn’t used in a long time: lifts, twirls and swings. One hand out for balance, his jacket catches air. Yes, she’s good, but he’s still better. And now he leads.
Hips grind. Their eyes meet, hers smoky and unfocussed. For a moment, they’re more than dancers. She leans back, breasts thrusting up, hair tumbling down. Her hips don’t miss a beat; fucking with your clothes on. He responds the way he always has, his trousers tightening.
His first fuck, like his first kiss, was with another dancer. Fat Pat, they called her. She wasn’t fat, not compared to normal girls, but she wasn’t the slimmest in their troupe. She wasn’t ugly, not compared to normal girls, but she wasn’t the prettiest in the troupe. She wasn’t his type, but she’d been making eyes at him for a while, then at a party at her parent’s home in Bondi—fuelled by grog—he made his move.
The two of them danced close, the lights turned down. Lips met. His hands explored her curves, one gripping her ass, the other pawing her boobs. For the first time, nipples hardened to his touch.
His cock throbbed.
"Come," said the girl.
She took him by the hand and led him to a walk-in pantry, shutting the door behind them. He tore at her clothes. His mouth found her tits. He nipped and sucked. She fumbled with his fly, hands eager if unskilled. He sprung free. She stroked tentatively—way more gentle than he’d ever been in his own explorations. He reached into her knickers. She was sticky. Probing fingers met resistance.
She winced.
Half-naked and panting, he knew what he wanted: they were seventeen and tonight was the night; but didn’t know how. By the time he figured what went where, it was almost too late. He lasted one, maybe two, strokes—his zipper grazing his shaft—before exploding in a climax better than any wank.
The DJ down-shifts: Sade’s ‘Private Dancer’. Thank Christ. Jack needs the break. The smoke machine’s working over time, dry ice billows over the dance floor, prickling the back of his throat. He draws Lola in and they dance close. No showing off, just catching breath.
The scratching and shortness of breath reminds him of when he was a twenty a day man. The rugged Marlboro man has a lot to answer for. It’s been years since Jack had a cigarette—can’t call them fags in the good old US of A—now he’s yearning for a hit. His chest’s tight and, once again, he gives thanks for the song choice. Another jive would kill him.
They move with feline grace, every step precisely timed, while callow youths shuffle, pet and smooch. He feels the beat in Lola and knows she feels it in him. She’s better than he expected. Head on her shoulder, hair lacquer and garlic fill his nostrils. He rests his hand on the small of her back. Spicy lips brush his stubbled cheek. That wasn’t in the deal, but dancing’s never a purely commercial transaction.
The woman Jack came closest to loving wasn’t a dancer. Violet was a set designer working on the West-End show where he had his moment in the sun—dancing in the chorus, never in the spot-light, but milking every moment. She too was an ex-pat, born in Malawi. The two of them became firm friends, always something to talk about, always something to laugh about. She gossiped with him as if he were another woman. When she travelled overseas, she bought him back gifts. Clothes usually, and she had an artist’s eye for fashion.
Then, one day, something happened that surprised them both. She’d broken up with a boyfriend and emptying her wine rack, while discussing his inadequacies—ranging from a small cock to a big head—seemed the obvious thing to do. Sickly spirits followed, perhaps the only time Jack ever drank Malibu. By the time they drained the last drop of alcohol in the flat she suggested he stay the night.
She didn’t have a spare bed, so they both staggered into hers. He had no pyjamas, but left his boxers on for decency’s sake. But moments later, she rolled over, breasts squishing against him. The sex, as far as he could remember, wasn’t great, but that didn’t matter.
Nothing changed after that day, except from time-to-time they’d fall into bed. One evening, they’d watch TV, discuss art and fashion or bitch about work mates. The next they’d make love. Jack preferred the talking.
The music finishes and Jack feels a familiar spasm, butt cheeks clenching of their own volition. It’s been a while. A new song starts, distracting him from the urge. ‘Relax’ by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, faster, but not a dancer’s song. Modern pop/rock and there’s less scope to excel.
Lola’s wooden now. She has the rhythm and timing, but not the moves for something like this. This is why he wanted a retro night; music you can dance to. Not ball room—he’s not that old—but disco or rock ‘n’ roll. Something you can tear up the floor to, jive or twist. Dance clubs nowadays everyone sways, eyes closed, to repetitive beats, bass and drums, synthesisers: that’s not dancing.
He ripples his arms in robot moves, and wonders how many of the boys around him realise this song was a gay anthem. How many of them are gay? There’s bound to be plenty. One young man, compact, dark and smooth, has the moves. He’s popping and gliding in his own world. There’s ecstasy on his face—probably in his blood-stream too.
Violet introduced Jack to clubs in London, basement venues where people wore masks, leather and rubber. Women wore outfits with cut-outs displaying their breasts. Men gyrated in spandex boxer shorts.
As Violet and Jack rested between dances, a cropped-haired man in clinging black jeans approached, tall, dark and handsome. All the clichés.
"Wanna dance?" he asked.
Jack looked at Violet.
She laughed. "He’s asking you, honey."
"Me?"
"Yeah." The man shuffled. "Y’know, if you’re interested."
"Okay."
They held each other close. Jack hadn’t danced with a boy since primary school. The man nuzzled his neck harder than any woman ever had. He gripped tight, hands wandering. As they pressed closer, a lump pressed against Jack’s thigh.
"Wanna go outside?" The guy nodded at a back door.
Between bins, against a damp brick wall, they embraced. Stubble prickled. The man’s lips were firm, his tongue insistent. Eau de cologne competed with curry and garbage.
"Here." He moved Jack’s hands to the bulge in his jeans.
Another song comes on, this time YMCA. Seems the DJ’s working through his gay play-list. Dancers form up in lines and Jack and Lola are front and centre. The movements are ragged, not everyone in step, but that’s to be expected.
One, two, three, four: Jack counts the beat silently. It’s not a conscious thing anymore. Some things come naturally.
Once again, the corners of his mouth turn up. There’s probably a sparkle in his eyes. Smiling is good. Dancing is good.
He throws his arms up and out with muscle-aching enthusiasm. The lines merge and cross. Jack steps forward, turns sharply, hands circling he leads and others follow. Everyone knows the moves, but not everyone has the same confidence and precision.
One, two, three, four: let’s go.
Hands in the air, Jack leads the clapping and ragged lines coalesce. The mob becomes a well-drilled chorus line. Then someone misses a turn and the magic’s lost.
Jack moved from back alley wanks to giving head in dark corners, but it wasn’t until he moved to New York that he got fucked by a guy.
He’d been dancing in a Hell’s Kitchen club, one of those converted warehouses, his system full of coke and pills. Towards the end of the night he smooched with an athletic Negro (African-American, Coloured: he never knew what to call them, only that nigger—like fag—wasn’t acceptable).
Shortly afterwards he found himself in an efficiency apartment, dirty clothes, rancid food and God knew what else spoiled the air. He almost vomited. Instead he kissed his new found friend, focussing on his sweaty, manly scent. The single creaked under their weight. Jack struggled with an unfamiliar button fly, wishing he could open a window. Hands grabbed his ass, wiggled into his shorts. A finger probed.
There must have been discussion of condoms—this was New York in the 80s—but in no time Jack was bent over the end of the bed, his pants around his ankles, and the other man behind him. His ass was smothered with lube.
Jack winced.
The song ends. Jack’s chest tightens. His sweat laden shirt sticks to his back. He yells over the din of a hundred voices, maybe more.
"Back in a minute."
He battles his way through a seething mass of flesh. Mercifully, the bathroom’s not crowded. He runs a faucet, splashing water into his mouth and over his face. He swallows a handful of pills and pats down sandpaper cheeks with clammy hands. Head in hands, elbows perched on the wash basin, he rests. Breathing’s hard and sweat’s already returning to his brow. Every joint aches. The door behind him opens and he shuffles to one side. A dark figure stands in the shadows of the door. An eyebrow’s raised quizzically. Jack closes his eyes tight, squeezes his temples. So easy to enter the stall, shut the door and go down on his knees. So easy. He’s done it a thousand times before, but not tonight. Instead, he pats down creased pants with damp paper towels. Time to get back; he’s not ready to go home. There’s still time for dancing.
He returns to the hall and the bass is pounding, ‘Tainted love’—Christ, maybe they’re all gay. Jack searches out Lola, and heads back to the middle of the floor. He knows all the moves to this one, loves the song. It’s a crowd pleaser and the throng hollers out the chorus.
The first—and last—time he fell in love was in LA. He’d been working in a Beverly Hills Porsche dealership and they’d thrown a party for the launch of the new Boxster. The usual rent a crowd: b-list actors, agents and self-important writers. Every writer who sells a script buys a Porsche, so they’re always invited, but God were those guys full of themselves.
One man caught Jack’s eye right away. Tanned, athletic and rangy, he wore designer jeans, a western shirt and a Stetson hat. An urban cowboy. No sign of rhinestones, thank God. He drank beer from a can and whenever he joined a group, laughter followed. Jack had to work the room—try and earn some commission—but kept an eye on the tall stranger. Then, as soon as Jack was alone, the man headed straight for him.
"What’s a good looking guy like you doing in a place like this?" he said.
Jack, still in the closet, almost choked on his drink.
"I can always tell." The cowboy grinned and offered a firm hand. "I’m Tom."
They talked, Jack sipping Chardonnay, while Tom swigged beer (if you can call Budweiser beer). He came from Arkansas, but lived and worked in San Francisco, where he had a software company. Jack tuned out the words and ate up the melody of Tom’s drawl. The man had the most incredible eyes.
They made their excuses and Jack took Tom down to the water. They walked by the sea front. Tom’s big hand enveloped Jack’s. He ignored hostile glances and, for once, Jack stood straight, as comfortable walking hand in hand with another man, as dancing. The air was salty and the breeze bracing. Surf crashed on the beach. The sun set.
When the light failed, Tom suggested they head back to his hotel, the Bel Air, a place Jack had heard of, but never visited. As Jack took in a room full of antique furniture, rugs and flowers, Tom turned on the television. A black and white movie played: Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers. Tom took Jack by the hand and they danced cheek to cheek. He wasn’t a dancer, but he moved well. Jack held on tight.
Next day, Tom headed home. That night, Jack walked the beach alone, kicking drift wood.
A few days later, a call came through on Jack’s cell.
"Hey, Jackie, Tom here."
Jack already knew, he’d recognise that voice—deep, gravelly and at the same time syrupy—anywhere.
"I was wondering, want to come to San Fran?"
Jack’s heart flipped.
"Sure, maybe this weekend?"
"No, I mean move here. I want you near me."
Tom agreed without a second thought. Within a month he quit his job at the dealership, packed his possessions into a trailer and moved to the bay.
His first day, Tom took him on a tour. They hit all the major attractions, from China Town to Fisherman’s Wharf. They rode cable cars and took a ferry to Alcatraz. Late that night they parked on the headland, in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge, and embraced under the stars.
Jack got an apartment in The Castro. His neighbours were gay and proud. Men paraded the streets holding hands. Buzz cuts and moustaches were de rigeur, leather unremarkable. He explored the neighbourhood, discovering a wealth of cafes, neighbourhood stores and cosy restaurants, not to mention the clubs dotted along the main street. Tom and Jack spent time together watching television—Tom never missed a Warriors game—or talking about their days. Jack cut back on drinking and, apart from the occasional joint, gave up drugs. He hung out with work-mates and neighbours. Bowling and visits to the cinema—classic old movies, or obscure art house films.
Jack developed an interest in cooking. His first efforts were nothing spectacular, but over time he became more accomplished. He visited the markets early to get the best produce. A mortar and pestle, and wooden knife block took pride of place on his kitchen bench. He diced vegetables with the same precision he’d once moved on the dance floor. He experimented with seasonings, and delighted himself with his creations.
One night, he made a Thai chicken salad he was particularly proud of—the balance of spices perfect. He served it up to Tom, accompanied by green tea and a side dish of spring rolls. Tom took a forkful and pulled a face.
"This is all good and nice, babe. But you know me." He grinned, the way he did and pushed his plate to one side. "I’m a simple man, with simple tastes."
He’d barely touched it.
Jack apologised, for what he wasn’t sure, and fixed a quick chilli—from a can—which was welcomed with a grin and disappeared to a tattoo of appreciative burps. After that, on date nights, Jack stuck to old favourites, steak, rice and beans, ribs or chicken. But when he was alone, he delighted his appetites with Pad Thai, Laksa and hand-made sushi rolls.
Tom was changing too.
He’d turn up without notice or not turn up when arranged. He often didn’t answer his phone. When he did visit, they rarely went to bed. If they did end up under the covers, all he wanted was to hug. But his feathery kisses and firm touches left Jack warmed from the inside. Every time, Tom would press his mouth to his ear and whisper.
"I love you, Jackie."
Tom ate less and less, even stopped drinking—bottles of his favourite Samuel Adams beer left unopened in the fridge.
"Are you okay, darling." Jack asked, after Tom left another meal uneaten.
"I’m fine. Don’t fuss, a touch of the flu." But he turned his head away as he answered.
After that night, Jack didn’t see him for a while. Calls and texts went unanswered. A month passed. Then Tom called.
"Jackie, don’t want you to worry, but . . ." spluttering coughing came over the line, "this flu’s proving a little stubborn, might be pneumonia."
"Oh, darling, you okay?" Jack bit his lip. "Is there anything I can do?"
"You just be you. I’ll be fine."
A few days later, another call.
"This motherfucker’s getting worse, don’t want to alarm ya—"
"But?"
"I think . . ." His drawl seemed slower, doling out words like treacle hanging from a spoon. "Maybe you should come over. I’m in St Luke’s."
Jack shuddered when he entered the room—the one time quarter back weighed less than the sissy dancer. He blinked hard and forced a smile.
"So?"
"Well, Jackie boy, it’s not looking good."
Jack sat at the bedside, holding Tom’s hand. Occasional beeps from a series of monitors were the only sound in the darkened room. At first they gazed at each other, but after a while they averted their eyes. Jack squeezed Tom’s hand. Tears ran down his cheeks. Perhaps Tom cried too. Eventually his limp hand fell away and his ragged breathing settled. Jack kissed him on the forehead and shuffled out of the room.
Some days later, before the sun had risen, the phone rang. Jack picked up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Hello?"
"Hello, you don’t know me, and to be honest I’m not sure who you are . . ."
An Arkansas accent, the voice familiar and yet not. Jack’s gut clenched.
"Look, there’s no easy way to say it: Tom died last night." Another pause, a click and nothing.
And Jack was rubbing his eyes again. Not tired now.
He heard no more. He wasn’t invited to the funeral. None of their friends knew anything; Tom was gone.
The club’s emptying and Jack’s tiring. Now. He catches the DJ’s eye and nods. His request—secured by fifty dollars, earlier in the evening—comes over the speakers: ‘Time of my life’.
It starts slowly and he takes Lola in his arms and holds her close. The tempo builds. He spins her, and once again her skirts flare. He can do this. Heads turn. Eyes meet. Lifts and twirls have the crowd whistling and cheering.
Lola turns and struts away, hips pulsing to the beat. The crowd makes room. Everyone who’s ever seen the movie knows what’s coming. Still moving, still dancing—one last work out—Jack counts the beat. Other dancers fall in behind him, following his lead. All eyes are on him.
Lola turns on four, and runs towards him.
She leaps.
He braces, reaches and catches.
Triumphant, he holds her above his head with aching arms and the room erupts in applause. The music stops and the lights come up.
III
Jack takes a cab home, but has the driver drop him at a convenience store. He counts his money, having tipped Lola an extra hundred—she earned it—and loads a paper sack with orange juice, bottled water, multi-vitamins and Tylenol. He’s going to need all the help he can get come morning, hell, it’s morning already. It’s a short walk to his apartment, but he takes the long way round, even though a light rain’s falling.
He pulls his collar up, stares down at his feet and meanders along the familiar path. He’s humming to himself, something he hasn’t done in a long time. On impulse he’d added a soft-pack of Marlboro Red and a box of matches to his purchases and now he pauses to light one, huddling to shield it from the drizzle. Ahead, on the opposite pavement, a tall man is walking, heading the same way. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and something about his gait’s familiar. Jack’s eyes prick.
The ghost takes a turn towards a nearby park and Jack follows. There aren’t many reasons a man would be heading there in the early hours of the morning. The man breaks his stride and looks around, spotting Jack. He pulls the brim of his hat down over his face. They head towards the sanctuary of the woods, glancing at each other as they go, eyes never quite meeting. He nods towards the park gates and strides into the dark. All Jack has to do is follow, something he’s done often enough—you can’t always lead—but he hesitates.
* * *
Jack opens the door on his apartment, kills the alarm and throws his wallet and keys on a side table. The paper sack goes on the breakfast bar, alongside rows of plastic pill bottles. He paces the condo. The walls are hospital white. There’s the same antiseptic odour; his maid’s heavy handed with the cleaning, she worries. Ceiling to floor windows open onto a balcony over the ocean. Waves crash on the beach. Is the tide coming in, or going out? He leans forward, palms spread flat against the cool glass. Shaking his head, still pounding to the club beats, he moves to the kitchen.
He prepares his final dose of pills for the day: multi-vitamins, analgesics, anti-inflamatories and the all important anti-viral cocktail. He rips the seal off a carton of orange juice and washes down the rainbow of tablets.
One last routine before sleep.
In the middle of the largest wall, in pride of places, there’s a large black and white photo in a burnished steel frame: Tom, Stetson at a rakish angle and winking at the camera, his shirt’s undone two buttons and there’s a glimpse of chest hair.
Jack’s eyes cloud. The corners of his mouth crinkle. He touches two fingers to his lips, then to the photo and turns off the light.
It’s been a while.
In his day it was roller skates and Walkmans. He watched girls promenade beach-fronts half a world away. He takes a forkful of beans, spicy on his tongue. A pull of Sam Adams washes it down. A good drop—perhaps, the only decent American brew—but nothing compares with the bitter tang of the Reschs he drank in Sydney as a lad. A young dancer, hanging with the beautiful people at Bondi Beach, he’d been plucked off the street by a talent spotter and introduced to the world of modelling. The promise of magazine covers and show-biz parties soon palled, replaced by unsuccessful cattle calls, inside pages of clothing catalogues and early morning starts.
Music plays. A bass riff from the late 70s (British New Wave) and the bartender with the dreads and piercings turns it up. Modelling kindled a flame and he saved until he could afford the fare to London. There, he spent evenings in Soho clubs and cafes waiting to be discovered, auditioned for shows, dropped off head-shots around the agencies and paid his way selling second-hand cars on the Mile End Road. Cold rice cloys and sticks to his teeth. The light fades, silhouetting palm trees against the sky. A tooth-pick works loose the rice.
Dreams took him from London to New York. He tried out on Broadway, off Broadway and off, off Broadway. He made the same rounds of modelling agencies he’d made in London, with the same lack of success. Working in car rental agencies put bread on his table, though precious little. But, there was always enough to party. And, boy, did he party.
A waitress brings over a café grandé.
"Here" she said, slamming the steaming mug on the table without meeting his eyes. The coffee’s cold and sweet. Jack’s passed enough lonely evenings here for them to know his routine. Christ, wait staff can be shitty. What he’d give for a shot of West Coast java. Jack moved from the Big Apple to LA, inspired by a guy he met at a party, sharing lines of coke. He pumped weights on Venice beach, dined on Hollywood Boulevard in restaurants he couldn’t afford and did the rounds of studios looking for the big break. In the end, the biggest break he caught was a job in a Beverly Hills Porsche dealership, but he partied on.
He takes a silver box from his jacket pocket, shaking a handful of pills into his hand and washes them down with tepid coffee. A little something to get him through the night. He signals for the check.
Tonight he’s going to indulge himself, even if it kills him. From LA he followed a new dream to San Francisco. He scored a job selling condos, the same gig he has now, dancing and modelling long forgotten dreams. Older, cafes and bookshops replaced bars and discos. Domesticity replaced parties. He even learnt, way too late, to cook.
Jack shakes his head and stands, dropping a roll of notes on the table, the tip more than generous. He doesn’t like mirrors anymore, but pauses at the door to take a quick look before leaving, a last chance to preen. He undoes another button and adjusts his chain, centring the St. Christopher medallion. Some fucking good that’s done.
* * *
Jack bustles through the door of an old-fashioned shotgun bar, more New York than Miami. How many assignations have there been over the years? How often has he told himself, never again? For a while—in San Francisco—he thought those days were over.
He peers into the gloom. The woman he’s looking for sits at the back of the bar, a drink on a paper napkin in front of her. She’s the only woman. Daubed in garish makeup, she’s coarser than the web-site picture suggested, but she has a hard, well-used, body, not an ounce of fat on her. She’ll do.
"Jack," he says, offering his hand.
"Lola." Her grip’s strong. "You got my money?"
No messing around. It’s been a long time since Jack had to pay to play.
"I lead, right?" He holds out an envelope. "You follow."
"Yeah, I get it." She snatches the envelope from his hand, ripping it open and thumbing the notes. "Four hours."
A television perched on a battered bracket flickers in Jack’s peripheral vision. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know it’s tuned to ESPN, basketball.
"I’ve paid for the night. A grand for the night. That’s what the site said."
"How long can you last, old man?" A grin splits her painted face.
How old does this tart think he is?
"No holding back. We're going to kick ass, old-school."
She shrugs.
"We’re going to be in the middle of everything. You get that?"
"I don’t do group stuff, too dangerous fucking around with amateurs."
He shakes his head.
"Nothing like that." He rubs his temple, squeezing his eyes closed. "There’s a scene from a movie I have in mind." He leans closer.
She wants more money.
II
A cab drops Jack and Lola at the venue. He bought her a drink before they left—rum and coke—and got himself a beaker of water to wash down another handful of pills, ignoring the grime around the rim of the glass. Too many pills, but tonight’s a party night. His heart pounds. A sheen of sweat stipples his brow.
Walking through double doors, the noise hits him first, then the press of bodies. Things haven’t started, but already it’s steamy. Strobes criss-cross a cavernous hall. Speaker stacks stand dark and tall at the rear of the room and the concrete floor heaves with bass. The crowd is young, mostly Latino and dressed to the nines. There’s a bar at the side of the room and Jack gets Lola another rum and coke. He sticks to water. Important to stay hydrated, otherwise performance suffers. Every other kid has a water bottle. Things have changed.
It’s retro night, meaning 70s and 80s, which was probably when the club was last decorated. ‘Saturday Night Fever’ belts out, how appropriate. Jack struts to the centre of the floor, Lola beside him. She begins to move. She’s good, but he’s better. Disco’s all in the hips: not many guys can do the things with their hips he can. The steps come naturally. Muscle memory choreographers call it, years of training kicking in. Not just his hips, his whole body moves fluidly. He commands space.
This is his world.
The DJ segues from the Bee Gees to Abba, ‘Dancing Queen’ and Jack gives himself to the music. This was the song of his first kiss.
She was a spoilt rich kid from the Eastern suburbs—they’d call her a JAP here—but she could dance. She was the sort who started with ballet at three or four and never stopped. When she danced, she knew the world watched and she liked it.
One day, they danced. No him, no her, just them. They finished, spent but glowing. The other kids applauded and she leant in, her lips soft and warm. His cheeks burnt. Boys snickered. Something unexpected stirred. He turned and fled.
Next time he saw her, he asked if she wanted to go to the movies--Rocky—perhaps not the best choice. She laughed and walked on, surrounded by her perfect friends.
There’s a short break between songs, as if the DJ’s caught unprepared. Jack’s breath is ragged. Two songs in and he’s struggling. He’s going to have to pace himself.
The music starts again, ‘La Bamba’, the 80s cover, brash and a shade too polished. Little Latino Lola stamps her feet and flicks her hair. Fingers clicking, arms raised, she spins on her points. Her full skirt flares. Flamenco moves to a rock ‘n’ roll beat.
She’s on fire.
She’s almost leading him, her flicks and twirls drawing the eyes of every man in the place. Her skirt rises, petticoats ballooning with unrelenting undulations of her hips, red and white trim flashing. Watchers clap out the rhythm. Feet stamp. She’s the centre of attention. Gold jewellery sparkles. Her red cheeks glow. Teeth bared, her eyes flash. She moves with savage precision, a woman stalking her man, a woman who knows she’s going to get laid. Every stamp, every twirl, every smouldering glare is a challenge.
Jack breathes deep and ups the ante, bringing out moves he hasn’t used in a long time: lifts, twirls and swings. One hand out for balance, his jacket catches air. Yes, she’s good, but he’s still better. And now he leads.
Hips grind. Their eyes meet, hers smoky and unfocussed. For a moment, they’re more than dancers. She leans back, breasts thrusting up, hair tumbling down. Her hips don’t miss a beat; fucking with your clothes on. He responds the way he always has, his trousers tightening.
His first fuck, like his first kiss, was with another dancer. Fat Pat, they called her. She wasn’t fat, not compared to normal girls, but she wasn’t the slimmest in their troupe. She wasn’t ugly, not compared to normal girls, but she wasn’t the prettiest in the troupe. She wasn’t his type, but she’d been making eyes at him for a while, then at a party at her parent’s home in Bondi—fuelled by grog—he made his move.
The two of them danced close, the lights turned down. Lips met. His hands explored her curves, one gripping her ass, the other pawing her boobs. For the first time, nipples hardened to his touch.
His cock throbbed.
"Come," said the girl.
She took him by the hand and led him to a walk-in pantry, shutting the door behind them. He tore at her clothes. His mouth found her tits. He nipped and sucked. She fumbled with his fly, hands eager if unskilled. He sprung free. She stroked tentatively—way more gentle than he’d ever been in his own explorations. He reached into her knickers. She was sticky. Probing fingers met resistance.
She winced.
Half-naked and panting, he knew what he wanted: they were seventeen and tonight was the night; but didn’t know how. By the time he figured what went where, it was almost too late. He lasted one, maybe two, strokes—his zipper grazing his shaft—before exploding in a climax better than any wank.
The DJ down-shifts: Sade’s ‘Private Dancer’. Thank Christ. Jack needs the break. The smoke machine’s working over time, dry ice billows over the dance floor, prickling the back of his throat. He draws Lola in and they dance close. No showing off, just catching breath.
The scratching and shortness of breath reminds him of when he was a twenty a day man. The rugged Marlboro man has a lot to answer for. It’s been years since Jack had a cigarette—can’t call them fags in the good old US of A—now he’s yearning for a hit. His chest’s tight and, once again, he gives thanks for the song choice. Another jive would kill him.
They move with feline grace, every step precisely timed, while callow youths shuffle, pet and smooch. He feels the beat in Lola and knows she feels it in him. She’s better than he expected. Head on her shoulder, hair lacquer and garlic fill his nostrils. He rests his hand on the small of her back. Spicy lips brush his stubbled cheek. That wasn’t in the deal, but dancing’s never a purely commercial transaction.
The woman Jack came closest to loving wasn’t a dancer. Violet was a set designer working on the West-End show where he had his moment in the sun—dancing in the chorus, never in the spot-light, but milking every moment. She too was an ex-pat, born in Malawi. The two of them became firm friends, always something to talk about, always something to laugh about. She gossiped with him as if he were another woman. When she travelled overseas, she bought him back gifts. Clothes usually, and she had an artist’s eye for fashion.
Then, one day, something happened that surprised them both. She’d broken up with a boyfriend and emptying her wine rack, while discussing his inadequacies—ranging from a small cock to a big head—seemed the obvious thing to do. Sickly spirits followed, perhaps the only time Jack ever drank Malibu. By the time they drained the last drop of alcohol in the flat she suggested he stay the night.
She didn’t have a spare bed, so they both staggered into hers. He had no pyjamas, but left his boxers on for decency’s sake. But moments later, she rolled over, breasts squishing against him. The sex, as far as he could remember, wasn’t great, but that didn’t matter.
Nothing changed after that day, except from time-to-time they’d fall into bed. One evening, they’d watch TV, discuss art and fashion or bitch about work mates. The next they’d make love. Jack preferred the talking.
The music finishes and Jack feels a familiar spasm, butt cheeks clenching of their own volition. It’s been a while. A new song starts, distracting him from the urge. ‘Relax’ by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, faster, but not a dancer’s song. Modern pop/rock and there’s less scope to excel.
Lola’s wooden now. She has the rhythm and timing, but not the moves for something like this. This is why he wanted a retro night; music you can dance to. Not ball room—he’s not that old—but disco or rock ‘n’ roll. Something you can tear up the floor to, jive or twist. Dance clubs nowadays everyone sways, eyes closed, to repetitive beats, bass and drums, synthesisers: that’s not dancing.
He ripples his arms in robot moves, and wonders how many of the boys around him realise this song was a gay anthem. How many of them are gay? There’s bound to be plenty. One young man, compact, dark and smooth, has the moves. He’s popping and gliding in his own world. There’s ecstasy on his face—probably in his blood-stream too.
Violet introduced Jack to clubs in London, basement venues where people wore masks, leather and rubber. Women wore outfits with cut-outs displaying their breasts. Men gyrated in spandex boxer shorts.
As Violet and Jack rested between dances, a cropped-haired man in clinging black jeans approached, tall, dark and handsome. All the clichés.
"Wanna dance?" he asked.
Jack looked at Violet.
She laughed. "He’s asking you, honey."
"Me?"
"Yeah." The man shuffled. "Y’know, if you’re interested."
"Okay."
They held each other close. Jack hadn’t danced with a boy since primary school. The man nuzzled his neck harder than any woman ever had. He gripped tight, hands wandering. As they pressed closer, a lump pressed against Jack’s thigh.
"Wanna go outside?" The guy nodded at a back door.
Between bins, against a damp brick wall, they embraced. Stubble prickled. The man’s lips were firm, his tongue insistent. Eau de cologne competed with curry and garbage.
"Here." He moved Jack’s hands to the bulge in his jeans.
Another song comes on, this time YMCA. Seems the DJ’s working through his gay play-list. Dancers form up in lines and Jack and Lola are front and centre. The movements are ragged, not everyone in step, but that’s to be expected.
One, two, three, four: Jack counts the beat silently. It’s not a conscious thing anymore. Some things come naturally.
Once again, the corners of his mouth turn up. There’s probably a sparkle in his eyes. Smiling is good. Dancing is good.
He throws his arms up and out with muscle-aching enthusiasm. The lines merge and cross. Jack steps forward, turns sharply, hands circling he leads and others follow. Everyone knows the moves, but not everyone has the same confidence and precision.
One, two, three, four: let’s go.
Hands in the air, Jack leads the clapping and ragged lines coalesce. The mob becomes a well-drilled chorus line. Then someone misses a turn and the magic’s lost.
Jack moved from back alley wanks to giving head in dark corners, but it wasn’t until he moved to New York that he got fucked by a guy.
He’d been dancing in a Hell’s Kitchen club, one of those converted warehouses, his system full of coke and pills. Towards the end of the night he smooched with an athletic Negro (African-American, Coloured: he never knew what to call them, only that nigger—like fag—wasn’t acceptable).
Shortly afterwards he found himself in an efficiency apartment, dirty clothes, rancid food and God knew what else spoiled the air. He almost vomited. Instead he kissed his new found friend, focussing on his sweaty, manly scent. The single creaked under their weight. Jack struggled with an unfamiliar button fly, wishing he could open a window. Hands grabbed his ass, wiggled into his shorts. A finger probed.
There must have been discussion of condoms—this was New York in the 80s—but in no time Jack was bent over the end of the bed, his pants around his ankles, and the other man behind him. His ass was smothered with lube.
Jack winced.
The song ends. Jack’s chest tightens. His sweat laden shirt sticks to his back. He yells over the din of a hundred voices, maybe more.
"Back in a minute."
He battles his way through a seething mass of flesh. Mercifully, the bathroom’s not crowded. He runs a faucet, splashing water into his mouth and over his face. He swallows a handful of pills and pats down sandpaper cheeks with clammy hands. Head in hands, elbows perched on the wash basin, he rests. Breathing’s hard and sweat’s already returning to his brow. Every joint aches. The door behind him opens and he shuffles to one side. A dark figure stands in the shadows of the door. An eyebrow’s raised quizzically. Jack closes his eyes tight, squeezes his temples. So easy to enter the stall, shut the door and go down on his knees. So easy. He’s done it a thousand times before, but not tonight. Instead, he pats down creased pants with damp paper towels. Time to get back; he’s not ready to go home. There’s still time for dancing.
He returns to the hall and the bass is pounding, ‘Tainted love’—Christ, maybe they’re all gay. Jack searches out Lola, and heads back to the middle of the floor. He knows all the moves to this one, loves the song. It’s a crowd pleaser and the throng hollers out the chorus.
The first—and last—time he fell in love was in LA. He’d been working in a Beverly Hills Porsche dealership and they’d thrown a party for the launch of the new Boxster. The usual rent a crowd: b-list actors, agents and self-important writers. Every writer who sells a script buys a Porsche, so they’re always invited, but God were those guys full of themselves.
One man caught Jack’s eye right away. Tanned, athletic and rangy, he wore designer jeans, a western shirt and a Stetson hat. An urban cowboy. No sign of rhinestones, thank God. He drank beer from a can and whenever he joined a group, laughter followed. Jack had to work the room—try and earn some commission—but kept an eye on the tall stranger. Then, as soon as Jack was alone, the man headed straight for him.
"What’s a good looking guy like you doing in a place like this?" he said.
Jack, still in the closet, almost choked on his drink.
"I can always tell." The cowboy grinned and offered a firm hand. "I’m Tom."
They talked, Jack sipping Chardonnay, while Tom swigged beer (if you can call Budweiser beer). He came from Arkansas, but lived and worked in San Francisco, where he had a software company. Jack tuned out the words and ate up the melody of Tom’s drawl. The man had the most incredible eyes.
They made their excuses and Jack took Tom down to the water. They walked by the sea front. Tom’s big hand enveloped Jack’s. He ignored hostile glances and, for once, Jack stood straight, as comfortable walking hand in hand with another man, as dancing. The air was salty and the breeze bracing. Surf crashed on the beach. The sun set.
When the light failed, Tom suggested they head back to his hotel, the Bel Air, a place Jack had heard of, but never visited. As Jack took in a room full of antique furniture, rugs and flowers, Tom turned on the television. A black and white movie played: Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers. Tom took Jack by the hand and they danced cheek to cheek. He wasn’t a dancer, but he moved well. Jack held on tight.
Next day, Tom headed home. That night, Jack walked the beach alone, kicking drift wood.
A few days later, a call came through on Jack’s cell.
"Hey, Jackie, Tom here."
Jack already knew, he’d recognise that voice—deep, gravelly and at the same time syrupy—anywhere.
"I was wondering, want to come to San Fran?"
Jack’s heart flipped.
"Sure, maybe this weekend?"
"No, I mean move here. I want you near me."
Tom agreed without a second thought. Within a month he quit his job at the dealership, packed his possessions into a trailer and moved to the bay.
His first day, Tom took him on a tour. They hit all the major attractions, from China Town to Fisherman’s Wharf. They rode cable cars and took a ferry to Alcatraz. Late that night they parked on the headland, in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge, and embraced under the stars.
Jack got an apartment in The Castro. His neighbours were gay and proud. Men paraded the streets holding hands. Buzz cuts and moustaches were de rigeur, leather unremarkable. He explored the neighbourhood, discovering a wealth of cafes, neighbourhood stores and cosy restaurants, not to mention the clubs dotted along the main street. Tom and Jack spent time together watching television—Tom never missed a Warriors game—or talking about their days. Jack cut back on drinking and, apart from the occasional joint, gave up drugs. He hung out with work-mates and neighbours. Bowling and visits to the cinema—classic old movies, or obscure art house films.
Jack developed an interest in cooking. His first efforts were nothing spectacular, but over time he became more accomplished. He visited the markets early to get the best produce. A mortar and pestle, and wooden knife block took pride of place on his kitchen bench. He diced vegetables with the same precision he’d once moved on the dance floor. He experimented with seasonings, and delighted himself with his creations.
One night, he made a Thai chicken salad he was particularly proud of—the balance of spices perfect. He served it up to Tom, accompanied by green tea and a side dish of spring rolls. Tom took a forkful and pulled a face.
"This is all good and nice, babe. But you know me." He grinned, the way he did and pushed his plate to one side. "I’m a simple man, with simple tastes."
He’d barely touched it.
Jack apologised, for what he wasn’t sure, and fixed a quick chilli—from a can—which was welcomed with a grin and disappeared to a tattoo of appreciative burps. After that, on date nights, Jack stuck to old favourites, steak, rice and beans, ribs or chicken. But when he was alone, he delighted his appetites with Pad Thai, Laksa and hand-made sushi rolls.
Tom was changing too.
He’d turn up without notice or not turn up when arranged. He often didn’t answer his phone. When he did visit, they rarely went to bed. If they did end up under the covers, all he wanted was to hug. But his feathery kisses and firm touches left Jack warmed from the inside. Every time, Tom would press his mouth to his ear and whisper.
"I love you, Jackie."
Tom ate less and less, even stopped drinking—bottles of his favourite Samuel Adams beer left unopened in the fridge.
"Are you okay, darling." Jack asked, after Tom left another meal uneaten.
"I’m fine. Don’t fuss, a touch of the flu." But he turned his head away as he answered.
After that night, Jack didn’t see him for a while. Calls and texts went unanswered. A month passed. Then Tom called.
"Jackie, don’t want you to worry, but . . ." spluttering coughing came over the line, "this flu’s proving a little stubborn, might be pneumonia."
"Oh, darling, you okay?" Jack bit his lip. "Is there anything I can do?"
"You just be you. I’ll be fine."
A few days later, another call.
"This motherfucker’s getting worse, don’t want to alarm ya—"
"But?"
"I think . . ." His drawl seemed slower, doling out words like treacle hanging from a spoon. "Maybe you should come over. I’m in St Luke’s."
Jack shuddered when he entered the room—the one time quarter back weighed less than the sissy dancer. He blinked hard and forced a smile.
"So?"
"Well, Jackie boy, it’s not looking good."
Jack sat at the bedside, holding Tom’s hand. Occasional beeps from a series of monitors were the only sound in the darkened room. At first they gazed at each other, but after a while they averted their eyes. Jack squeezed Tom’s hand. Tears ran down his cheeks. Perhaps Tom cried too. Eventually his limp hand fell away and his ragged breathing settled. Jack kissed him on the forehead and shuffled out of the room.
Some days later, before the sun had risen, the phone rang. Jack picked up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Hello?"
"Hello, you don’t know me, and to be honest I’m not sure who you are . . ."
An Arkansas accent, the voice familiar and yet not. Jack’s gut clenched.
"Look, there’s no easy way to say it: Tom died last night." Another pause, a click and nothing.
And Jack was rubbing his eyes again. Not tired now.
He heard no more. He wasn’t invited to the funeral. None of their friends knew anything; Tom was gone.
The club’s emptying and Jack’s tiring. Now. He catches the DJ’s eye and nods. His request—secured by fifty dollars, earlier in the evening—comes over the speakers: ‘Time of my life’.
It starts slowly and he takes Lola in his arms and holds her close. The tempo builds. He spins her, and once again her skirts flare. He can do this. Heads turn. Eyes meet. Lifts and twirls have the crowd whistling and cheering.
Lola turns and struts away, hips pulsing to the beat. The crowd makes room. Everyone who’s ever seen the movie knows what’s coming. Still moving, still dancing—one last work out—Jack counts the beat. Other dancers fall in behind him, following his lead. All eyes are on him.
Lola turns on four, and runs towards him.
She leaps.
He braces, reaches and catches.
Triumphant, he holds her above his head with aching arms and the room erupts in applause. The music stops and the lights come up.
III
Jack takes a cab home, but has the driver drop him at a convenience store. He counts his money, having tipped Lola an extra hundred—she earned it—and loads a paper sack with orange juice, bottled water, multi-vitamins and Tylenol. He’s going to need all the help he can get come morning, hell, it’s morning already. It’s a short walk to his apartment, but he takes the long way round, even though a light rain’s falling.
He pulls his collar up, stares down at his feet and meanders along the familiar path. He’s humming to himself, something he hasn’t done in a long time. On impulse he’d added a soft-pack of Marlboro Red and a box of matches to his purchases and now he pauses to light one, huddling to shield it from the drizzle. Ahead, on the opposite pavement, a tall man is walking, heading the same way. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and something about his gait’s familiar. Jack’s eyes prick.
The ghost takes a turn towards a nearby park and Jack follows. There aren’t many reasons a man would be heading there in the early hours of the morning. The man breaks his stride and looks around, spotting Jack. He pulls the brim of his hat down over his face. They head towards the sanctuary of the woods, glancing at each other as they go, eyes never quite meeting. He nods towards the park gates and strides into the dark. All Jack has to do is follow, something he’s done often enough—you can’t always lead—but he hesitates.
* * *
Jack opens the door on his apartment, kills the alarm and throws his wallet and keys on a side table. The paper sack goes on the breakfast bar, alongside rows of plastic pill bottles. He paces the condo. The walls are hospital white. There’s the same antiseptic odour; his maid’s heavy handed with the cleaning, she worries. Ceiling to floor windows open onto a balcony over the ocean. Waves crash on the beach. Is the tide coming in, or going out? He leans forward, palms spread flat against the cool glass. Shaking his head, still pounding to the club beats, he moves to the kitchen.
He prepares his final dose of pills for the day: multi-vitamins, analgesics, anti-inflamatories and the all important anti-viral cocktail. He rips the seal off a carton of orange juice and washes down the rainbow of tablets.
One last routine before sleep.
In the middle of the largest wall, in pride of places, there’s a large black and white photo in a burnished steel frame: Tom, Stetson at a rakish angle and winking at the camera, his shirt’s undone two buttons and there’s a glimpse of chest hair.
Jack’s eyes cloud. The corners of his mouth crinkle. He touches two fingers to his lips, then to the photo and turns off the light.