How did Al en feel when he found out what his son was up to?
He must have been devastated.
He must have wanted to die.
The realization hit me like a blow to the stomach. I felt dizzy and leaned against a street lamp.
Shit!
Did Al en real y kil himself? Was this why?
“Excuse me,” someone shouted. It took a moment to realize he was shouting at me.
I looked up. A middle-aged man with a Donald Trumpian comb-over sat at the curb in an expensive Lexus.
“Yeah?” I asked him.
“You working?” he whispered loudly.
“What?” I went closer to his window.
“I said, ‘are you working?’” he asked nervously.
I looked down at myself. The skimpy T-shirt, the Daisy Duke shorts stil unbuttoned at the waist.
“Sorry, I don’t work the streets,” I said.
“Oh, please,” the man said. “Look at you. Let’s not play hard to get. I got fifty bucks for your time. We could do it right in the car.”
“Sorry,” I said, leaning in. The guy might have been an asshole, but the air conditioning coming from his expensive car felt great, “First of al, I am not working. Second of al, if I were working, it would cost you a hel of a lot more than fifty bucks.”
“Sixty?”
“No!” Now I was getting offended. “Do I look like the kind of guy you could have for sixty bucks?”
“Wel, how much, then?”
“Listen,” I said, deciding to give him some advice,
“if you’re going to haggle over price, don’t drive a Lexus.”
“It’s a lease,” he clarified.
I had enough of this nonsense. “Sorry, buddy, but…” I began.
Then I heard my name cal ed out.
“Kevin?”
I turned around and saw Freddy, with a Versace shopping bag in each hand and a horrified expression on his face.
He looked me up and down.
“Are you streetwalking?” he asked, appal ed.
“Excuse me,” the man inside the car cal ed out.
“But I saw him first. We were in the middle of a negotiation here and…”
“No we weren’t,” I shouted back at him. Freddy frowned. I shouted at him. “I swear. Stop looking at me like that.”
Freddy leaned over into the car and dropped his voice an octave. “Listen, man. You want to deal with my boy, here, you gots to deal with me. I’m his pimp, and unless you show me five hundred large real quick, we’re gonna have us some problems.”
The man showed his appreciation for Freddy’s words by demonstrating just how quickly a real y nice car can accelerate.
“Asshole,” I yel ed after him. Then, to Freddy: “That guy was trying to get me to go with him for sixty bucks!”
“How much were you charging?” Freddy asked.
“Nothing! I’m tel ing you, I was just walking, wel, leaning, and the guy pul ed over and propositioned me.”
“You were standing out here dressed like that and you’re shocked that someone thought you were hustling?”
I had to laugh. I twirled around for him, showing off my trampy style. “You like?”
Freddy looked at me hungrily. He dropped his bags and pul ed me towards him. He ground his crotch into mine.
“I like,” he said hotly into my ear.
Damn, he was built.
An old woman stepping into her building yel ed at us, “Get a room!”
I laughed and pushed Freddy away.
“No, seriously,” Freddy said, picking up his bags.
“Why are you dressed, wel, half-dressed, like that?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Come on, I’l tel you about it over a snack.”
Freddy and I went to a nearby Starbucks. Freddy’s heavy flirting with the boy at the counter doubled the amount of time it took to get our coffees.
I told Freddy about my meeting with Roger Folds.
He listened careful y, only looking at Starbucks Boy half the time I was talking. When I told him about Roger Folds’s connection to Michael Harrington, he jumped in.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I wanted to tel you I asked some people at work if they ever heard of The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy.”
Freddy was the director of administration at a local AIDS services center.
“And?”
“Some of the counselors have clients who went there. They said it was a pretty fucked-up place.
They put al this pressure on you to ‘change.’ A lot of guilt and lecturing and nagging. You know, kind of like your mother.”
“‘Kind of?’” I asked.
“Yeah, wel, when I say ‘kind of’ I mean ‘exactly.’
But even worse, if you can imagine it. It sounds like they try to brainwash you. I guess it takes a lot to repress someone’s basic instincts, huh,” Freddy said. “Speaking of which, I wonder what Sharon Stone’s up to these days. I always did think she was underrated as an actress.”
“That reminds me, I have to tel you something about Paul Harrington.”
“He knows Sharon Stone?” Freddy asked excitedly.
“No, what you said about repression.” I told him about May’s comment that Al en thought his son might be gay.
“Wel, duh,” Freddy responded, bored. “I already told you that. I don’t understand how you can be such a big street streetwalking whore when you have the world’s worst gaydar.”
“I’m not a streetwalking whore,” I said a little too loudly.
Starbucks Boy, whose name tag read Colin, started cleaning the table next to us. Which, by the way, was already clean. I had the feeling he didn’t often walk out from behind the counter, but somehow, with Freddy around, he had a sudden urge to straighten up.
“Hey, I’m not putting you down. I love dick, too,”
Freddy also said loudly, and not for my benefit.
“Maybe we could start a club,” Colin chimed in, taking the bait.
“You know, you’d be charming if you could just get over your shyness,” I said to Freddy.
Freddy grinned, not taking his eyes off Colin’s butt as the coffee slinger bent over to pick a napkin off the floor.
“Don’t be petty,” Freddy cautioned.
Colin came over. “So, are you two together?” he asked Freddy.
“Only for the coffee,” Freddy said.
“Good.” Colin handed Freddy a card from his wal et. “Here’s my number.”
“Oh, I think I got your number,” Freddy said, taking the card from him.
Colin gave me and my outfit a long look. “Your friend is cute, too,” he said to Freddy, “but I don’t think I could afford him. You’re not a cal boy, too, are you?”
