My friend Pete and I went to an exhibit in West Hollywood for an artist who does ceramics. It was packed that night and very warm inside. They had run out of wine before we got there so we made do with the Diet Cokes. The artist was a young Japanese guy, which would explain all the Anime-looking creatures that were on display. He was tall and very thin, sporting one of those long, straight ’70s haircuts wearing a black-and-white striped jumpsuit with a white scarf wrapped around his neck — like an Asian Mr. Furley. I thought it was brilliant.
Hovering around him was an older, nebbish looking gentleman who refreshed his drinks and answered questions about the art from the attendees. I assumed he was the gallerist and interpreter because the artist couldn’t speak English. But then I noticed he spoke to him in English as well, and it was in that cute, soft way you talk to a baby or favorite pet. “Are you okaay? Do you want some juuice?” “Get a load of that.” Pete said. “What’s next?” I said. “Do you like ice cream? I have some for you in the bathroom...” As we laughed, I noticed the older guy looking at us unamused, so we left to check out what was going on at the Brewery Lofts. I told Pete I’d meet him there. On the way over, I stopped into a 7-Eleven for a six-pack, just in case the next show was as dry as the last one. Having recently fallen off the wagon, I figured the evening shouldn’t be wasted on Diet Cokes any further.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a large trailer on the corner. It had a huge sign draped along its front that read: “Get Tested For Syphilis!” Dancing around in front of it was someone dressed-up like some sort of big, purple cartoon character, like the “Grape Man” in the Fruit Of The Loom commercials. But this character had a huge, menacing grin and pierced ears. I then realized it was a caricature of a syphilis bacterium. There had been a summer-long campaign by L.A.’s public health department targeting gays. Syphilis had spiked in recent years. I was walking up to the store when he spotted me and bounced over.
“Hey! You be careful tonight!” He handed me a bunch of condoms and lube and then patted me on the back. It was rather nice, like he was genuinely concerned for my safety. I could smell booze coming from the opening in the suit’s mouth. I told him “Thanks!”
“Hey no problem. So where you off to tonight?’
“Oh, I’m supposed to meet a friend out at the Brewery Lofts. We just left a show down the street.”
“Oh yeah, a real tiny place. No bigger than a studio apartment, right? I hear they lost their lease and tonight’s the last night for them. When you walk around dressed like an STD long enough, you learn things.” We laughed. “You know a lot of folks around here I’m sure.” “Oh yeah,” he said, “I take care of these boys walking up and down here. Just second nature I guess. I used to be a nurse in the Army until one day, while I was donating some furniture to the Goodwill, a mirror I was holding slipped out of its frame and sliced my fingers off. You can’t sew-up too many battle wounds with nubs.” I looked down at the hand he just used to give me the condoms. “Naw, it’s my left one.” He produced both hands and shook them a little. He was wearing large, white gloves like Minnie Mouse so I couldn’t see his missing fingers.
“Well damn!” I said, “That’s a hell of a story. If we were at a bar I’d buy you a drink, friend.” “Well shit, bring me out a 40! I’m due for a break, buddy!”
A few minutes later, I came out of the store with two 40-ounce beers in paper bags for us. I walked up, handed him his beer and sat next to him. “So, after losing your fingers, is this all you do now?” I asked. “Naw, I get disability. I hated being in the Army, I consider my lack of digits a mixed blessing.” I took a drink and tried to lighten the mood. “Well, at least you got to travel!” “Travel?” He yelled at me. “Jesus Christ, that was the WORST part of it. One day, while on leave in Thailand, I walked passed this guy in an open-air market that had a little girl sitting on his lap. She may have been his daughter, I didn’t know, but as I walked by he signaled me to look over at him. When I did, he lifted up her dress and spread her legs apart to show me her little… you know… little pussy. She just sat there looking around like she was waiting for a bus. I wanted to chop the guy’s fucking head off.” He paused a bit then continued, “Eugene O’Neill once described this moment. When he was a young guy working nightshift on a boat, the moon was bright and it lit up the ocean as far as he could see — it was in that moment, he said that ‘…an invisible hand reached down and drew back the veil on this life. I became the Secret.’” Buddy, I’ve seen dead men. Guys burned alive. But when that asshole offered me that little girl’s pussy, that’s when the veil was drawn back for me. The human race is disgusting.”
Our visit had turned dark and now he wasn’t talking anymore, as if I had shown up uninvited to a funeral. Like the kids who made Bum Fights, I bought him a beer so I could hang out with him and get some material for my column. It made me feel like an ass. I patted him on the back of his costume, “Hey, enjoy your beer, my friend is waiting for me. It’s been nice talking to you.” He perked up a little, “The pleasure was mine, buddy. Thanks for the beer.” I left my can behind next to him figuring he’d finish it. As I got to my car and opened the door, I heard him shout from behind me.
“Hey! I didn’t get your name.”
“Kurt. I didn’t get yours!”
“Steven. Sorry I chased you off. I don’t think you’re disgusting. Just everyone else!”
Posts
