There came, then, a knock at the door. Larken glanced at the clock: 11:12. Who would visit so late when Larken didn't know anybody in the first place?
Larken ignored the knock, but there came another, so he got up and looked out one of the side windows at the door. It was his neighbor Todd, the sun-crazed masseur and bodybuilder with the white blond hair and Little Boy Blue eyes. Larken couldn't imagine when Todd got around to earning his living giving massages, as he was always at the gym or, especially, the beach. You had the impression that even his shit had a tan. However, Todd had been kind to Larken the night he lost his job in the record store and helpful when Larken locked himself out; so Larken was responsive to Todd's occasional visits.
"Sorry to stir you, man," said Todd, with his habitual sly smile. "I ran out of milk just when I felt the most
intense need
for a banana-fruit-hypo shake, so I—"
"Let me look in the—"
"Energy. When you got to have it, you
need
to really
got
to have it."
"Here you go, Todd."
"Thanks. Hey, you okay, man?"
Larken was desperate to talk, but "I'm fine," he said, because Todd just wouldn't get it. "It's late."
"Yeah, sorry about that, okay?"
Back in the armchair, Larken tried looking at his life. This is hard to do at his tender age. Assessments and projections at twenty-three? Premature. Unnecessarily anxious. Misleading.
Another knock at the door.
"Todd!" Larken cried, nearly jumping out of his chair. "Will you please stop running out of things while I'm having a crisis?"
He pulled the door open and froze, because it wasn't Todd. It was That Guy in the Park.
The Kid knew he'd been onto something, he
knew\
But, okay, we'll take it slow. We'll examine. I'm good at that. They think I'm a dumb-bunny sweetheart, but no, guys, I've a head on me. Larken saw it. I've got direction. Oh, and look who's here: Enter Derek backstage with... I
think
this one's Tresa. Very redhead and stacked. I'll bet he can get hard for her even without my help.
"You sang
our
song," Derek told the Kid.
"Yeah, your sheet music."
"You don't think you made yourself too... open?"
"Too open what?"
"The sailor material was on the touchy side. And, well, a man singing a woman's song?"
The Kid shrugged. "It's how I feel, so why shouldn't I?"
"Because people will take the wrong idea from your actions."
"They'll
take
the right idea, actually," said the Kid into Derek's face in the Kid's mirror. "They'll find out who I am, which is the thing that is important. And didn't I handle the emcee stuff well? I don't need an announcer. I'm my own act."
"You're so headstrong," Derek purred. "You know I love you like that."
"No, you love me crying. Remember?"
"Can I come in?" Frank asked Larken.
"You're the police."
"I'm off duty."
"No."
"I just want to talk to you. Personal, it's a personal matter. Look, your case has been dropped. And... and I'm the guy who got it dropped. They'll call you Tuesday or Wednesday. I thought you'd like to know now, get it off your heart."
Larken stepped aside.
"Thank you," said Frank.
"Why is my case dropped?"
"Can I sit down?"
Larken, still in a whirring confusion, nodded.
Strictly procedural, deadpan, take-no-sides Frank said, "There were ambiguities."
"About what?" said Larken, sitting on the other side of the room from Frank.
"About the arrest and my feelings and your way of living. About how I should handle this. Even about whether I should have come here."
From Larken, nothing.
Frank said, "Please don't make this tough on me. Because—"
"Cops don't visit the people they arrest, do they? And how about you making it tough on me? How do you think
my
ambiguities feel after... And
handcuffs!
That's how dangerous I am!"
Larken got up.
"Get out of my house, you cop," he said.
Frank slowly got up and told Larken, "Look, I understand how you feel and I don't blame you and I'm very sorry it happened to you, right? But I did get you off and I didn't have to do it. And I think that means you should listen to me."
"You entrapped me in the first place, so getting me off—"
"Please—"
"No, you get out."
"I need to talk to—"
"I don't
want
to—"
"Please,"
Frank begged. "
Please hear me.
You're the only one I know. The only... the only one like me and I please I have to talk about this to someone
please.
To talk to about who I am."
Larken backed away, considering. "You
don't
know me."
"Well, give me a chance, kind of. Like, what do you do?"
"Huh?"
"You know. I'm a cop and you're... what?"
"A waiter. Just now. Usually, I can get better work than that."
Frank blinked at him.
"Well, what did you take me for?" Larken asked. "A diplomat?"
"No, but... what's your goal in life? I mean, what are you working towards?"
"To become happy, I guess."
"That's all?" "That's
all
? If I were a doctor and I were going to save the world, would that make me a better person? Or a cop—that's best of all, isn't it? Doing good with my handcuffs."
"I just thought you were... In the park, I figured you were a teacher."
"You can sit down, anyway. It's ridiculous for us to stand staring at each other as if we were boxers starting a match."
As they sat, Larken went on, "First, I don't like being taken for a teacher, because I don't know what that means that you think about me, but it probably isn't flattering. And, second, I don't know why you're here."
"Why? I'll say why right now, okay? Because I date women. Right? And it's pleasurable, as you might expect."
Larken just looked at him.
"Well, so I... I have these other feelings. Okay, now, why I'm here?"
"Feelings for men?"
Frank couldn't quite bring himself to nod. "I guess it's silly," he said. "I don't even know what I'd do with a man."
"Kiss him?"
Frank, genuinely revolted, said, "What the hell do you take
me
for, now? Do I look like a... a sissy shadow boy who just—"
"Don't shout at me in my house!"
"Well, what do you—"
"Why does it have to be me that you talk to?" Larken asked, jumping up. "Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to know you before? I would have given anything to get you, just about. But after what happened I don't believe I should like you any more. So talk to someone else!"
Frank sat there, looking at him. He said, "Larken... Is that what they call you?"
"Lark."
"Frank." He stood and held out his hand, but Larken didn't move.
"I don't want to shake your hand," Larken told him.
"Okay. That's fair. Just... just tell me what happens. After the park, when you go home with someone. What do you do?"
"You don't want to know."
"Probably not, but I kind of have to. Lark? I want to be honest, and you're the only man I can be honest to."
"Oh? Then you be honest, right now. Who do you have a yen for? Go on. This is your moment."
I guess it is, Frank thought. It really, really is. "Well," he began. Am I going to do this? "There's this... this detective at the station. He's in Homicide. Lieutenant Peterson."
"What does he look like?"
"He's a big guy. Nice guy. Tough-edged, kind of, because of the work. Real hard rower..."
Frank went on and Larken listened, occasionally asking a question or reshaping the saga when Frank doted upon trivialities. It was a long talk, for it was Frank's moment and he was going to do this, and when it was over, he felt a lot better for having had it. Because someone, somehow, has to know what you are, or you'll never know it yourself.
It was very late. Frank asked Larken if he could come back again and talk some more.
"You know," Frank added, "it can be handy to know a cop."
"I'm not sure about that."
"You're pretty sore, I guess."
"How would you like to be taken downtown in handcuffs?"
"If you'll let me be your friend," said Frank, "I swear I'll make that up to you."
"Like how?"
"You tell me."
They looked at each other for a while, Frank pleading and Larken trying to be obdurate, though it was not in his nature.
"All right," said Larken.
"Home sweet home," said Lois, holding the door for Elaine.
"It's wild."
"No, it isn't. What do you mean, wild?"
"Well, isn't that where you sleep?"
"Sure."
"A mattress on the floor?"
"Who passed a law about beds?"
"No flowers in the room, she sleeps on the floor, and she doesn't wear a bra."
"You finally noticed."
"I noticed when you stepped out of your car that day I—"
"Who made bras? Men. Why? To hold women in, am I wrong? To hide the sight of their wives' buttons from other men. Arabs hide their women's faces. You ever hear of a society where men have to hide anything?"
"You're scary."
"How so, chick?"
"You're so convinced about everything." Elaine moved closer to Lois. "I like that. I think what drove Jeff and me apart was... You'll think this absurd."
"Try me."
"It's that he never has opinions." Elaine put her hands on Lois's shoulders, just resting there. "He takes the shape of his container. For instance... Is it indecorous of me to be talking of my husband now?"
"Don't ask me, talk!"
"Well, this weekend he's in Tucson on a convention."
"Of like what?"
"Of computer integrators."
"Of
what?"
"Don't laugh. I hear it's the coming thing." Elaine was playing with Lois's hair, smoothing it out, trying the strands. Lois had taken Elaine by the waist. "Anyway, he's away, so I'm here, and I imagine that right now he's out drinking with some of the other computer integrators, agreeing with everything they say, because that's how he is. He just...
agrees
with you. He respects your opinion so much that he adopts it, instantly. That's Jeff. But I like... I want to be..."
Lois kissed Elaine.
"...challenged..."
More kissing.
"Yes," said Elaine.
After a bit, she said, "Yes."
Then, "Exactly like that."
She looked at Lois. "Except... what else? Because this is very... wild."
"Just come here and lie down," Lois told her. "On your stomach, and just relax. Just... I'm not always so rough. I can be sweet. Yes, that's right. Easy, now."
"My husband calls me Ellie when he—"
"I'm calling you Elaine. See, just a... Right, a massage like this. Let me just get this off you and... No, I'll do that."
"Do you—"
"Don't say anything," Lois urged her. "Just let me. I know how it works." "And I'm a fast learner," Elaine started to say, but what came out of her was a gasp.
"Don't talk, Elaine. Don't talk. Don't talk."
Elaine moaned.
"See?"
After a bit, Elaine whispered, "Lois, that feels so wonderful."
"And I'm not even doing anything illegal yet."
Frank and Larken had an arrangement by which they met every Saturday at Larken's apartment at lunchtime, going out for burgers, then returning to Larken's for a talk. Sometimes they talked about police work and how uncomfortable Frank felt on Vice. At other times they spoke of the men Frank admired, and Larken would chime in with some thoughts on the men he knew. Once, Larken told Frank what it was like being raised by the state as an orphan. They shook hands at the beginning and end of each of these dates, and after the third one, at night, Larken started pretending that Frank was in bed with him. Larken hugged his pillow as if he were holding on to Frank.
At the next Meeting, which was held at Larken's house, Larken told his comrades of his arrest and of how the charges were dropped, but he did not bring up Frank or mention that one of the arresting officers was now a friend of his.
"Should you fight it, I wonder?" mused Paul. "Sue them for false arrest or something the like? I think... Mind you, I
think
I see an issue here."
"Forget it, Paul," said Jake. "He couldn't win a case like that. They might reinstate the charges to cover themselves."
"It's so frustrating. We can't win if we fight, but if we never fight—"
"Who's
we?"
Larken said, abruptly. "I mean, what are we supposed to even call ourselves? Because this has been bothering me for a long time."
"What do you mean, Russ?" asked Alfred.
Larken made a face; I mean, come on, these fake names. "The idea," he said, "is that someday we're going to be able to identify ourselves. Aren't we? That's what we're working toward with this Group. And when that day comes, what
word
do we use?"
There was a pause as the others thought this over, and Paul saw his grip on the Meeting slipping. So he ups and says, "'Homosexual' isn't good enough for you?"
"It's too long. It's some professor's word."
"'Homo,' then. Short and sweet."
"That isn't sweet," said Larken, a touch annoyed that he would have to point this out.
Alfred agreed. "It's too much like 'fag' and 'queer.'"
"What word do you use?" Larken asked Jake.
"Well, if I'm describing someone
to
someone, I might call him 'a cousin of ours.'"
"There's that phrase the old-timers use," said a newcomer to the Group, "Mervyn." "You know, 'a friend of Dorothy'?"
"Too long again," said Larken. "And it sounds coy. Who's Dorothy, anyway?"
"The movie people," said Jake, "call it 'gay.'"
"Preposterous," said Paul.
"It does sort of trivialize us," said Alfred.
"Besides," Paul added, "it already is a word, with a meaning all its own."