My eyes came back to Madison, leaning on the light pole like a teenager on a summer night. This stance which seemed somehow disingenuous reminded me of seeing Bell on stage. She stood like a person pretending to be alone, not one who felt truly alone. Maybe she was thinking of herself standing on the corner, maybe the image of herself gave her pleasure, or maybe she liked being observed, knew I or someone else was always looking. She yawned, rubbed her eyes sleepily, looked at her fingers, closed her eyes, moved her mouth quietly — then puckered her lips and blew. I imagined the eyelash propelled into the air, twisting and turning like a twig caught in a current.
She was so absorbed, so appealing. What does she wish for, love, money, a little bit of peace? My mother had taught me that a woman was most valuable before she had sex and that her virginity was mystically connected to her stability. But Madison believed the more sex a woman had, the more precious and powerful she became. I didn't move or call to her, but still I wanted Madison to sense I was there, to call me out. I wanted her to say my name, to promise me something. Watching her reminded me of Cybersex, a place on Leavenworth where closed-circuit ‘IVs show a woman in bed asking the viewer what he wants her to do.
Madison looked up the block, to the right, then crossed the street. She was obviously waiting for someone. I thought of going around the block, pretending to meet her by chance. But it was somehow better if I watched her. It was this voyeuristic intimacy she loved. I walked back toward Market Street, saw the empty electric bus to the Castro coming toward me. I knew there was no way in the world I would sleep tonight.
THE BUS JUMPED ITS LINE, STOPPED, BIG BLUE SPARKS FELL PAST my window. The driver put on his gloves and went outside to connect the pole to the lattice of electrical wiring overhead. I could feel random electricity heating up my skin, upsetting my stomach, creating a tingly static in my head. I had to get off the bus, though the Indian man in the back warned me not to. He wore pukka beads and held a brown bag of Mad Dog in the low-slung pocket of his coat. He made me think how capitalism works best in the least-spiritual countries. In the Mexican deli on the corner I bought a quart of beer and some nougat the lady told me was homemade.
It felt good to be out. The air was fresh and occasionally I saw a fellow insomniac like myself. All this was mine: the dark houses, the liquid streets and the night clouds overhead hiding frozen stars. I walked past the Castro Theater, where a man plays the organ before the movie starts, and the Thai restaurant across the street where Bell and I always had salads with warm peanut sauce. Some things were familiar, but it still gave me the creeps to be down here. The artifice outside the buildings and the decor inside seemed overly ornate, even hysterical. In one gift-shop window homosexual merchandise was emphasized, a variety of cards with naked men and rubber penises with little feet.
I stopped: in a window I saw Bell at the bar, whispering intimately into another man's ear. A lizard slithered around inside my stomach. I could kill him, the way he leaned in and lay his arm loosely around the man's neck. I wondered if Bell preferred to sodomize or be sodomized. . or was he a cocksucker? I suddenly felt dizzy and leaned up against the stucco wall. I wanted Bell to love me. A drag queen in a fur coat rushed by me and went into the bar next door. I followed her into the 50 °Club. It was more crowded than the other after-hour clubs and didn't seem as seedy with its bright tiki lights. I sat there watching people pass. The jukebox nearby was filled with camp hits and Judy Garland songs, and there were framed photos of weight lifters hung against the black carpeted walls. I chose a still-warm stool by the door and ordered a bourbon. The young bartender, a Japanese man in tight white jeans and a half-buttoned tropical shirt, smirked when he set down my drink. There was a covey of leather monsters talking in the corner. I thought I recognized a few from parties at Pig's. Middle-aged men watched music videos, twisting their heads whenever the door opened. If you didn't count the drag queen I was the only woman here.
A fat man came in wearing acid-washed jeans and a baby-blue shirt open at the neck to show his gold zodiac medallion. He carried a shopping bag over his arm. A bald man he called Billy came to him and they both went to the back of the bar. The fat man slipped off his pants. The looseness of his skin and his black ankle socks reminded me of my grandfather. From the bag he took a black gown, as he stepped into it he told Billy that in Europe girls were wearing black dresses with fresh flowers in their hair.
“Zip it up,” he said. “I want to see how it hangs.”
“Oh, I know how it hangs,” Billy said and the whole bar laughed.
Billy tried to zip it. He told the man to suck in. He tried to pull the sides together, but he couldn't get the zipper up.
“Oh well,” the fat man finally said. A taffeta skirt didn't fit either and he couldn't even get the satin wedding suit over his chest.
“That last one would have looked great on you,” Billy said and walked back to his seat at the bar.
“I thought I was a perfect size sixteen and it's a shame because I can't return them,” he said, his hands shaking as he folded the clothing carefully back into the bag.
“They didn't fit?” the bartender asked, trying to break the awkward silence.
“No,” he said. “I'm getting too fat to be a girl.” He grinned at Billy as he squeezed past a table to his place at the bar. He ordered a drink, then started talking about a man they both knew who had this boyfriend, Jeffrey, that couldn't be trusted.
The door opened again and a dwarf came inside. He put his foot on the bar rail and jumped up on a stool near me. Everyone knew him and said hello. His name was Hector and his little pants and white shirt made him look like a boy at his first communion. He ordered a seltzer, he said, because he'd been getting into trouble lately.
I ordered a double, slung it down hoping some man here would think I was reckless and come over. When I scanned the room there was a man who was watching, but he averted his eyes. Maybe I'd blown it or he'd decided I was a slut. He read a book, which was an odd thing to do in a bar at this hour. It made him seem like he wanted to delineate himself. Was he gay? He did remind me of Bell with his poised ambiguity. It was a well-cultivated masculinity tottering on the edge of femininity and it appealed to me so much. He was the sort of man Bell would fancy.
But maybe he only wanted to watch me. He turned a page of his book and sipped his drink, the ice hit his teeth awkwardly and he shot a side glance at me. I smiled. He smiled back, put his glass down on the table and walked over to order another drink. He got a dollar's worth of quarters to play songs on the jukebox. While he perused the selections I turned my chest slightly toward him, readied for the second I'd raise my eyes like the whores at Carmen's.