By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
"I'm workin' tonight," says the lanky, 30ish man who looks like he hasn't slept for 60 hours. We are waiting outside the men's room at Cruisin' Central, waiting because the door is held shut from the inside, and both of us have to piss. "I can always get some cash off the old fags, but when I saw that girl over there, I didn't know what to say."
The girl he's talking about is my girlfriend. Ten minutes prior, Lanky had offered her a Long Island iced tea while bumming smokes and scoping a possible hustle. On a better night, he would be good-looking, with ruffled Ken-doll hair and thick, too-soon-to-be-there cheek lines that look like parentheses around his mouth.
He says he's been on a roll. After 15 months clean, he is now in the middle of a down, a three-week bender. It looks to me like speed and booze are his drugs of choice, and the resulting synapse lapses in his speech are glaringly meth-obvious; stuttered speech, broken sentences, jilted phrasing and that cow-in-the-pasture glazed stare.
"I jus' need enough . . . I mean . . . tonight, that is, to get more," he continues. Then, laughing oddly, "I sound crazy."
Cruisin' Central is a murky, narrow neighborhood bar on Central Avenue just north of Roosevelt. It's known generally as a gay bar, and some have said that Cruisin' makes the around-the-corner transvestite club 307 look like Disneyland by comparison. It is also said that the uninitiated should not enter here solo.
The main entrance to Cruisin' is off the alley in the rear, and its staid exterior reveals zilch about the inside; there is no neon, no sign and no logo. On the front brick façade, a weathered wreath still hangs from the Christmas holidays, slightly lopsided, offering an oblique greeting to all who come.
A small disco ball and red and green strings of Christmas lights go lengths to seed a blithe ambiance in Cruisin's otherwise somber interior. Cigarette-smoke-stained walls and flimsy tables and benches prop up its Seventies bad-cop-show veneer. The night's in-house security guard, Jay, floats about wearing shades, a smirk and a phony cop badge. And like any shadow, Jay lurks accordingly with an eerie and a disarming presence, watching, then disappearing.
A sign behind the bar reads, "SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT 3:30 OUR NEW STRIP SHOW." The man bartending tonight is Rhonda, a short guy with a pleasant face and a hearty laugh. In the room there's a pool table and two dusty dartboards.
The disparate crowd of 30 or so is a concoction of Anglo, black and Hispanic men and few women. A balding middle-aged gent is standing and kissing a seated, younger guy. Another couple gropes each other at a table. Two thick-ankled transvestites in layers of cheap garb occupy space at the bar, their drinks half-gone, their expressions lifeless.
A low murmur of conversation rises between juke choices of antiquated disco hits and the clicks of pool cues and balls.
After a piss, I make it back to my table and notice the lanky hustler with the hiccup speech has found another on which to hang his sad brogue.
We start talking to an older guy, a man named John David. And I mistakenly call him John.
"Not John," he corrects me, laughing, "John David."
John David is dapper, meticulously dressed, even; manicured nails, big, genial smile, and a remarkable coif like a sandy-haired Jack Lord's. His build, though slight, is trim and well-kept; his gestures are graceful and fluid. He gives his age as 54, and he is eager to talk.
Over the course of a few drinks, John David's tale unfolds. He says he was house boy to actor Will Geer for some years in the Seventies during the actor's stint on the family-valued hit TV show The Waltons. John David was a Chippendale dancer, and even fathered two sons by different women. Of his two sons, one is straight and the other is a gay porn star. John David is an artist, a painter. He is also HIV-positive.
"I met Will Geer on Will Rogers State Beach," John David explains of the man whom he says took him in and gave him a job taking care of his house and garden. "I was sleeping under the boardwalk, he came along, and it was like 5:30 in the fucking morning, and he bent over and he scared the shit out of me.
"Will was six-foot-three; he was a big man, a big, healthy guy. And he had with him a great big purse. He had this huge shoulder purse and a floppy hat. He always wore hats. Loved hats. He had a collection of hats. He came down there, I guess he was off from shooting. This was before The Waltons started."
John David was a kid then, fresh off the boat from a failed teenage marriage in Wisconsin. When he speaks, a tinge of Wisconsin dialect slips through, putting a twist on an otherwise queeny cha-cha.
"Oh, jeez, I had just turned 21. I was just a little bitty baby. Will Geer was a real plain guy, a down-to-earth guy. He was an environmentalist. . . . He was an old hippie, a lot of fun. We went to a lot of places."