I felt empty and terribly alone. For the first time the house seemed strange and unfriendly. I was now an intruder, and I wasn't so sure of the maturity that Mora said I was supposed to have. Being totally alone for the first time made my stomach feel queasy, no parents to run home to, and no Mora to guide me. I didn't want to stay there another day; it seemed haunted, and every piece of furniture, every wall, every picture mocked me. I went right to the kitchen and found the morning paper, and got out the furnished-apts-for-rent section.
It took me about a week to find a place that was decent and that didn't ask for identification and references. I had no evening jobs to play that week and continued to study out of habit. The big bed was so empty, so sterile, without her. I read until late, trying to keep my eyes off of the view, which, in its immenseness and grandeur, made me feel smaller and lonelier.
After a terrible first night I masturbated myself to sleep, not even forming erotic mental images, just moving to get it off, humping into the soft mattress and sleeping exhausted on my wet cum, uncaring when it turned cold.
My new apartment was on Clay Street, just off of upper Fillmore. It was a home owned by a retired couple who had a small apartment downstairs, with its own entrance from the walk that ran down the side of the house. There was a low iron fence in front and a neatly trimmed patch of lawn breaking the monotony of the cement sidewalk extending down the block. The area was nice and that part of Fillmore Street was a shopping center for the wealthy people from Pacific Heights. Mora and I had shopped there often, as it was only about ten blocks from her flat.
The apartment itself wasn't much, but it was neat and dean. The living room was large, and there was a sofa which pulled out into a bed, a chair and ottoman, a table with two chairs, a small desk, and an unfinished-furniture bookcase. A green curtain at the back of the room separated the kitchen, which was very small, just an apartment stove, sink, and refrigerator, courtesy of Sears. The bathroom had a small, stand-up shower, an old commode, and a sink with a mirror hung over it, shoved into the corner. A bare light bulb hung from the bathroom ceiling. The rent was eighty-five dollars on a month-to-month basis, so in the event that the owner's children decided to visit from Florida, I could be thrown out on short notice.
I loaded my things into the car, cleaned up Mora's place, taking a last, nostalgic look around, and moved on with my life.
PART THREE
Chapter 1
At first my new life was difficult. The loneliness bit into me with long, hurting fangs, and I played as many jobs as possible to avoid it. For one thing the quiet of an apartment is deadly, and takes a lot of getting used to. I had to learn to cook for myself, and while my diet was limited to hamburgers, hot dogs, lamb chops, and sandwiches, it didn't appear to do me any harm. I got into the habit of reading with my meals, or of watching the small, ten-inch TV I'd bought. My loneliness always seemed to be exacerbated at mealtime, and I found that this was one way of making it more agreeable. Too, I ate out a great deal.
Bedtime was what I dreaded most. Once you get used to sleeping with a woman, her absence is felt far more than if you had always slept alone. I jacked off every night, and often several times a day, using erotic memories of Mora alone or with her girl friends in some of the wild, three-way orgies we had enjoyed. Also, I would use mental pictures of good-looking girls from school, imagining their bodies in every tiny detail, and doing to them all of the things that Mora had taught me. I went back to using sweat socks because I didn't want to stain my landlord's sheets.
I still visited my parents on Sundays, and made up stories about Al and Mora. My mother always wanted to meet them, but I kept thinking up excuses to put it off. I phoned Mora and gave her my number, so when Mom would call Mora would phone me and I would phone Mom back.
Occasionally I would go out to the Tenderloin, or down to lower Fillmore, and walk around. But my duck's-ass cut had been replaced by normal hair styling, my pegged pants, faded Levi's, and Price's maroon shoes had given way to well-cut slacks, jackets, and suits. Dude's, the mecca for black clothes buyers, saw me no more. My friends all were gone; it was hard for me to find anybody who I knew. And the final insult: girls hustled me on the street, "Hey, good lookin', you wanna date? Make the price right."
It galled terribly. Me, they were actually hustling me. Didn't they know me? Know who I was? Did I really look to them like some fucking John from Dubuque?
The colorfully dressed barkers who had always stood in the doorways of strip joints, pounding feet and clapping hands and giving me a cheerful, knowing wave as I passed, now the bastards were giving me the line: "Step right in, sir. New show just startin'. No cover charge and lots of pretty girls. Step right in." And they would hold back the black velvet doorway curtains with one hand, in case I wanted to take a daring peek inside. Didn't they know? Couldn't they tell somehow, some way, that, not too long before, I had been one of them?
Winos and bums hit me for spare change on every block. Doorways reeked of piss and stale vomit. The "new" people on the street looked right at me without a glimmer of recognition. And why should there be, I told myself. When I was around, they hadn't even hit the street yet.
The whole scene was depressing; I felt like a retired general who couldn't get onto-his old post because he didn't have a gate pass. Sadly, I realized that my time for the street had come and gone.
For lack of any part of life to really touch, I began trying to take an interest in school activities. It was a lost cause; I was beyond it, and I could never go back. I just couldn't generate any interest in football rallies or proms, or wondering if so-and-so "put out." I suppose I was regarded as an oddball. I had few friends, outside of Herb, Ed, Gary, and a few other guys who were musicians. They seemed to fit better into the school social structure than I did. Ed even served on a student committee.
Girls always looked at me differently from the other boys, and I knew they were curious about me, probably because I dressed like a man Instead of a kid. At the beginning of the semester a couple of new students even stopped me to ask directions, thinking that I was a member of the faculty.
It wasn't that I was unfriendly; I would always wave and smile at people. But still, when I passed a group of girls in the hall (teen-age girls always seem to travel in groups) I would get the unmistakable feeling that they were talking about me, making comments after I had passed, and it wasn't paranoia.
Finally I decided, what the hell, I would try it with the schoolgirls. One girl in particular attracted me. Her name was Faye, and she sat next to me in Spanish class. Out of desperation I asked her what she was doing on Wednesday night. She said her parents didn't let her out on weeknights, but she was free on Friday, so we made a date.
I should have known when she said she couldn't go out weeknights that it was bad news, but she was terrifically cute, about five feet tall and beautifully built. My X-ray mind had surveyed her naked body through her plaid skirt and cashmere sweater. She had short, black hair, framing a delicate face, and thick, sensual lips that looked like they would be exquisite to kiss, or to have suck me.
I took her to the Jazz House, a famous West Coast jazz emporium (I was to play there the following year). They had a section for minors in which no alcoholic beverages were served and they gouged you four bits for a Coke, with a minimum of two Cokes per person per set. I really impressed the hell out of her. First, I had my own car. Second, I took her to a real grown-up place, and, most important, I knew the doorman and he knew me. When I waved hello to the owner, one of two brothers, I thought Faye would go into orbit.
"Hiya, kid," he yelled over the crowd.