around."
"It's a joint," said Lois.
"The music and the fun," Desmond cited. "The jests and surprises of this bar."
Larken and Lois looked around: at the johns silently aching; at the glowering hustlers lined along the back wall; at the queens dishing everyone in sight, in history, in the imagination. This was the world. All it contained, besides your day job, and maybe your cover marriage, was here.
"It's a joint," Lois insisted. She turned to Larken. Her eyes said, Right?
"Well, yes, it's a joint," Larken agreed. "But a necessary joint."
Desmond, feeling ratified, wandered off.
Lois shrugged.
Larken shrugged, too, smiling at her.
"I wonder why you come here," Lois told him. "You're not like the others. You're too..."
"Uh-oh."
"No, it's not an insult. You're too gentle for this place. Look at them."
Lois nodded her head at the crowd, not taking her eyes off Larken.
"What do you see?" she asked him.
"My friends, I guess."
"Your friends'? The queens gabbing away there like exotic birds in some rain forest? And those saphead johns? Your friends? The hustle boys are your friends?"
"They're my kind, somehow or other."
"Christ."
"Well, why else are we all here? See, that's why you put on these shows for us. The comedy and song. Because we've got this... this thing in common."
"You could sell it, you know that? You're cute enough."
"Queens only go with trade, Lois. They want a handsome piece of trash."
She nodded. "You guys sure know how to make it tough on yourselves."
Larken nodded. "It's kind of hard to fall into step with each other when we're so invisible in the real world. I mean, how are we supposed to know who we are?"
"We aren't. That's why they call it the Other Side."
"They don't call it that. We do."
"Yeah." She looked at him pointedly. "Funny how that works out."
"So how do you get along, Lois? What's your story, anyway?"
"Yeah," she said. "Right," as she rose. "I'll tell you someday."
Derek Archer was satisfied with the stir he made when he took his first-ever visit backstage at Thriller Jill's. This is Hollywood, after all, and a star is a star, even a star as yet on the rise who'll still be a second-rater when and if he does get there. Jo-Jo played it smooth but grand, Desmond genuflected, and the Kid let the star pay him court. The Kid, after all, was the reason for Archer's visit in the first place, and the Kid knew it. You don't grow up constantly getting slurped by your cousins and rammed by your schoolmates without developing a certain perception about your marketability. You watch the eyes, read the codes. You begin to figure out that they are starving and you are cake.
The Kid has perfected a way of flirting that is not flirting, whereby he is dreamily attentive, technically fixed on you but drifting. He finds that it draws people closer to him, because while everyone is grateful for attention most of them are dying to know exactly what kind of attention they are getting. So the Kid gives them attention, but the kind is kept secret.
"I love your movies," Desmond was telling Archer. "They are so elegant and profound." Thrillers and weepies. "I wouldn't miss one, except for a death in the family."
"Which is your favorite?" Archer foolishly asked.
Desmond, stumped for a title, sweats for a bit till the Kid steps in for him.
"Who could choose?" the Kid says—confides, really, in a tone meant for one of those quiet little tables for two that he's always singing about.
"Don't you have a favorite?" Archer asked, moving closer.
"I don't have favorite movies. I have favorite people."
"That's so true of all of us!" Archer turned to his starlet date. "Isn't it?"
"Don't you think he has amazing eyes?"
"Some of us have favorite movies," Desmond put in, having thought of a Derek Archer film to praise: It Happened in Monterey. "Rather than favorite—"
"And what about his singing?" Archer, staring at the Kid, asked the starlet.
"Simplicity," said Archer. "Honesty. Youth. It's exciting
"It's a joint," said Lois.
"The music and the fun," Desmond cited. "The jests and surprises of this bar."
Larken and Lois looked around: at the johns silently aching; at the glowering hustlers lined along the back wall; at the queens dishing everyone in sight, in history, in the imagination. This was the world. All it contained, besides your day job, and maybe your cover marriage, was here.
"It's a joint," Lois insisted. She turned to Larken. Her eyes said, Right?
"Well, yes, it's a joint," Larken agreed. "But a necessary joint."
Desmond, feeling ratified, wandered off.
Lois shrugged.
Larken shrugged, too, smiling at her.
"I wonder why you come here," Lois told him. "You're not like the others. You're too..."
"Uh-oh."
"No, it's not an insult. You're too gentle for this place. Look at them."
Lois nodded her head at the crowd, not taking her eyes off Larken.
"What do you see?" she asked him.
"My friends, I guess."
"Your friends'? The queens gabbing away there like exotic birds in some rain forest? And those saphead johns? Your friends? The hustle boys are your friends?"
"They're my kind, somehow or other."
"Christ."
"Well, why else are we all here? See, that's why you put on these shows for us. The comedy and song. Because we've got this... this thing in common."
"You could sell it, you know that? You're cute enough."
"Queens only go with trade, Lois. They want a handsome piece of trash."
She nodded. "You guys sure know how to make it tough on yourselves."
Larken nodded. "It's kind of hard to fall into step with each other when we're so invisible in the real world. I mean, how are we supposed to know who we are?"
"We aren't. That's why they call it the Other Side."
"They don't call it that. We do."
"Yeah." She looked at him pointedly. "Funny how that works out."
"So how do you get along, Lois? What's your story, anyway?"
"Yeah," she said. "Right," as she rose. "I'll tell you someday."
Derek Archer was satisfied with the stir he made when he took his first-ever visit backstage at Thriller Jill's. This is Hollywood, after all, and a star is a star, even a star as yet on the rise who'll still be a second-rater when and if he does get there. Jo-Jo played it smooth but grand, Desmond genuflected, and the Kid let the star pay him court. The Kid, after all, was the reason for Archer's visit in the first place, and the Kid knew it. You don't grow up constantly getting slurped by your cousins and rammed by your schoolmates without developing a certain perception about your marketability. You watch the eyes, read the codes. You begin to figure out that they are starving and you are cake.
The Kid has perfected a way of flirting that is not flirting, whereby he is dreamily attentive, technically fixed on you but drifting. He finds that it draws people closer to him, because while everyone is grateful for attention most of them are dying to know exactly what kind of attention they are getting. So the Kid gives them attention, but the kind is kept secret.
"I love your movies," Desmond was telling Archer. "They are so elegant and profound." Thrillers and weepies. "I wouldn't miss one, except for a death in the family."
"Which is your favorite?" Archer foolishly asked.
Desmond, stumped for a title, sweats for a bit till the Kid steps in for him.
"Who could choose?" the Kid says—confides, really, in a tone meant for one of those quiet little tables for two that he's always singing about.
"Don't you have a favorite?" Archer asked, moving closer.
"I don't have favorite movies. I have favorite people."
"That's so true of all of us!" Archer turned to his starlet date. "Isn't it?"
"Don't you think he has amazing eyes?"
"Some of us have favorite movies," Desmond put in, having thought of a Derek Archer film to praise: It Happened in Monterey. "Rather than favorite—"
"And what about his singing?" Archer, staring at the Kid, asked the starlet.
"Simplicity," said Archer. "Honesty. Youth. It's exciting