Ray D In Transit
Ray's been back in Hoppers for a couple years now. Speedy's been dead almost as long. Litos and the boys still snicker at him when he passes and mutter a derisive but increasingly automatic "cabr—n" or "mayate". All, any, of which is better than grinding his face into the sidewalk and breaking 2x4 across the back of his neck: Small favors and such. So he should be grateful, content even. He's still alive, has a roof over his head, Doyle to watch his back when he's not strung out, and a new girlfriend. Danita's built almost as full and luscious as Maggie ever was, and, what's more, she's all woman. She doesn't cry in her sleep, never whispers another girl's name -- hopey-hopey-hopey-hopey -- when he eats her out.
Problem is, he's not exactly all man. Litos's boys are onto something. The Brentwood queens Doyle deals to -- "best crowd I ever found, man. So fuckin' hygienic" -- look him over and smile knowingly. Hell, Coach Minsky back in ninth grade knew. "Quitting my team? Gonna be a artfag, Dominguez?" Sir, yes sir.
He's got his father's restless heart and roving eye, and itchy, itchy feet.
Other problem being, of course, a certain horned mega-billionaire who'd really like to talk to him.
Ray lifts Danita's bus pass from her purse before she takes Elias over to her mom's and leaves for work from there. He has to change three times before he gets to Pico. He watches out the window as faces pale and clothes go finer. Not on the bus, of course. He's still a cholo on here, crowded by Jamaican and Peruvian nannies, Ecuadoran poets turned house painters, aimless youth such as himself making the most of what public transit has to offer. They're all airlocked together in an aquarium on wheels, passing through Anglo country. -- "Hoppers, huh?" Terry said to him one time. "Bet the rent's real low there. Yeah? Man, you're so lucky you can live there. Being, y'know, spic and all" -- Uh-huh. Very lucky, that's him.
He descends the sighing bus onto a seedy strip somewhere off Pico. Hot air slaps him in the face and crawls up his back. Never thought he'd miss Massachusetts when he was still there, but something about it, even this long absent, got him. Got into him, changed his blood -- thinned it out, watered it down, Mam’ would shout, made him weak -- and now he misses it: Gray sky, changeable wind. Salt and antique sadness in the air. Layers of clothes, gotta layer to trap body heat, stay warm, 'cause winter's the longest season. Buildings built strong and firm a long time ago, granite and brick and thick wood.
All the buildings here are new, low to the ground, and aging really horribly. Peeling, slackening, bloating. He promised himself he wouldn't compare things any more. He wouldn't look at Danita and think about Maggie. Wouldn't wish Doyle had a little of Litos's history and energy. And definitely wouldn't criticize LA for not being Boston. It's just that he can't help it sometimes. Even though he knows full well he shouldn't.
Comparison's pointless: all it gets you is more comparisons, breeding on themselves, versus flowing against versus until he drowns under them.
That's probably why he's so restless these days. He's finally found something he doesn't have anything else to compare to. Sure, he's tried. Thought about, for instance, whether it's boys he's jacking off to, or just boyish girls. Because maybe he's just tired of the big-hipped, heavy-tits all-woman type. Maybe he just wants someone smaller and scrappier, all bone and muscle, sleek to the touch. But still a girl. Since that would mean he wants Hopey, he stops right there.
He's chosen the literal interpretation instead -- boyish=boy -- and set out to find a boy. An outside-the-hood, hopefully never even heard of fucking Hoppers, monolingual white boy. It'll just be easier that way. More than enough to worry about as it is -- how do you not use your teeth when you're blowing someone? What's it taste like, and how rude is it not to swallow? And let's avoid the whole top/bottom thing now and panic at that bridge when we come to it -- without the rest of his pathetic existence coming into play.
There're other advantages to this little plan of his. They always said he blended in better than his friends. That's why he got into art school, hell, why he was tracked into advanced classes and never ESL'd out onto the streets. So if he finds a good guy who like comics and who treats him well, and he just happens to disappear out from under Costigan's satanic, well-funded radar? Cream on his peaches.
Ray finds the comic shop by feel. Muscle memory kicks in, makes the turns for him, deposits him at the door, and he takes a deep breath. Now or never, bro.