The explosive, self-serving cop report issued, the citizens quivering anew over the “gay threat”—the boys will probably be back on the enticing streets, because, ultimately, nobody cared otherwise in the hypocritical agencies, bureaus, divisions, departments. Still young, many too young; boys and youngmen more knowledgeable now— because youth is no guarantee of innocence (as bands of preteenagers increasingly preying violently on the lame old attest), just as age is no affirmation of corruption.
Mutual exploitation—the old corrupt, the young corrupt. That is the nature of the ugly, devouring, beautiful, lonely, exciting, devastating, dead-end, glorious hustling streets.
No, you don't get rich on the streets—though you have good periods and at first it seems you might. True, a few hustlers will find one person who genuinely cares for them, even helps them into another life. But that's rare on the streets. Other hustlers will drop out, when the intervals of waiting stretch into nights—get jobs, marry, have children, perhaps even be relatively happy, more than likely eke out lives of screaming frustration. Others may move into the vaster gay world of non-commercial encounters, even form relationships. Some are only summer hustlers, returning “home” when the season is over. But the resourceless ones-yes, most of them—what happens when they're through on the exciting, tough streets, those once-goodlooking, once-youngmen cocky in their desirability, remembering the cars that braked eagerly, the often-beautiful homes their looks opened so easily? They disappear.
And on skid row—if you care to look—you may now and then see among the others a singularly doomed old man. Something makes you look again. Lurking in the weather-scorched brown face is the lingering breath of a special magic, the thin, sad ghost of the conquering youngman he was.
6:56 P.M. Griffith Park The Twilit Road.
JIM RETURNS URGENTLY to Griffith Park. He drives up the road, but the upper paths have begun to thin. For twilit moments the blatant exhibitionists will flourish. Shadows have spread a mantle over the green. The exodus of cars moves downward to join the pageant of sex at the bottom of the park.
Driving back, Jim pauses at a sandy crest overlooking the city. He stands there. Below, smog smothers the streets. Palmtrees stretch their full length to the sky.
7:14 P.M. Griffith Park. The Lower Areas.
Daily, the areas of the sexhunt are reduced mainly to two—the upper ones virtually eliminated as night begins to float in, shadows tangling first at the top of the road.
At the bottom, dozens of cars gather along the periphery of the park, still light with hot sun. Hunters move on foot into the forested brush nearby, knowing each hollow, each path. Throughout the area, lone figures stand—just stand—waiting, dots in the green sea. Several men move slowly along the paths paralleling the main road, only their lower bodies visible, upper bodies hidden by branches.
Soon twilight will hover over the park. For moments everything will be luminous. Shafts of brilliant dying light will pierce the freezing green. Then a frail curtain of mist will descend.
Jim gets out of his car, climbs the short path, and enters the sex-charged silence along the trees. As always, he moves to where there are no others at first—along the rim of a path leading to a cave of leaves. He enters it. Two men are fucking.
Jim moves through thickening mist, past darkening shadows of hunters. Sexsighs waft the woody area. No one stops now to another's approach, no one even pauses in the acts. This is their underground among crushed leaves. Hunters' expert eyes will soon penetrate the rapidly falling dark, finding each other. Without a word, bodies move in a silent symphony.
Jim is contained now in a cluster of hands, mouths, cocks.
Entering his car to drive out of the park, he sees two men in cutoffs leading two young handcuffed outlaws to an unmarked cop car.
At that moment Jim knows his hunt will continue deep into the night.
VOICE OVER: Getting Involved
I SEE TWO MEN savagely beating and kicking a third. It's happening on a well-lighted thoroughfare at 10:30 P.M. in Los Angeles. Neat homes and apartments flank the violent scene incongruously. I back my car up as quickly as I can maneuver in the thick traffic, blowing my horn loudly, flashing my brights on and off.
Startled, the two muggers scatter. In my car I follow them until they disappear along a series of cramped garages. It is not a gay area. I return to the attacked man-slight, middle-forties, conscious but shocked by the lightning violence. He doesn't require immediate medical aid. With him in the car I drive around in search of the muggers. A man is rushing into a car. I memorize the license number.
On Hollywood Boulevard, we see a squad car. I yell at the cops about the mugging. One yells back they can't stop because they're on an “emergency call.” I persist, they motion me to a side street.
We tell them the muggers are still in the area, and that we have a possible license number. Sorry, they can't do anything now because they're on their way “to break up a fight.” But: Go to the Hollywood station over a mile away, make a formal report, and then the license number and car description—which we just gave them—will be radioed back to them, and then they can act. Unreally, their car drives away.
At the station, one cop behind a desk is slowly taking a report from two giggling pretty girls. Other cops hover about the desk. The dazed bleeding man with me slumps on a wooden bench.
I try to get the attention of several of the milling cops. Time is important, two muggers beat this man—… Someone'll get to me as soon as possible.
We wait. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Two cops whistle as two women in tight, short skirts—probably decoys posing as prostitutes—stroll in. A black transvestite gets booked. A crying, screaming, hysterical youngwoman is led through the lobby by two cops. She keeps begging: “Mommy!” Curious cops peek into the room where the others have taken her, turn away, shaking their heads and smiling. “Mommy!”
Thirty minutes. Almost forty minutes have passed.
An older, heavy policeman saunters in behind the desk. He ignores the bleeding man. I tell the cop what happened.
“Would you get on a witness chair and swear the man you saw at the car was the same man you saw beating that guy?” he demands.
Of course not! But they might check the area out right away. The license number— …
The heavy cop summons the dazed man over. “Hey, why'd you pick a fight with those guys?” he asks.
The wounded man winces in renewed shock. He'd been walking home from a nearby store, heard running footsteps, felt a crash of blows. His wallet, watch, keys, a package from the store—all stolen.
The cop disappears with the paper I've written the suspected license number on. He returns, says nothing.
Finally he proceeds officially to take down the report, slowly, staring away occasionally, now past us, now at a drunk babbling in the lobby.
“Call you if we have anything,” he says.
It's now about two hours since the mugging. As we leave the station, a world as hostile as the violent streets, the wounded man says, “I had two nightmares tonight—when I was beaten and when we tried to get the cops to do something about it.” With a bloodied hand he touches his face to confirm the reality.
The next day I write an account of that ugly night. The Los Angeles Times prints it. I open the article with a quotation published the day before the mugging. In a news story, the Los Angeles police chief had said:
“There is no way our Police Department can do the job by itself. Crime prevention is a cooperative effort and without citizen involvement we can only be half successful.”
In response to my article, two cops call to tell me that an official investigation will be made. Another calls to apologize on behalf of his fellow officers involved; I thank him sincerely. The mayor of the city asks for an official report on the incident.
An officer is sent to interview me. I make it clear that I don't want to file a complaint, just air the matter. The investigator chooses to focus on the two cops on the bo
ulevard.
No official word for weeks.
At about the same time that I could not get a cop to pursue two muggers, Los Angeles vice cops were pursuing “sexy hostesses” the cops had placed an ad in several underground newspapers soliciting “hostesses.” They then rented and furnished an office to interview about one hundred fifty applicants, who were told their expenses would be paid on “gambling junkets.” The rest? “Yes, it's entirely up to you, honey,” an officer was quoted. The selected women were invited to a party; it would be to their benefit to be liked by the “gamblers” there, the deliberate message was conveyed. Now the cops rented a plush hotel suite, with bar, buffet, poker setups. They posed as gamblers and elevator operators and waited to spring on the “sexy hostesses” they had lured. Fifty-four women were arrested for soliciting. Subsequently, pointing out that it would be unlikely that a jury would be convinced there was no entrapment, the city attorney dropped all charges against the women. “An awful lot of effort for this,” he said about the wasteful operation.
Finally the official silence surrounding the mugging I had witnessed is broken by a fierce letter to the Times from the police chief:
“… The Times published an article [in which the writer stated that] eight days prior to publication [he] had come to the aid of a fellow citizen who had been attacked and robbed. As chief of police, let me publicly commend [him] for those efforts.
“His article, however, so bitterly denounced police-officer conduct as to cause me to order an immediate investigation. The findings… resulted in the disciplining of two officers.
“[The writer] and the victim encountered [the] two police officers en route to a fight-in-progress call. The officers continued on their way after advising [him] and the victim to report the occurrence to Hollywood area police headquarters. The judgment displayed by those officers was not in keeping with department standards. This explains why they were disciplined.
“Curiously enough, [the writer] accepted their advice without serious protest.… If [he] merits the department's gratitude for his initial actions, I find him no less deserving of reproach for his extravagant charges of police indifference and apathy.
“He and the victim waited thirty or more minutes before a desk officer was available to take the crime report.… To attribute that delay to officer rudeness, boredom, or disinterest is wholly unwarranted.
“I imagine [he] … became [a] happier man on seeing his labors in print. Unfortunately, a multitude who read his story probably believed it.
“[He] is a clever writer [of] artfully constructed phrases … employed in support of conclusions he obviously was determined to reach in impugning the competency of the many officers present.
“… His arrival at the headquarters coincided precisely with a change of watch. The lobby was crowded with … officers going off duty or about to assume patrol duties. This unhappy condition accounts for the ‘many milling officers.’…
“Now the desk officer he eventually talked with was also serving as equipment control officer. This duty required him to account for all equipment assigned to the 49 officers going off duty, and issue like equipment to the 30 officers comprising the next watch. The equipment control officer can complete this task, if he's lucky, in from thirty to forty minutes—about the same length of time that [he] was kept waiting.
“It is true that the desk officer ‘disappeared’ once he had started to take the crime report … to check out a license number given him by the writer as a lead to a possible suspect.… As it turned out, neither the car nor the driver in any way was connected to the crime.
“On countless occasions, I have urged all citizens who witness a crime to notify the police immediately. Had [he] done so instead of attempting to intercept one of the suspects, as was the case, a prompt arrest may have ensued.
“When interviewed by a department investigator, [he] realized and agreed that the desk officer had not tried to avoid taking the crime report. He also stated he had no desire to file an official complaint against that officer … a recipient of the Medal of Valor.…
“…The … article left tens of thousands of your readers with … distorted impressions created … about the competence of our officers and their concern for the public good. All were completely vindicated by the investigation except the two officers earlier mentioned.”
The following week the Times publishes my reply:
“… The tone of [the police chief's] letter is clearly critical of my article. He goes so far as to conjecture that I became ‘a happier man’ for the experience.… I continue to be disturbed by the matter of apathy and the violence which increasingly invades every area of our lives.
“[He] actually chastises me for accepting ‘without serious protest’ the advice of two officers. I did indeed protest. What would the result of further ‘serious protest’ have been? [He] would do both private citizens and police officers a laudable favor to define that phrase.
“He … criticizes me for taking time in ‘attempting to intercept one of the suspects.’ Only seconds elapsed in what was, more precisely, an attempt to identify the suspects.…
“… There is nothing in [his] letter that points out where I told less than the truth as the victim, and I experienced it.
“He writes: ‘All were completely vindicated by the investigation except the two officers earlier mentioned.’ All? I focused attention on only three specific officers, and these were the ones inquired about by the investigating officer.
“[He] attributes the thirty- to forty-minute wait in the taking of the mugging report … to a change of guard. If only violence would stop for a comparable time!
“[He] is correct in saying that I had ‘no desire to file an official complaint’ against the desk officer. What he omitted is that I never intended to file any official complaint whatsoever against anyone. I made clear to the investigating officer that my purpose was solely to bring attention to [this] … not to see anyone reprimanded.… It gives me no personal gratification to learn that two inexperienced officers … were chastised in this matter.
“Finally, [he] commends me for coming to the aid of a fellow citizen. I appreciate his kind commendation. However, beyond that, a further disturbing implication arises. What a sad irony that we have reached a time when one is commended for doing what should be totally expected, the coming to the aid of any threatened being, whether he or she be a private citizen mugged or a police officer in trouble.”
A few days later I receive the following letter from the Commanding Officer of the Internal Affairs Division of the Los Angeles Police Department:
“An investigation has been conducted into your report of misconduct by members of this Department.
“The investigation established that the concerned employees failed to take appropriate action when you notified them that a crime had just occurred.
“You may be assured that this Department does not tolerate such conduct and that appropriate disciplinary action has been administered.
“Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention.
“Very truly yours.”
But nothing changes.
A year later, an attempt to get the police to thwart a potentially murderous attack, this time in a gay area, would be met with contemptuous indifference.
8:44 P.M. Greenstone Park. The Area of the Garage on Oak Street Greenstone Park.
HE ATE AT home—a large steak, salad, green vegetables, milk. Honey. He showered. Changed to another set of Levi's and boots. Instead of a shirt, he wears the open brown-leather vest. He prepares a fresh thermosful of protein to carry with him.
Where now? To Selma to hustle? To Greenstone for “numbers”? He could go to one of the many gaybars, but generally they're too frozen for him—“waxworks,” he calls them. The charade of drinking depresses him, and he doesn't care for liquor. The streets are the areas of defiance.
Saturday night. Clear, hot.
He goes to Greenstone Park.
&n
bsp; No cars, no shadows in the concrete house, no one along the paths. Only a silent, waiting eeriness. A limbo-time, when the hunt is shifting over. He stands desolately on the stone ledge. Now headlights wash over him for seconds. But the car drove on, stabbing further into the desolation. Didn't the man see him? He waits. The same car comes around again. Again it drives by. Still, no one.
Jim walks along the deserted path, curiously courting the awareness of encroaching isolation, as if he were studying the features of a sleeping lover. Listening to the silence. Staring into the darkness. Feeling his own presence, electric, in the silently whispering dark.
He returns to the concrete grotto.
Along the path a shadowy figure emerges slowly. Jim moves into an arc of light. The figure advances, looks at him, and avoids the concrete grotto—and Jim—by climbing over the slight incline to one side. Without looking back, he crosses the road to the other side.
Am I looking too tough? Jim wonders. Unapproachable? He remembers the two in Griffith Park this afternoon who turned to each other in the arena while he was there. His present need increases.
Time.
He feels a retreating hint, like a brushing wing, of the hellish judgment the streets and dark parks can hurl in empty hours, the hunt turning vengeful. He reminds himself that times of similar despair have invariably been followed by surfeit, mere islands in an ocean. And, Christ, he tries to laugh at himself, there's no one here to be desired by! … Just that one man who ignored him. And the driver of the car earlier.