City of Night by John Rechy Page A

for that day’s contact. Even in the brilliant white blaze of newyork sun, it was possible to make it, right there, in the tree-secluded areas.
               At night they sat along the benches, in the fringes of the park. Or they strolled with their leashed dogs along the walks.... The more courageous ones penetrated the park, around the lake, near a little hill: hoods, hobos, hustlers, homosexuals. Hunting. Young teenage gangs lurk threatening among the trees. Occasionally the cops come by, almost timidly, in pairs, flashing their lights; and the rustling of bushes precedes the quick scurrying of feet along the paths.
               Unexpectedly at night you may come upon scenes of crushed intimacy along the dark twisting lanes. In the eery mottled light of a distant lamp, a shadow lies on his stomach on the grasspatched ground, another straddles him: ignoring the danger of detection in the last moments of exiled excitement....
               In Central Park—as a rainstorm approached (the dark clouds crashing in the black sky which seemed to be lowering, ripped occasionally by the lightning)—once, one night in that park, aware of an unbearable exploding excitement within me mixed with unexplainable sudden panic, I stood against a tree and in frantic succession—and without even coming—I let seven night figures go down on me. And when, finally, the rain came pouring, I walked in it, soaked, as if the water would wash away whatever had caused the desperate night-experience .
     

          
              
             THE PROFESSOR: The Flight of the Angels
     
             1
     
               THE MAN IN BED—STARING AT me appraisingly—was enormous. In one hand he held a pastel-blue cigarette—poised, daintily between two puffed fingers. He brings the cigarette studiedly to his mouth and blows out a shapeless cloud of uninhaled smoke. He looks crazily like a pink-faced genie emerging from the smoke. The other hand held a tape-measure, which is partly wrapped about his sagging fat neck.... Hes somewhere in his 60s. His head is shaved completely. Huge dark eyes bulge behind thick glasses, like the crazy eyes painted on the glasses children wear on Halloween.
               Beside me, in this well-furnished apartment, stands a young malenurse, who has brought me here from Times Square. He is perhaps 28, coldly blond, with a very pale face—a premature Oldness, a bitter knowingness. He acts like a haughty movie butler who feels superior to the guests. Even on the street when he approached me, he had looked at me with unconcealed contempt; lighting a cigarette as we walked here, not offering me one.
               Scattered about the floor are manuscripts, books, magazines. The room is cluttered with statues, unhung paintings, vases with withered flowers. There was a large ugly German beer mug on a mantle.
               Now the malenurse is looking at the old man—waiting, I knew, for some sign of approbation or displeasure from him.
               After long moments of staring at me, unwinding the tape-measure, winding it again, puffing elegantly on the pastel-blue cigarette, the old man, propped halfway up in the hospital bed, said finally:
               “Well!” And his fleshy face shaped a smile—molded as if on pink clay. “Im not one bit disappointed,” he announced grandly. “But then I never am—thanks to Larry here,” acknowledging the malenurse. “Larry knows my subtlest moods, my changing (oh, so changing!) tastes—and hes only been with me—how long, Larry?”
               The malenurse answers quickly: “Four months, Professor.”
               “Ah, yes, of course, four months!” The man in bed goes on: “It’s unfortunate that the world doesnt recognize talent like Larry’s openly. Larry would be an Enormous Success. But then there are many things the world doesnt recognize.