City of Night by John Rechy Page B

show you around.” I saw him a couple of times, but My Pride won out: To be with a cop—even for scoring—humiliated me, and that stopped.
     
               Feeling that recurrent guilt which will come on me unexpectedly in that life, I placed an ad in the Sunday paper for a job: “YOUNGMAN desires gainful employment”—and the number of the telephone in the hallway where I lived.
               “Can you come up now?” the faintly-British-accented male voice on the telephone said. It was Sunday evening. I took down an address on Sutton Place. “Take a cab,” the voice said, “and I’ll reimburse you when you get here.”
               In a fashionable apartment overlooking the East River, I face an elegant silver-haired man. At the door he had started, looked at me in surprise.
               “What kind of a job are you looking for?” he asked me after offering me a drink.
               “Anything that I like and that pays.”
               “Oh?” he said. “That must cover a lot of territory.... I have an opening,” he said.
               “What kind of work?”
               “Oh, thats such a boring subject, isnt it?” he said. “Why not lets just get to know each other first” He sits very close to me. “Youre nervous,” he said. “Maybe it’s the suit youre wearing. You dont seem to be used to it,” he said slyly. “You neednt have worn it, you know. Oh, Im terribly informal myself!” Yet he wore a cuff-linked shirt, vest, tie, coat. “Are you desperate for money?” he asked in an amused tone, as if he were reading a line out of a familiar play.
               “I need it,” I said.
               He gave me a $10 bill. “For the cab,” he winked.
               “This job—” I started.
               “I like you,” he said, touching my arm.
               “I have another appointment—with someone else,” I lied, suddenly bewildered, realizing that hes obviously taken for granted that Im available.
               “You know, youngman, I have to make a confession,” he said, like someone exhibiting a trump card, “Ive seen you before. On Times Square.... When I called you, of course, I had no way of knowing it would be you. No idea in the world. But when you turned up, well, I was delighted.... I never speak to anyone on the streets.... And, incidentally, Im glad to see youve graduated out of Times Square and into the want-ads of the newspapers!” He went on with amused sureness: “Anyway, about the... uh... job. Ive got... an opening.”
               “Doing what?” I asked him, trying for some strange reason to make him believe I am not the same person he has seen on Times Square—hoping very much to watch him retreat. But he didnt.
               “Cawnt you guess?” he asked coquettishly. “Now dont tell me you go to Times Square just to see the pretty Fascination lights!” He made an attempt to mime the word “pretty” with a frivolous flutter of his hands.... “Why dont you give being in my... employ... a spin, youngman? We’ll try it for, say, a week—or a few days. Youll move in of course. And if were both satisfied, well, we’ll make it permanent. And if it doesnt work out,” he shrugged, “I have many, many friends.... I can easily place you.”
               I feel a sharp resentment. I got up.
               “If you let me ‘employ’ you,” he persists cunningly, “you wont have to be on the streets—or advertise in the papers.”
               At the door as I left, he snapped: “Oh, yes do keep the change for the cabfare....”
               The door slammed.
               Outside, I quickly removed the tie I had been wearing.
               I walked along the river—the sad horns from the boats mourning. Several obvious homosexuals sat on the benches under the pale