In Candy's room, there are pictures of her heroes on the wall,
but to get to Candy's room, you gotta walk the darkness of Candy's hall,
Strangers from the city, call my baby's number and they bring her toys,
When I come knocking, she smiles pretty, she knows I wanna be Candy's boy,
There's a sadness hidden in that pretty face, a sadness all her own, from which no man can keep Candy safe.


We kiss, my heart's pumpin' to my brain
the blood rushes in my veins, when I touch Candy's lips,
We go driving, driving deep into the night,
I go driving deep into the light, in Candy's eyes.

She says, Baby if you wanna be wild, you got a lot to learn, close your eyes,
Let them melt, let them fire, let them burn
Cause in the darkness, there'll be hidden worlds that shine,
When I hold Candy close she makes the hidden worlds mine,
She has fancy clothes and diamond rings,
She has men who give her anything she wants, but they don't see,
That what she wants is me,
Oh, and I want her so,
I'll never let her go, no, no, no
She knows that I'd give all that I got to give,
All that I want, all that I live, to make Candy mine
Tonight
Bruce Springsteen, "Candy's Room"

:::::::::::::::::

This is a story about the most beautiful guy I ever knew. Don't worry; it's a short story, but if cross-dressing, men being intimate, or sentimentality don't appeal to you… feel free to walk away. I don't own the place; I just drink here. Yeah, I could use a fresh one. Thanks, much appreciated. Wouldja like a hit off this? Hey, no problem; it ain't everyone's cup a tea. No, man, they don't care if I spark up here. Look around you. You can see half a dozen illegal things going on without even looking hard. Name's Jake, by the way. Sit down.

Now where was I? You came over and hit on me, and I started talking about him like I always do. If you can hang with me 'til the story's over, you might have a shot at getting into my jeans. Yeah, I guess it is kind of a test. If that bugs you, I understand. I don't like tests either. Once you fail a couple of the big ones, you get a little gun shy. Anyway, I better get started. The show goes on at ten, and I want to be gone by then. No, it's actually a very good show, just… too many memories. Sure you don't want a hit?

It was right here in this very bar that I met him, nine years ago. The fall of Nineteen Seventy-Five. My first year in college. I'd found my niche on campus and in my fraternity. My professors liked me and my parents were thrilled with my grade point average. I was doing everything just like I'd been told to and I was reaping the rewards that had been promised: good grades, pretty co-eds, motivational cards from the relatives with cash tucked inside. And after I graduated, it would only get better. Good job, beautiful wife, big bonuses from happy bosses. There was just one fly in this sweet ointment, but we'll come to that. Enough history; I promised you a short story.

His name was Heath, but his stage name was Candy Barre, his little joke. I thought it was a good name. Candy. Bittersweet, he melted in your mouth and your hands. Hey, listen, would your finances stretch to buying another round? My mouth is incredibly dry. Thanks, man. Yeah, I know. I need to slow down. I need to slow everything down. So how do you do that? Any idea? 'Cause I'd really like to know. I don't need this cigarette I'm lighting, but watch me suck it down just like this vodka. Heath drank vodka… with cranberry juice for color. He liked that clear pink. Matched his lipstick.

Yeah, he did a drag show here. That's how we met. I came in with some frat brothers on a kind of dare. We weren't looking for trouble, just thought it'd be something random, you know? A little walk on the wild side. The bar was pretty much what we'd been led to expect from movies, but then again, it wasn't. It was real life, loud and large, unsanitized and right in front of us. And fun. Lest we forget, it was a lot of fun. More fun than you could ever have in a straight bar.

When me and my friends tumbled down the stairs to this basement, which was then called The Rosy Stem, we were absorbed in a maelstrom of light, sound and color that finally gave me a use for the word lurid. It was all so… decadent, and, most importantly, different from anything I'd ever known. No one in my family's social group would have been caught dead on the same block as this club and that made it immeasurably appealing. What? Yeah, I said immeasurably. I used to talk like that all the time when I thought I was going to be a lawyer. Why am I not going to be a lawyer? Because I will never do another thing to please my parents. Not one fucking thing. Sorry. Didn't mean to raise my voice. Go, if you want; I wouldn't blame you. Who wants to talk to the crazy guy in the corner? You do? Okay then.

So nobody in the bar made a big fuss when we came in. We attracted attention, sure. We were obviously out of place, but aside from a few long stares, nobody paid us that much attention. My friends were a little disappointed not to have made more of a splash, but I was swept up in the scene. Surrounded by all these people not afraid to be themselves, I felt almost giddy, exhilarated, grinning for no reason. My feet wouldn't be still as the last few bars of Donna Summer' "Love to Love Ya, Baby" faded out, and the Black queen on stage took a bow. He looked more like Diana Ross than Donna Summer, but he was pretty convincing as a woman. I couldn't say the same about the next performer.

Candy Barre stalked onto the stage, took the microphone, propped his wrist on the stand and stared out over the heads of the crowd for a long time, long enough to make me wonder if something was wrong with him. The rest of the audience took his haughtiness in stride, so I watched and waited along with them for the lanky, louche-looking performer to make up his mind that we were worthy of being graced. Seeing him out of drag, you'd never picture him in a dress. He was over six feet tall and rangy with fairly broad shoulders, narrow hips and a butt like a couple of cantaloupe halves. Sorry to go on, but seeing Heath naked was like being allowed a private tour of the Louvre. He was a very beautiful man. However, he was not believable as a woman, at least not his frame. He was an incredible mimic, though, and when he was in women's clothes, his gestures were flawlessly feminine. In civvies, he was laid back, a body at rest tending to stay that way, content to while away a day in bed, but in drag, he was a smoky spitfire with a drive to perform that was incendiary, and a passion that was incandescent. He didn't lip-synch; he sang in a kind of throaty whisper like Marlene Dietrich. The song he sang that night was one Mick Jagger wrote for Marianne Faithfull, "As Tears Go By." I had tears in my own eyes by the time that song ended; I shit you not. That's how good he was at making you feel the words.

My friends weren't having enough fun, and I walked with them to the train even though I wanted to stay. They decided to go to Clover's, and I lied and said I felt like I was coming down with something. I walked off in the direction of the platform for the train back to the university, but I doubled back and inside ten minutes, I was in the bar again. The waiter I asked to take a message to Candy was amused enough to point out the back door with a broad wink. Telling myself I was a big boy, I ignored the irrational, but persistent fear that I would be dragged into some back room and violated by a gang of muscular men with shaven heads. Yeah, I know. Classic latent. I wasn't completely unaware of my attraction to guys, but I played it off as male bonding, and congratulated myself for being so evolved that I could show affection to my buddies. I even made fag jokes.

However, I couldn't deny that my sexual experiences with guys were a lot more exciting than the ones with girls. My first orgasm was at camp after lights out one night when everyone in my cabin beat off at the same time in a race to finish first. I was twelve going on thirteen, as I liked to say back then. It worried me that I didn't feel the same charge when Meghan McNear jerked me off during a make-out party the next summer. I guess that was the point where I either embraced or denied it, and I chose to go along with the crowd, pretending to be as girl-crazy as my friends, imagining my best friend's hand on my dick when I whacked off. You, too? Camp, huh? If only our parents knew. Then again, my parents were sent to camp, so I figure they have to know. And they sent me anyway. What do you think that means? But I'm digressing now.

I went out the back door and found the real party. Under a canopy of plastic tarps, the performers had set up a dressing room in the blind alley, and it was here that I found Candy holding court. Reclining on a salvaged deck chair swathed with an old theater curtain, he read aloud from a small book as his circle of admirers took the opportunity to look their fill. I didn't blame them. It was like sighting a cheetah draped over a limb before the cheetah sighted you. You had to stop and gaze in awe at the wedding of grace and power contained in a sleek, honey-skinned form that glowed like a secret sun.

Thanks. I'd like to be a poet. I work at it most days, and nights. I think the substance abuse actually helps. I don't expect to get rich or win any prizes. I'd just like to leave some kind of record, you know? Because time goes by and so much stuff is forgotten. I hate to think of Candy being forgotten, even if he wouldn't give a damn. His attitude was based on not caring what anyone thought of him, but it turned out that he did care, a lot.

Anyway, he was kind to me at our first meeting. One of his friends saw me standing at the edge of the circle and remarked that they had a genuine yuppie in their midst. Instead of cutting me dead with some withering assessment of my Ralph Lauren sweater, Candy looked me up and down and asked my opinion of the poem he'd just finished reading. I pulled the poet's name out of my ass, said something about the raw symbolism and went for broke guessing the title. A Season in Hell turned out to be the name of the collection, but Candy let it slide. He told me later that he liked my eyes. I would lay next to him sometimes, watching him sleep, wondering how things would have been if my eyes were brown instead of blue. But you can wonder too much about stuff like that and it doesn't really do you any good. What? Oh yeah, that's right. Unless you want to be a poet. Then you can put that brooding to work for you.

I like the way you think. I often fantasize that after I gasp out my last breath in my chilly, squalid loft that my notebooks will be found and I'll be hailed as a genius, my family and fair weather friends will have to eat crow, and the world will know that a flower was crushed into the pavement it grew out of. You can write the definitive biography and get called an apologist, or at the least, a revisionist.

Oh, you like that? Or are you just laughing at me? Hey, no need to be sorry, even if you were laughing at me. I know I'm pathetic. Speaking of which, why don't you buy us a bottle and we'll go to my place, have a few more laughs? It's almost ten o'clock, the witching hour for me. Yeah? Great, let's go.

* * * * * * * * *

You can say it. What a dump. I know the seats out of a VW van don't really constitute a living room suite, but the price was right. Heh. Wondered how long it would take you to ask. I don't actually have a job at the moment; I'm not what you'd call gainfully employed. Don't feel bad about it. If I decide I can't live like this anymore, I've got something Heath never had: a bail out. I can always suck it up and go home with my tail between my legs. They'd still take me in. I'd have to swallow a lot of crap, but I wouldn't be hungry. I just haven't hit bottom yet. Yeah, no kidding. Nine years in free fall is a long time.

So, park it somewhere; I like to sit on the rug by the window. Go ahead and crack the seal on that and we'll pass the bottle. You don't need a glass, do you? Look, I'll save you the embarrassment. I'm cleaner than a whistle, clean as a nun's cooch. Damn right you can't be too careful. That's a boy. Drink up, sailor, as Candy used to say. Yeah, I know I call him Candy sometimes and Heath other times. It depends on which one I'm talking about. They were very different people. Candy never wore any colors but black, white and pink, in a kind of leather and lace style, years ahead of Courtney Love. Heath liked to pair bright shades of orange with olive drab and burgundy, and denim with brocade and velvet. Candy was a sophisticate; Heath was all bohemian. Candy was a top; Heath preferred to bottom. But on one thing they were in complete and total agreement: their drug of choice.

And so we come to the fabled fly in the ointment, the turd on the tablecloth as my grandfather so eloquently phrased it. I didn't want the shiny, happy golden life that was mapped out for me before I was even born. All I wanted was Candy. And all Candy wanted was the rush. Speedballs. He started out freebasing the cocaine and snorting the heroin, swearing he'd never inject, but, of course, he did. You look a little shocked. Is pot the hardest drug you've ever done without a scrip? Hey, that's cool. It's more than cool. It's smart. Stay just the way you are, man. How old are you anyway? Really? You look younger. I'll be thirty in another year, the big three oh. Un-fuckin-believable. I probably look forty, but I've given up mirrors anyway. Let's talk something a little less depressing.

Let's talk about falling in love. That's a funny way to describe such a buoyant feeling, don't you think? For me, it was everything I'd expected from books and songs and movies. I was floating ten feet off the ground, on cloud nine, higher than the moon. My world had rose-colored borders and if I wasn't blinded, I was at least blindfolded by love. The drugs seemed like part of the dark glamour, like the sunglasses worn at night and the propensity for doing it anywhere, anytime. He was my vampire angel, my tiger kitten, a lamb in wolf's clothing. He could cut you to the bone with a sharp look, or lay you out with his killer smile. Always on stage in public, ready with the quote that killed, Oscar Wilde in a pink patent leather skirt with a stiff martini in his hand. At home he was my love muffin, with disheveled hair and loose clothing, happy with pizza, chianti and a movie.

That was the thing; see? He let me in. I was allowed to come to his room, sleep in his bed, the only one of his friend-boys allowed this privilege. He was kind of a hooker, but I told him I didn't care, as long as he saved part of himself just for me. Did he want me to put my foot down and refuse to share him? I'll probably never know, but at the time, I thought I was giving him his freedom. He had a life before he met me. Who was I to ask him to change for me? He never asked me to change for him. At first I thought we were just having fun, that this was my last blast before I buckled down, got a degree, married the girl my family approved of and kept the tradition going. Though I realized early on that I wasn't just infatuated, or experimenting, but really in love, it was already too late. I was losing him from the moment I thought of him as mine. To the drugs. To the johns. To the audience. To the hole inside of him that would never be filled, not by a spike, a hard cock, or the applause of a roomful of people just like him.

The speedballs meant more to him than hearing that I loved him. No amount of carousel rides in the rain, no number of long walks on the pier at sunset, in short, no measure of romance could stack up against the craving for the light speed rush followed by the long slow gliding descent of the coke/smack cocktail. But I could see the man I loved under the brittle glaze of addiction, and I thought my love could save him. I had given him all my money, and borrowed more, until my parents wouldn't be put off by stories of textbooks lost or transmissions that died. They cornered me at Christmas, when I couldn't beg off the trip home, and I made the brave but unwise decision to be truthful and proudly declared my love for Heath. When the dust cleared, I was given an ultimatum: my Gay lover, or my family. They laid it on the line, too. I'd be cut off without a dime.

You're damn right I told them where to go. I called them soulless consumers chasing bits of green paper that wouldn't know love unless it came with a designer label. I said a lot of things before I slammed out and realized that I didn't own my car. Before I threw the cell phone my parents paid for into the snow, I used it to call a cab. I gave the driver every penny I had to take me to the train station. I made a collect call, and Candy came to pick me up. She wanted to give my folks a piece of her mind, but the coke was now gone from her system. The junk was kicking in and she was starting to nod off. I got behind the wheel of the asthmatic Caddy she'd borrowed and drove all the way back to the city with her head in my lap. For a while she sang, soft and low, a broken lullaby of patchwork lyrics, but the heroin took her in its white velvet folds and she slept, leaving a dark spot of drool and pink frost on my jeans. I wish I'd never washed them, but at the time, the lipstick was just a stain, not a precious souvenir. How many things would we pay attention to if we knew we were doing them for the last time? What would we not cherish if we knew it would be taken from us? The hell of it is that we know we're all going to die, but we choose to ignore it, as if we don't believe it could happen to us, or anyone we love.

But you're not here for a lecture on the barfly's philosophy of life and death. You came downtown looking for nookie, 'cause you're scared to trawl in your own pond. You can't take the chance that someone will recognize you there, but this is like another country. Don't shake your head. I know you. Hell, I used to be you. It's okay. You do what you got a do. Just because I couldn't live that way doesn't mean you can't. If I hadn't been offered that first piece of Candy, you and I might be meeting in a boardroom, or on a golf course. Maybe we'd see something in each other and beat around the bush until we ended up cheating on our wives, eaten alive by guilt, shame, and the fear that one of our country club buddies would find out. No thanks. I'll take the gutter. At least it's honest. And who knows? Maybe some day, guys like us will be able to walk down the street holding hands. Hope I live that long.

So, you wanna hear the end of the story? Gimme another hit off that bottle, and take a look in that ashtray for a roach. Nothin'? Okay, never mind. I'm gonna finish this booze, if you don't care. Anyway, after the fight with my folks, I went off the deep end for a while. Candy talked me into snorting some H and I saw what everybody liked so much about it. You still had all the same problems but you didn't give a fuck anymore. All you really had to concern yourself with was the next hit, maintaining that well-lubricated and buffered bubble of well being that allowed you to float through your life without letting it actually touch you. I was starting to come around to Candy's way of thinking when I had to deal with my first overdose. No, I didn't OD; Heath did. I came home from a cigarette run and found him passed out cold on the kitchen table, the strap hanging from his arm, the syringe sticking point first in the soiled linoleum like an exclamation point. I couldn't wake him up and it scared me sober. I was calling Nine One One when our dealer came in. He took the phone out of my hand and took charge. I was helpless. Useless. I stood around wishing I'd gone to med school until Heath opened his eyes and smiled at me.

It's amazing how fast you can go from scared to death to so mad you can't see straight. As soon as I knew Heath wasn't going to die, I ripped him a new one. I told him we were done with drugs, except pot, liquor, and tobacco, of course, that went without saying. He listened to me and he agreed, in principle, but the next evening he got dolled up, and Candy went out to score. I withheld sex for a week, since that seemed to be the only thing I was needed for. I tried to be strong, but I couldn't resist. I understood the addiction only too well; Candy and Heath were my speedball and I craved his love even as it was killing me.

Our lives got worse. Candy missed so many performances that no one would hire her. I took jobs at convenience stores and all night diners, but I kept getting fired because I'd take off work if she wanted me to. Hooking became a main source of income, and I pretended I didn't care, because I couldn't afford to. To get to Candy's room, I had to pay the unspoken toll. I saw then that it had always been a part of our relationship, a third partner in a sick triangle. The high was my rival, and not only could I not compete with the high, I was the high's pimp. I saw that and it didn't matter, because it was only part of it. We were in love. I knew Candy loved me because I never had to pay. I was Candy's boy and that's all that mattered, not the fact that I slept on a mattress on the floor, that the cockroaches ruled after the lights went out, or that the refrigerator held nothing but the puddled remains of a melted box of Popsicles. My love slept beside me, and that's all I cared about. Until bow tie man came along.

Candy met this really clean guy, as she referred to him, who was willing to pay top dollar to have sex with her while her boyfriend watched. I didn't feel good about it, but I was between jobs again and we had less than eight bucks between us. I could see how bad she wanted that money. Our dealer had some primo rock just then, and she thought it would take the edge off until we could score some junk. I looked deep into those fathomless eyes shadowed by a fringe of shocking pink bangs and nodded. How could I let her go hungry?

Five minutes after we walked into bow tie man's motel room, I lost my nerve. I couldn't stand the sight of his hands on Candy. I told them I was leaving. Bow tie man said no deal. The look on Candy's face was like someone putting a cigarette out on my heart. I had failed her. I didn't have what it took to take care of my baby. I went nuts. Used violence for the first time in my life off of a hockey rink. I grabbed Candy by the arm and pulled her away from bow tie man. Bow tie man hit the mattress on his ass and bounced back up. I cold cocked him, an elbow to the jaw as he was coming up. He went down back down and stayed there while I robbed him. Me and Candy ran out of there and hooked up as soon as we could, and when the euphoria of the drugs took hold, we hooked up for real. And it was good, like the old days, the ancient days of nine months ago. The speed with which I'd fallen from grace took my breath away. As Heath and I lay tangled in boneless bliss, I told him I couldn't take anymore. The scene with bow tie man was a wake up call. We needed to get clean, and get jobs, at least until we were healthy enough to abuse drugs again. Sated with smack, wine, Chee-tohs and my cum, he agreed.

I got up the next morning and used the neighbor's phone to call the free clinic. I went to the Micky D's a couple of blocks away and bought some coffee and hot cakes, with a couple of extra syrups for the sugar buzz. When I got back, my sister's car was pulling away from the curb. The "I Brake for Whales" bumper sticker was like a slap in the face. I ran upstairs with no clear idea of what I expected to find, but I was sure it was going to be bad. The loft was empty, and I yelled for Heath before I saw the note on the mattress. Went out for smokes. Meet you at the clinic. Love you. PS Your sis is a bitch, in a good way. I remember every word.

After I ate the hot cakes and drank one of the extra syrups, I cleaned up as much as possible with cold water and no razor. I wanted to call home and find out just what my sister, that reliable scout, had been doing here and why she hadn't stayed until I got back, but I knew she was still in her car. And all I was really doing was distracting myself from thoughts of what Candy was doing right that minute. She'd gone to score, of course; I knew that. One last high. I just wish she'd have waited for me. I thought about going around to all the places she might score, just to kill time, but I didn't. I couldn't take the chance that she'd talk me into doing a hit, just one bump, just to get through the physical exam. I knew I'd cave, and one of us had to be strong if we were going to get better. When I couldn't stand the sound of my own breathing anymore, I went out and called my parents, collect.

I humbled myself. I asked for their understanding. I told them I loved Heath and that I wanted to pull him from the quicksand of his addiction. I explained that we were starting a detox program that morning, and that I was only calling because I wanted my family to know that I was turning my life around. The maid relayed my words to my father. I could hear him faintly as he told her what to say to me in return. I was not to call again unless it was to say that I had come to my senses and left Heath before he ruined my life completely. I thanked Consuela and hung up. It was time to go to the clinic.

It wasn't far away. We used to pass it all the time on the way to a bar we used to hang out in until they banned us. Why? Probably the blowjob Candy gave me under the table on New Year's Eve. We used to make jokes about the junkies waiting around on the sidewalk, about how they were really supermodels on a fashion shoot. Now here I was, standing in line like the rest of the losers. I was determined that this was the first step up out of our slow motion hell. I was going to hold onto Heath's hand and I wasn't going to let go, no matter what. Wherever we were going, we were going there together. Christ, I was young.

Where was I? The clinic, yeah. The clinic opened, and Candy hadn't shown up yet. I bummed a cigarette and smoked it leaning against the wall, watching the traffic, and thinking that the people passing by saw me the way I used to see the junkies. It was humbling, to say the least. I had just decided that I was being stood up when I saw Candy come around the corner, a flash of a long leg in a bright pink boot. Here comes my baby, I thought. Everything's going to be all right. I called out, for the first time ever calling him Heath when he was in drag. He turned his head and saw me and just like always everything else faded into the background when our eyes met. Silently, I told him it didn't matter to me that he wasn't really a girl that my parents would approve of. I didn't want an ordinary girl. I wanted Candy. I like to think Candy saw all that before she was eclipsed by a city bus.

In was only when the driver hit the brakes that I realized something was wrong. I ran across the street, stopping like I hit a brick wall when I saw the boot under the wheel. Don't worry; I'm not going into any gory details. I held Candy's hand until her grip went slack, and the labored breathing ceased. Her wig had come off and someone in crowd yelled, "Jesus, it's a fuckin' guy!" I wanted to kick his ass, but the ambulance showed up, presenting a worthier target for my cheated rage. I accused them of taking their time because they were answering a call in the Lavender Ghetto. I called them murderers. I dared them to try and keep me from taking this last ride with Candy. They couldn't have cared less.

The state buried Heath as an indigent, and I'm the only one that knows where his ashes are interred. He was twenty-three. Had no family, came up from orphanages and foster homes, juvie work farms, places you and I never saw the inside of.

Damn right, I'm assuming a lot. I can tell by your haircut, your cologne, the Armani Atelier jacket worn over a five dollar T-shirt. You want to be hip, but you'll never have real street cred, and believe me, you don't want it. What you want I got right here and I'm not too hammered yet to get it up. So, what's your pleasure, sport? What? Yeah, this is Candy's room. Hey, where you going? I thought you were looking for some action. You changed your mind? That's bullshit, you horny little Ivy Leaguer. Can you even find your way back to where you parked your Beemer? Hey! Pick that up. Do not leave that money there. I don't need your charity. Fuck you. Asshole.

Shit. I scared off another one, Candy, but who gives a fuck. Pretty soon, I'll pick up his money and go buy some forgetfulness, but for now, come sit beside me and sing to me. I just need to rest for a while.