# Maybe—Tomorrow/Chapter 24

​CHAPTER 24
IT WAS MISTING RAIN WHEN PAUL Boudreaux emerged from his favorite bar. Flashes of lightning illuminated the sky for a brief second, then followed distant rolls of thunder. A cloud, hitherto unseen, came upon the horizon, and hovered like a dark hand before a face.
The whores, pimps, queers and tourists had taken to the many bars and restaurants, leaving the usually busy Bourbon Street practically deserted; alone with its many electric signs, reflecting on wet stones, and drooping awnings. Cabs, kept busy by whistling people, splashed down the street, and those who whistled in vain returned behind doors. Doors that they had emerged from. Doors that kept inside the loud disturbance of blaring instruments and shouting. It all went on around him, concealed and unnoticed.
"Raining again," Paul murmured, watching the drops splatter against a lighted street lamp. "Wish Dusty wouldn't have been off tonight."
A cab pulled up, and the driver asked, "Cab?"
"No thanks," Paul replied without looking.
"Won't cost you nothing, no."
Paul looked into the dark front seat. "Gaston," he cried. "I didn't know it was you … How's everything … how's tricks?"
"Good tonight … Where ya going? Can I take you?"
"No … thanks … I'm just walking," Paul said. "You'd better get some cash customers tonight. May not be raining tomorrow."
"So what? Hop in."
"Not tonight, Gaston … Thanks … thanks anyway."
"Want to be alone?"
"Sort of …"
"Ok Paul … I'll see ya …"
​"Come up soon and I'll buy you a drink. You know the address."
"I'll do that, bye …"
"Bye …"
Gaston's a good Joe, he thought. Maybe I should have gone with him … we've had a good time together … he's nice … Oh, well, some other night.
He shrugged his shoulders and from under an iron balcony, looked down the street. His eyes searched it bit by bit and section by section. It all seemed dismal and lonesome, almost as lonely as himself.
Where did you come from, he questioned, looking down at the large slabs of slate. Did you really come from France? Who brought you here to this miserable street? What things have happened to you … over you? Did the cart that carried a queen to the guillotine roll over you, or were you still buried happily in the deep earth?
They beamed back at him and looked almost alive, glared in wet changing colors. They were secretive and silent as they had always been. They would not tell their past to anyone … Why should they? No one would believe a stone could talk.
Paul had been drinking for hours but the wonderful glow that always came, that glow that made him forget, had also forsaken him.
He plodded patiently through the rain, and his whole life was spread out before him. And the walk before him stretched like a sheet of silver, placid under the lights, like a lake undisturbed by wind or storm. No waves would come to ruffle this dream water, and no bulk of cloud, wind-driven from the gulf, obscure the clarity of this pale sky.
The different doors, verandas, signs, were all part of him. All around were things he had lived with as a child and a young man. He looked at a certain red door and remembered the older man who had lived there. It was such a long time ago, and now, he wondered what had ever become of him. What did happen to "gay" men as they grew older? What happened to those that did not have the normal fulfillment of love and companionship and sometimes even when they did? He thought of Gene Limbeaux, alone and old now. Did Gene deserve this? This way of life that had only doom for an ending? He must have had lovers, many of them. In fact he had known several, but today he was alone too. Just like himself. And ​because his memories were so cruel and unpleasant, Paul's eyes filled with tears. His mind was a series of days past, and of days to come.
Rain can play odd tricks upon the fancy, even upon a dreamer's fancy. And as he walked hushed and sad, he thought. Maybe some old "aunties" are happy and content. Maybe age does things to you … At least I've got money, and money is important to one growing old … real important to a gay person.
He looked lost and puzzled, his normal expression dying away from his face as though swept clean by an unseen hand, and in its place a mask had formed, a sculptured thing, formal and cold, handsome still but lifeless.
The smell of beer and rubbish made him look skyward, and the kiss-like drops felt good on his uncovered brow. His thin sport shirt stuck close, showing his upper physique, and his cut out sport shoes sopped up water from the puddles entrenched on broken slabs, making each step remind one of rubbing taffeta. He was not aware of his appearance. He was aware that he had known fear, and loneliness, and very great distress on this very street. It all carried him back to his past with such force that he seemed to be reliving it again. Something inside him wanted to be carried back to the days when he was happy; when the city and Bourbon Street had been beautiful; when he had lain on his bed and watched his lover coming toward him.
"Hey … look out fellow."
He stopped, quickly coming from the past to the present, but he was too late. He had collided with a couple with such force that the girl would have slipped and fallen if her companion had not quickly caught her. Paul's confused and halting apologies brought forth a flow of cuss words from the girl, but his face was so sincere that her anger died down as quickly as it had flared.
"That's okay, honey," she said. "We shouldn't have had a newspaper over our face. Took it for granted that people would see us. It's our fault." She turned to her companion. "Damn, baby, did you have to grab me here?" She rubbed her breasts. "You almost ruptured me, baby," she laughed.
"I'm going to do more than that when I get you in bed, baby," her companion grinned. Then he winked at Paul in a "you know what she is" manner.
​"You are … are you?" she said. "Come on, then … I can hardly wait."
He looked at Paul with a subtle change in his eyes, the indefinable something that lingered there, momentarily, said something personal to himself with which she had no concern. As if he had preferred Paul's companionship to hers.
Another whore with a trick, thought Paul. He grinned back at them. Her companion looked so young, so good-looking. He would have liked to have shaken hands with him, say, "I'm Paul Boudreaux and I'd like to buy you a drink." He had done that before, but only when they walked alone. He sort of respected whores; they had a tough life too; even though he felt the boy would have gone with him, he would not interfere. No, whores didn't have it easy either … He started to walk and wondered as he did so, wondered what happened to prostitutes when they got old.
Two men in gaudy suits passed with a cunning grin. They glared at Paul and one said, "I don't know whether he's one of those queers or not … Kinda looks like one."
"I don't give a damn if he is or isn't. I'd like a fling with him." He looked at Paul and said, "Hi … want some company fellow?"
Paul only glared back at them and walked silently on. Beat your gums, you hop-headed bastards, he wanted to say. I'm not that hard up. Thank God I'm what I am and not like you … Sex … sex and more sex … Isn't there anything to life but sex …? He kicked at the sidewalk.
He walked a long time. Down Bourbon to St. Louis Street on which he turned. He looked into Antoine's. It was very busy but did not hold any interest. He thought of Cafe Lafitte on Bourbon and wondered if he should go back to it. He thought of Dusty and wondered where he was tonight. He was on Royal Street before he realized it. In fact, from this very spot he had seen Gaylord come down those steps across the street. He stared at them as if expecting a reappearance, but a short, bulging male had taken Gaylord's place and was now waddling to a waiting cab. The door closed and another person was gone. Paul gave a sickening little laugh. What a difference appearance makes … what a difference age.
The separation of the moment was heartbreaking for he was ​certain Gaylord had gone from his life as fast as he had come into it. Why should he assume that Gaylord would come back; after all, it had only been a pick-up and he had had many of those. They never came back and when they did it was only for one thing … It could only end the same way as before. Someday, one of them would get tired, one of them would want new fields to conquer; this love begun, would soon end.
Paul looked up at the tall white hotel and when his eyes focused on what he thought was the room in which he had spent the night with Gaylord, an idea occurred to him. He would stay in it again. Tonight, in that room, he could relive a wonderful moment in his life. It wouldn't be the same, no, but it might help clear his muddled mind. The room was dark and a dark room meant vacant; most times it did. Yes, it would feel good to sleep on the same bed again and relive that night. It would be restful tonight.
He moved away from the restaurant, crossed the street, and mounted the hotel steps. He looked around. No one was watching him although, there were many people about. He was conscious of his wet clothes and tried to free his skin from the sticky shirt. He took out his comb, ran it through his hair, and moved again toward the revolving doors, informing himself that he was doing the right thing; knowing that above him he might perhaps find solitude and comfort. He murmured the name "Gaylord" and even the thought of the couple he had bumped against, which had been on his mind, was forgotten. So were the names of past lovers and friends.
On entering the lobby, Paul made his way over the carpeted floor. He spoke to several bell-boys, busy with bags and bundles. He grinned at the porter, busy cleaning over-run ashtrays. He noticed the crowd, busy getting reservations and checking out. They never stayed in one place long; they were always coming and going; like his life, nothing was permanent. He crossed, walking between and around the milling figures, to a desk marked "Sightseeing Tours."
"Paul," the man behind the desk cried. "How good to see you." They shook hands. "Kinda wet, aren't you, kid?"
"Hi, Grover. You'd be wet too," Paul grinned. "Don't you know it's raining outside?"
"Is it?" Grover pulled out a chair, smiled, and looked in Paul's ​face. Said, "Sit down, honey. I just had mad sex before I came on and I'm so pooped I wouldn't know if it was sleeting. Yes, I guess I would too for I'm sure I'd have fallen flat on my ass coming to work."
"I guess you would have at that."
Grover handed Paul an open package of cigarettes. "Smoke," he asked. Paul took one and so did Grover. He sensed something was wrong … "How's it going, Paul?"
They looked at each other between a thin screen of smoke, and Paul said, "Fine." Then added, "Grover, find out if twelve-ten is occupied, will you please? If it isn't I'd like to have it. I'm so wet I hate to go to the desk and ask …"
"Sure, Paul." Grover turned to the phone on his desk. "Just a minute. I'll ask Charles."
He picked up the house phone and flipped the cigarette ashes with his finger. He studied Paul, began to wonder … that something was wrong he had no doubt but why did he want twelve-ten when he had such a lovely Apartment?
No, twelve-ten was occupied but he could have twelve-eight, he told Paul and added, "How about twelve-eight?"
"No," Paul said quietly. "It's got to be twelve-ten."
"Sorry, Charles … Skip it … thanks anyway." Grover hung up the receiver. "Why in the hell do you want to stay in this dump when you've got that dream house to go home to. If it was mine I don't think I'd ever leave it."
"You would too … Grover. Gets kinda lonesome alone."
"Well, honey, this joint isn't the Follies Bergere. It's dull as hell here tonight." Grover sighed. "I'm sorry, Paul, that I couldn't help you. Did you make a date? Was someone going to call you in twelve-ten? Piece of rough trade?"
"No," Paul grinned. "It's really nothing … Thanks anyway."
Grover gave a quick gasp. "Oh, I remember. That cute thing you stayed all night with had twelve-ten. That kid from Texas." He waved his wrist. "He was a doll. Every time he passed my heart stopped. I tried to talk to him several times but he knew how to avoid me … Guess he could read my mind. He was cute … real cute."
"Yes … He was …"
​"Oh I've seen some just as cute."
"Not like him," murmured Paul.
"Have you heard from him?" asked the pale Grover.
Paul shrugged in the chair. "No, I haven't. Guess that's why I'm so low."
"Now don't let that one get you down. I knew there was something wrong the moment I saw you but I had no idea you had fallen for that kid. You've had one night stands before. Now haven't you and they were just for the evening. What you need is someone. Someone new … Go out and find something … I wish I didn't have to squat behind this evil desk, I'd go with you. A new face always peps me up and the bars must be gay tonight."
"Think so? Think that's what I need?"
"I know it is. Why don't you go over to the Green Parrot?"
"Is it still open?"
"Is it?" Grover threw a hand on his chest. "It's madder than ever … absolutely mad. They've got a bunch of drag queens working and the trade just flocks there."
"Sounds interesting … I love drag shows anyway."
"Wish I could go with you … I'm not as tired as I thought I was." Grover laughed and flipped the cigarette into a tray.
"It's so hard to meet someone you want to be with. I generally get the type that either wants money or one night stands."
Grover's mouth popped open. "Oh … hell … I wish you would have been here earlier. There was the best looking John here a while ago. Real manly and very nice. Just the type you're looking for. He came up and asked me if I knew some girl who would have dinner with him and then go to some club and dance. Just out of a clear sky he pops up with this. I started to tell him I'd leave any time he wanted to, but decided I'd better not. He looked and talked so serious I wasn't sure just what he did want." Grover took a needed breath. "I suggested Rosie, you know Rosie. I don't think she looks like a whore, do you?"
"No."
"He asked me what she did and I told him … He didn't want a whore and didn't care what she looked like he said. I told him she was very attractive but no … no whore … God, he was so ​handsome … just my type too. He just left before you came in."
"He must have been something," Paul exclaimed. "I've never seen you like this."
"Honey, he was a bitch's dream of heaven."
"Maybe he'll be back … you might try tomorrow … there's always tomorrow." Paul rose from the chair and patted Grover's drooped shoulder. "Thanks. I hope you get him … Grover." He started to leave but Grover hung on to him. "Wait," he gasped. "I think that's him … it is him." Grover was breathless. "It is … that's him over there by the door … see?"
Paul saw him and his heart beat furiously, for from that distance he could have sworn he was looking at Gaylord; an older, sophisticated Gaylord. "He looks like Gay, doesn't he, Grover?"
"A little … only better … and he's here. Go on over and let's see what happens. I'm so excited." Grover let out a soft high giggle.
"Go on, Paul … get him."
"Oh …"
"Go on before he leaves."
"Should I?"
"You should … you'd better grab him before some other queen sees him. He won't be free long when the vultures see him. Wouldn't you hate to see some whore get this gorgeous thing? You know what they say about men … and I think he's willing … if he don't find someone he'll turn to a whore … I know the type … you've been carrying on over that ass-hole Arnold long enough. And this kid from Texas is too sissy. He'd make a good sister but who'd be the husband?"
"What's wrong with me?"
"Get you, girl … I knew you when … now go on. You're only young once and I say when love calls … answer … if you have to hog-tie them."
"I guess you're right," Paul grinned. "Guess I could stand a pickup after what happened last night. Well, here goes … I hope he doesn't talk with a lisp … if he does I'll kill myself."
"He doesn't honey," Grover said. Then he screamed softly, "Fly girl … he just left the lobby … fly before the bats get him."
And Paul walked rapidly out of the hotel leaving a nervous and grinning Grover.