By Dan Valentine
THE PINK CIGARETTE LIGHTER – Part Three
From the Urban Dictionary: ‘Midnight Cowboy. A 1969 movie starring Jon Voight [Jolie’s daddy] as Joe Buck, from Texas, who comes to The Big Apple, thinking he can make a living selling his body to women. When that fails, he resorts to seeking gay male customers. Hence, the slang term “midnight cowboy”–a male (straight or gay) who seeks gay men who will pay him for sex.’
In the fall of 2009, while I was at The Music City Hostel in Nashville, a kid from the backwoods of some southern state, I forget which one, checked in. Both his parents had recently died and his elderly grandmother had given him what little cash she had so he could come to Nashville. Why Nashville, of all places, I can’t remember. He had no dream of being a singer or a songwriter or anything else connected with the music business.
Many of the regular guests there took an instance dislike to him. The kid’s backwoods accent offended their ears. A lawyer, who had given up his practice in Wisconsin to follow his dream of becoming a music producer, said one night, “I can’t understand a word he says.” “That’s what he says about you,” I said. One and all laughed.
Ron, the owner of the place, had taken me in when he learned I was homeless–bed and breakfast in exchange for chores. But he told me not to mention the word “homeless” to anyone. He didn’t want to upset his guests. Heaven forbid! “And don’t bum any cigarettes from the guests!” Who me?
Funny, many or most of the visiting guests are European, and those in the European Union are a strange breed, indeed! Whenever they take out a pack of cigarettes, they always–and, I mean, always–offer those present a cigarette first before lighting one up for themselves.
One of the first things the young man from the backwoods told me was: Clerks would not accept his I.D. when he tried to buy a bottle at the liquor store down the block. And he had just turned 21! And he couldn’t understand why. In truth, he couldn’t have been more than 19.
What do to? he asked.
“Enjoy a Coke!”
But the young, they rarely listen to their elders. Instead, he soon discovered that he could quench his thirst by simply opening the fridge outside on the porch, when no one was watching. Guests would buy twelve-pack upon twelve-pack, put ‘em in the fridge to chill, drink most of what they had purchased but not all, and go on their way.
As a result, the kid was drunk most of the time. Did I say, most? He was drunk the entire time he was there. Guests were complaining. His backwoods accent was hard enough to take when he was sober.
One night I’m sitting with him outside. I was the only one who would. I felt sorry for him. He had just lost both his folks. Time after time, he would offer me cigarette after cigarette (European-style), as he lit one for himself and popped open the flip-top of another can of beer. Evenings past, I had always declined. This particular night, after hearing pretty much everything the lad had to say, I asked, “Can I bum a cigarette?” just as Ron came over and said he wanted to talk to him. Timing is everything.
The two went inside. The kid came out a short time later and told me that Ron wanted him to leave the premises immediately, if not sooner.
What to do? He had no money. He asked me to talk to Ron on his behalf. So, together we went inside. It was late. Past midnight. I said something like “you just can’t toss the kid out on the street at this hour. I’ve been homeless, and–”
“Follow me,” he said. And I did. Outside. “I told you never to use the word homeless while you’re here.”
“Hey,” I said, “he’s a kid. Both his folks just died. It’s my duty as a fellow human being. Tomorrow he can go to social services.”
Ron said he’d play the kid’s car fare to The Mission.
I don’t think so. The Mission! Stabbings. You name it. Worst-case scenario. “I was told by one-in-the-know NOT to go to The Mission,” I said. “I wasn’t ready, and HE (the kid) really ain’t!”
Ron said he’d drive the boy to the all-night cafe up the block. Give him money for coffee.
I can live with that, not that it was my call, and not that it had anything to do with me at all.
“But I don’t want to hear you say the word ‘homeless’ ever again.”
“No problem. Got a cigarette I can bum? Just joking.”
Funny, he had told all those who worked there that I had been homeless for a short time (very short, three days) and they, in turn, had informed all the regular seasonal guests. At a hostel, you soon learn most every little thing that’s interesting about a person. Unless, of course, your middle name is Clueless.
A few nights later I’m in the hostel lobby–computers, big-screen TV, washer-dryer, dining table and chairs, etc.–when a guest comes in and informs each and all present that he had seen the kid from the southern backwoods standing on the corner by the gay bars, presumably selling his wares.
I like to think he was lost. But probably not.
TO BE CONTINUED
Patio at the Music City Hostel, Nashville
Millard Fillmore's Bathtub 
why not? It should be a good topic.
Nowadays, people pay all their attention to those latest and spicy news and ignore the group which we should take into consideration.
LikeLike
Thomas, thank you for the compliment and input. Like you, I’m reading reader(s) comments out of order today.
Hey, write the book! Better yet, write the screenplay. No need for detailed description. Just time, place, action, and dialogue. (Though, obviously, not all that simple to do.)
LikeLike
And Dan, this story is compelling – all parts I have read. Thank you.
PEACE
LikeLike
I have known some hustlers here in Tampa. Some are interesting young men who simply came upon unbelievably complicated and desperate situations through no fault of their own. Several are/were (one killed himself in a dramatic car crash while high on crack or meth, with another hustler stabbed and bleeding from a knife wound was found sitting, dead in the front passenger seat of the wrecked car)straight and work the bar or the street just to survive. This is called “gay for pay.” The good looking and more charming ones, gay or straight, often get to travel to Key West or South Beach in Miami with an older (or not so much older) man (or couple or group) who wants company and a trophy “boy” on his arm for a while.
Honestly, the stories they tell are fascinating and their life experiences are rich and exciting, though often sad. I worked as a Foster Care Counselor for several years. Some of the older male teens were “on the run” in the later years of their being in state custody (FL). Some worked the streets or the bars and hustled gay men in order to support themselves, buy nice clothes or jewelry or to support their drug habits.
I have some desire to write about those tales of the hustlers. Maybe a book possibility?
LikeLike