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Tunnel Vision (1998)

John Clayton Heinz

     “If you ask me, it’s a little creepy that he’s even here,” Maggie yells from the sink, no doubt reapplying some blood-red lipstick or black mascara to her purposely—obsessively—pale face. I can barely hear what she’s screaming over New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle,” which they play like 17 times a night. It’s so, so loud, and I don’t even think the music’s technically piped in here, into the gentlemen’s lounge. I stand up from being hunched over the toilet, palming the vomit from my chin and smearing it across the stall wall. Gross. I feel better, though. I tilt my head up to scan the ceiling: no speaker. I bend back down and inspect what came up. All I’ve had all night is water, and I see no sign of the two pink heart-shaped pills from almost an hour ago, thank God. I’m starting to roll pretty hard, so I don’t know why I expect them to be floating there. About five minutes ago, everything began to shimmer a little. But that was before Adam showed up and I was overcome with expulsion compulsion.
    I make a mental note to tell Adam at some future point that the sight of him literally made me puke tonight. I need to breathe.
    Maggie says, “Kurfew is a college-age party. Doesn’t he know that?” I refrain from replying that’s it’s also a boys’ party. As I de-stall, the guy waiting at the head of the line shoots me a dirty look. “It’s about time,” he says.
    “Go fuck yourself, OK?” I tell him sweetly as he squeezes past me. Joining Maggie at the mirror, I inspect myself with a lean-and-squint. “Of course he knows that,” I say. “That’s exactly why he’s here. Probably thought I’d be here, too.” This whole scenario is starting to look like a scene from Less Than Zero, except with better music and less hair. Bumping into Adam (and I mean that literally—our heads actually knocked together mid-crowd) was the last thing I needed tonight. I know for a fact he’s not working right now, so it’s not all that bizarre that he’d be in New York. But usually someone from LA tips me off when he’s coming in so that I can avoid all the usual suspects: the Boiler Room, Wonder Bar, Phoenix, and now I guess Kurfew. It’s a necessary measure: I decided after our summer blowout that it’s just better I not see Adam at all... the pull is just too strong, our chemical reaction too combustible.
    But one thing’s definite: I’m not leaving this fucking club. This is my city not his, and I think I’m about to start tripping through it pretty heavily. I just want to dance. “I want to dance,” I yell after Maggie, following her out of the cramped bathroom. Once back in the club’s throes, I’m immediately on tippy-toe and giraffing my neck, scanning the hundreds of crazed faces. I’m relieved to see no sign of Adam anywhere, but then realize I’ve also lost Maggie in the crush of bodies.
    Kurfew is a Friday-night gay ’80s party held in a velvet-roped-off section of Manhattan’s mammoth Tunnel, and it’s just as packed as the main, straight dance floor down the corridor—maybe even more so. It’s a tighter space, anyhow. But different entrance, and definitely a different crowd. 18 to get in and 21 to drink, though no one’s drinking alcohol in here. E is for Everything right now. The bouncers frisk you at the entrance ever since the feds came down on Peter Gatien a couple of years ago, but it’s really easy to bring it in yourself. Drop whatever in a condom, tie it off and shove it up your ass—not that it’s necessary: Each of the 10 or so wasted drag queens gliding around keeps treats down her cleavage. Supplied by Gatien himself, rumor has it.
    It’s about 3 o’clock now and I’m waiting for Miss Asia’s pills to kick way in. She makes me pay for, like, every fourth one, as long as I hang out with her for a good part of the night and let her rub my ass and squeeze my biceps. Her dose tonight seems nice and mellow. Not too speedy, thank God. I need something to dull my anxiety, not sharpen it. I reach into my pocket and pop a vitamin C lozenge into my mouth. A gentle frisson shudders through me pleasantly, and I start to decide her pinkhearts might just be incredible. Still folded into the crowd, the beat changes and I move right into it... I can’t place the song at first but then it registers as “Fascination Street” right before I feel a freefall coming on, Adam a distant memory as the high takes hold and I think that maybe I should’ve just started with one pill but oh well....
    And then I’m flying. Cut the conversation, just pull on your pout.
    The flow of people surges me toward the epicenter and I let it—I let go of everything. I move with the current and close my eyes, tilt my head back... it floats to one side and the other. The strobes are Japanese-cartoon heavy and the music deafening and beautiful and black and perfect and I’m swaying, spinning, circling in the thick airless heat, sweat dripping down my face and from my armpits, down the small of my back. Bodies press up close, I feel strong hands on my shoulders and in my hair and stroking the back of my thighs, groping my crotch. I flow farther into the crowd, and the music is coming from inside my body, my veins are burning and my eyes are vibrating and they’re about to pop out or explode and drip down my face. I close them tight and the club goes black and disappears and I’m completely alone and it’s exactly what I want, the bodies recede leaving me soaked and shaken and I’ve never felt this aware of myself. My heart is swelling and I love love love love everything so much it’s about to burst and then it does and I’m covered in thick warm sticky liquid and life finally makes sense and there’s a gigantic crushing rushing wave of relief when the tide comes back so fast I catch my breath and exhale long and slow and the moment keeps stretching and I’m back in the humid throng and every faceless body is beautiful and wet with sweat. My head drops back again and my mouth gapes open and I’m lost again in the flash and beat and my blood is boiling and coming up through my pores and evaporating, coating the ceiling and dripping back down. I’m breathing heavy to stay conscious, my eyelids fluttering and tears welling and I let them spill over and streak down my cheeks. My breath comes faster, faster, faster and I’m gasping and crying sort of hard now because I’m so happy.
    Thick arms reach around from behind and encircle my abdomen and his breath and lips and tongue are hot on the back of my neck and he’s squeezing me and we’re moving together. I feel his dick pressed up hard against me and then his hands are under my soaked T-shirt, up my tummy to my chest, pulling me back. I lean into it and let him hold me, and then he turns me around and wipes at the wet under my right eye with his thumb before moving in to kiss me hard, his tongue pressing slowly into my slack mouth and his left hand cradling the back of my head and his fingers in my hair and I think suddenly of Kim Gordon singing I love you, I love you, I love you, what’s your name?
    He says, “Let’s leave,” and I wonder, Could Adam be further from my thoughts?—so I guess the answer is no. He was here, right? Or did I conjure him into my night? Is he watching me now?

    The cab speeds fast and my eyes are pinwheeling from the long rails of light that time-warp us through the Lincoln Tunnel. They’re streaming by on either side of the car and it feels just like USA Up All Night science fiction: I was totally still and the zillion stars all around and above me were Lite Brite pinpoints and then—ZOOM—they’re rushing past me in thin, blurry streaks. Beam me up to north Jersey, Scotty.
    The show ends as the car breaks the surface and we’re out of the Tunnel. It’s that hazy time between really late and really early but still dark, thank God, because I’m still pretty high and don’t want it to end or anything to change at all. Story of my life, clinging to something until my fingernails rip off and I plummet down to hard pavement. I’m splayed rather awkwardly on a diagonal across the back seat, cradled by “Fascination Street” guy like some nightclub infant, head lolling back and practically sucking my thumb—his back against one door and his legs spread open wide around me. He’s thick all over, and handsome and masculine and warm—all meaty chest and clean face and baseball cap and contrived blasé attitude. Kurfew often attracts ostensibly straight guys with elastic sexualities; they wander in from the main part of the club when pussy proves elusive.
    There are two full-proof sartorial litmus tests for assessing a man’s sexual orientation: shoes and watch. With mall-flavored Skechers and a digital G-Shock, he handily passes both—the clinging Drakkar Noir cloud an added, noxious assurance. He has not told me his name. Or if he did I’ve forgotten it. It seems like hours and hours since he found me dancing, tripping my face off to the Cure, but it’s probably been more like 40 minutes. Hazily I remember a couch in a dark corner, fondling a Poland Spring he gallantly brought me from the bar. Making out for a few songs and then shambling behind him out the door and into the street like some slopped-out zombie puppy with low self-esteem. I didn’t even try to find Maggie, and I’m still trying to decide if Adam was actually there or not.
    I glance at my own watch (sleek silver Fossil, brown leather strap, lighted blue face): it’s just past 4. Jersey boy is silent and breathing heavy and slow. Peering back I see his eyes are closed under the brim of his cap. I nudge him awake and he startles for a second, then smiles and chins the top of my head. “You know where we’re going here?” I ask.
    “Yeah, yeah, for sure.” He grunts and shuffles up straighter, adjusting me. It seems like we’ve driven kind of far. A spark of anxiety flares in me, but I smother it as he tells the driver, “This exit, please... yep, to the right, then a left at the light, then another quick left.”
    It registers that I’m definitely on my way down now, the high is fading, and I wonder how the hell I’m gonna get back to the city tomorrow. I have no idea where we are. I didn’t even know cabs drove people this far into New Jersey. We take a few more turns, driving slower now on the city roads, another mile or so. Wherever we are, it sure isn’t pretty. We’re creeping through a quasi-industrial neighborhood: vast concrete fields bordered by chain-link fences, squat blond-brick buildings that look like small factories or warehouses, broken up here and there by clusters of desolate tenement buildings that look decidedly subsidized; then a row of identical duplexes, miniscule front yards dotted with Virgin Mary statues and Mylar windmills. There’s zero sign of civilization and even less foliage. What an ugly, sad landscape. Maybe this is Secaucus?
    Finally he tells the driver to stop, but I think we’ve traveled too far from the highway because the dude at the wheel seems like he’s getting agitated. It’s likely he doesn’t know where he is, either. He’s muttering in Arabic and then all of a sudden his voice rises and he’s gesturing wildly, looking left and right over his shoulders out the windows at the environmental void on all sides. The vibe is killing me in here so I decide to let baseball cap deal with it; he’s covering the fare, I assume. (Don’t straight guys pay for stuff?) His leg slides around me and he leans up toward the cloudy plastic partition, both their voices now rising steadily. I reach for the handle and shoulder the door open. The cold air slaps me cruelly, singing dry the rivulets that sprang instantly from the corners of my eyes to the corners of my mouth. I heave the door shut and lean against it, hugging myself for warmth. If I’d foreseen tonight’s little adventure I’d have worn a heavier coat for sure. Lighting a Camel from my coat pocket I survey my bleak surroundings again. God, what a fucking shitpit. I gaze out into the distance, my unfocused eyes puddling out at the nothingness.
    Nothing, nothing, nothing.
    I take a drag and slowly exhale, then cock my head and sharpen my eyes in comprehension, because right then my neocortex practically short-circuits: There isn’t a single house or apartment building or even tree in sight. Just asphalt and chain link, and a railyard way off to the left that I can barely make out in the ebbing darkness—the edges of things now starting to frost with a cold glow from the horizon. There aren’t even any streetlights here. What the fuck is going on? I begin to formulate a reaction, words of protest or a maybe a move back into the double embrace of the warm taxi that I’m still leaning up against, when abruptly the car shoots out from under me like a rocket, wheels screeching and kicking up gravel: zero to 60 as my heart plunges into my gonads. I thrust myself forward in shock, off the moving car, and then spin on my heel, staggering backward into the space it had just occupied, the displaced air swirling and flapping my open jacket behind me like wings.
    The cab and the nameless man who brought me here are flying off down the street away from me. Still half-high, with one hand smacked against my forehead and the other clutching my still-burning cigarette, I stand there frozen, slack-jawed and stupid, my spiral eyes glazing over at the diminishing taillights, which look like two sizzle-red sparkler eyes, spinning and shooting wildly off into the distance.

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