The Star-Maker, Key West, September 1993

“Life in your New World, turning round and round, making some sense where there’s no sense at all…”
-Icehouse, “No promises.”

I smoked a lot, and had recently made the acquaintance of several other nearby employees and owners of the shops on the 600 and 700 blocks of Duval, as we all smoked outside. Casual, hi, howyadoin’ types of people that, were it not for cigarettes, I probably would not have met. Smoking was the immediate bond between us. I looked forward to talking with one or the other to pass the time, so as not to think about my present situation. We had left stable jobs in stable Branson to explore the world and all its wonders, and now here I was, in Key West, bringing in five dollars an hour selling t-shirts and bathing suits. I wrote lots of postcards in the beginning, lying to my friends about the exciting times I wasn’t having in the hopes that those times were soon to come.

September was oppressively hot and still, and the act of cigarette smoking was not that pleasurable to my lungs. But my hands were busy and the nicotine was a welcome embrace to my system when nothing else was happening. The man was in his early 50’s by appearance. He had brown hair and a mustache. He gave me the once over, and I saw him look at my crotch. He approached and struck up a conversation.

“I must say you are very beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I said, feeling a tad off-guard at his forthrightness.
“Are you making enough money?”
“I’m workin’ on it,” not really sure what he meant.

“You know, if I had your looks, I’d be sitting on a gold mine.”
“Thanks.” I said again, now guarded.
“Listen to me and think about what I said. I said, ‘If I had your looks, I’d be sitting on a gold mine.’ Think about it, let your mind expand on it.” He stared directly at me, into me, his gaze unblinking, focused and dark. I looked down and took a drag.

“I’ll do that.” I said, now thoroughly creeped out, not making eye contact again.
“Yeah, you do that.” He said. “I’ll be around.”

For the longest time, I was unsure of what this exchange was, other than some odd come-on. Later, I heard about the pornographers from Miami that were always on the lookout for new talent. Then everything made sense. He never came back around; my promising career in movies given to someone prettier, more willing to play ball, someone less naïve.

He was the possessor of men’s looks and their bodies. He made them famous and empty simultaneously, their gold becoming his.