The Bad Flasher

Photograph by Roswell Angier: Sonny, Washington Street., 1974

In 1979, a gallon of gas cost .86 cents. Sony released the Walkman. And the board of directors for a company called Apple approved funding for research into the development of a personal computer for the average citizen user. The Macintosh computer would arrive five years later, in 1984.

The Pilgrim Theater

There were no cell phones in 1979, or digital cameras. There was no Twitter or online porn or HBO. If you wanted porn, you had to go to a movie theater, like The Pilgrim. Because the communication devices such as email and text and cellular that we use today didn’t exist in 1979, people interacted with other people differently than I think they do today. You had to pay more attention to people in 1979 because there were fewer ways to remember them than there are now; the concept of time was different. Civilization was quieter, slower, more private.

Photograph by John Goodman: Sweet Polly, May 20, 1976

In 1979, it took longer to tell another person about the person you had just paid attention to. If that other person wasn’t with you to tell, or within shouting distance, your choices were these: Write them a letter, send them a telegram, wait to see them in person or call them. And even calling was slow. The majority of phones were rotary. Imagine if you had to dial a text message. It would take you a week to dial your date the letters that spelled you were running fifteen minutes late.

This is a reason why I enjoyed being in The Combat Zone. Its concept of time was slower than our relation with time today. Then, The Combat Zone was as slow or as fast as the rest of the world, and insulated, and it offered an assurance of anonymity if you offered an assurance of discretion.

In this calming awareness, I learned how to watch, and what to watch, and listen for. I was introduced to my instincts and gut feelings. I began to contrast and compare women I’d see – hookers. Who wore what, how, and why? And I’d think about the rate I’d pay for what I saw. I began to explore, in ways my porn magazines couldn’t supply, areas of deviancy I had only read about, like adult bookstores, massage parlors, strip clubs, topless bars, peep shows and porn theaters. I watched Johns barter with whores, junkies scamper about in the dark, and tense, mincing suburban white men in proper trousers and shoes, most of them married, dart in and out of anonymous doorways, parked cars, book stores and bars. I watched the police watch the same people I did, and it all seemed to me that if I simply allowed The Combat Zone to do its thing, it would allow me to do mine.

Photograph by John Goodman: Tremont Street #3., 1978

The reason I walk towards a female when I want to flash, instead of approaching her from behind, above, underneath or from the side, is because it’s the most direct and simple way to present myself and my intentions. I wrote about it here. And how I become invisible, here. When I’m prepared to do it, it’s as if there’s no such thing as time. As the female and I come closer to each other, the concept of “almost” and “now” become “then” as soon as she passes me. Now, we’re each in the other’s history, and moving deeper into our lives and further away from one another, forever. But, for a fraction of a moment, we’re right up against each other, inches away from physically connecting. And then, we’re gone.

Ever walk on a very crowded sidewalk? It’s like being in a current, or on a conveyor belt. You’re on a stream. Outside at night, I’m not in a current. I’m on a placid surface: an empty sidewalk, floating, waiting for a girl to float into my view. If I need to move, I begin swimming. It’s different from being carried on a current.

This is how it felt for me when I was in the peaceful five acre lagoon of cement and semen everyone in Boston called The Combat Zone.

Photograph by John Goodman: La Grange St., 1975

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