ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

A written creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of The Requirements for 2 6 The Degree 201C

-M333

V • X Master of Fine Arts In Creative Writing

by

Jane Marie McDermott

San Francisco, California

January 2016 Copyright by Jane Marie McDermott 2016 CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL

I certify that I have read All the Time in the World by Jane Marie McDermott, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a written work submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree: Master of Fine Arts: Creative Writing at

San Francisco State University.

Chanan Tigay \ Asst. Professor of Creative Writing ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD.

Jane Marie McDermott San Francisco, California 2016

All the Time in the World is the story of gay young people coming to San Francisco in the

1970s and what happens to them in the course of thirty years. Additionally, the novel tells

the stories of the people they meet along-the way - a lesbian mother, a World War II

veteran, a drag queen - people who never considered that they even had a story to tell

until they began to tell it.

In the end, All the Time in the World documents a remarkable era in gay history and

serves as a testament to the galvanizing effects of love and loss and the enduring power

of friendship.

I certify that the Annotation is a correct representation of the content of this written creative work.

Date ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Thanks to everyone in the San Francisco State University MFA Creative Writing

Program - you rock! I would particularly like to give shout out to Nona Caspers, Chanan

Tigay, Toni Morosovich, Barbara Eastman, and Katherine Kwik.

I wouldn’t have made it through the program without the love and support of my wife,

Mary. Te amo. 177

talking serious danger. Boston was in the middle o f school busing that was not going well and there were white nitwits everywhere just trolling for trouble.

I told the girl I was with - it kills me that I can’t even remember her name now - that we needed to get out o f there so we started moving. We headed down Milk Street together going towards Congress and walking fast. I looked back and saw that the guys were following us. “We need to split up, ” I said and squeezed the girl's hand goodbye.

She nodded and we looked into each other’s eyes one last time. God, she was a doll!

Then she took off running towards South Station and I ran up towards the Common. I f they were following either o f us I was hoping it was me.

I just kept running until I couldn’t catch my breath - almost all the way to Park

Street Station. I didn’t even look to see if they were behind me or not. I ran into the station and downstairs and got on the subway thinking about that girl and hoping she was ok. She wasn’t at the club the following week or any week after that.

Ifelt so shitty and powerless. I don’t blame her for not coming back to the club, but it pissed me off that these assholes could insert themselves into my world and fuck it up.

I still think about that girl. I still hope that she was ok that night; it makes me sick to think she might not have been. Even though I can’t remember her name, I can still see her face. It went from sweet and sexy to scared in a second. That night, she might have ended up hating me. After all, I was a white girl, these were my people.

My people. 178

That night was the first time that Ifelt like I was running for my life. I mean there had been some iffy moments before. But until then it was just dealing with assholes who would say shit. But now, in just one night, it felt like the rules o f the game had changed.

The thought o f getting beat up both frightened and enraged me. How dare anyone get in my way like that? Boston was my fucking town - how dare anyone make me feel like I don’t belong?

Look, I was a just a nice girl from Boston who wanted to find another nice girl to have a relationship with - day and night. I wanted to be able to have a relationship with a girl outside o f the safety o f the dance floor. I wanted safety everywhere all the time.

Crazy, that. I wanted to stop pretending that I was just another red-headed member o f the

Irish Catholic tribe waiting to meet the right guy.

I had already brushed up against that nonsense working at the Prudential. I had decided to join the company’s women softball team - the Pru Rockettes. Piece o f the

Rock? Get it? Our games were on Friday nights, usually in Southie or Dorchester and afterwards we ’d go to some joint and drink pitcher after pitcher o f beer. These places would be full o f other working stiffs in softball shirts drinking beer. It was a rollicking, jolly crowd. Fun, actually. Everyone feeling like they were part o f the same tribe: white, beer drinking, softball playing, knuckleheads. The thing is, I wasn’t really a member o f their tribe. I was gay and if anyone knew that things might not go so well for me. At the very least, things would probably never be the same with my team mates. Truth? I was afraid to risk it. There was nothing to gain by coming out and a lot to lose. So I shut up and drank my beer and listened to the queer jokes. 179

Reason two for leaving, a big - ass reason two: in 1978, in a day, Boston got more

fucking snow than I had ever seen in my life. And I ’ve seen some snow. It was biblical, if

there was snow in the Bible I don’t know. I ’m talking scale here. We were under freaking

martial law for a week while these Army Corp o f Engineers guys from Georgia who

didn ’t even know what snow was dug us out. I took that snow storm as a message from

God telling me to get my Irish ass out o f Boston. It was my burning bush, if you will.

When I made my decision to head west there had been all kinds o f wacky things

about San Francisco in the news: the Jonestown massacre, the Moscone/Milk

assassinations. My family asked me if I really wanted to move out to Fruit and Nut Land

as they called it.

Yes. Yes, I did.

None of these things that happened fazed me. I knew that San Francisco was

where the queers roamed free - or at least that’s what I had heard.

You know what? I didn’t care if everyone there spoke French and ate dogs. I was

done. Done, done, done with Boston. It was getting harder for me to breathe - like I had

a brick on my chest. That’s what it felt like. I was ready to take a chance on the Golden

West.

When I got to San Francisco I lived in a rooming house for a few weeks until I got

the lay o f the land. The rooming house was in the Tenderloin and everyone I met told me

that I didn’t want to be there. You know, with the hookers and the drag queens, it looked

like Stuart Street by home. I wasn 7 afraid. 180

I answered an ad in a local gay paper posted by a dyke named Darlene from

Florida who was looking for a roommate. She lived on the edge o f the Haight. I had no idea what that was - she could have lived on the knife-edge o f hell as far as I was concerned. I was ready to settle in. I didn ’t even care that she had these two big goofy dogs. Darlene was hard on the outside, gooey on the inside. She turned out to be the biggest sweetheart I have ever met. Ifound myself a home in this big airy, hairy flat in the middle o f this wide-open town.

The bonus that came with this apartment was that it was a short walk from a women’s bar named Maude’s which became my home away from home. I hung out there several nights a week.

Good thing, too. That’s where I met my Margaret.

When I met Margaret it was like scene from a freaking movie. Picture this: there I was hanging with Darlene, having a beer at Maude’s watching this just amazingly beautiful woman racking up. It was dark as hell in Maude’s but there was plenty o f light over the pool table. I could see that she had this crazy dark curly hair and was wearing a very sexy leather jacket and tight jeans. She was long-legged and slim with an amazing ass. I was trying not to be obvious that I was watching her, but I think she knew. In fact, I knew she knew.

She was pacing around the table, chalking her cue, and making a big show o f setting up her shot. When she bent over to break, she looked up and saw me looking at her, and - 1 swear to god - it was like a choir o f freaking angels started singing. Raven

Babe. I was trying not to act like a total douche and spill my beer all over myself, and 181

Raven Babe was trying to be cool, too - 1 could see that. She pulled back her cue and just about scratched and sent the balls all over the freaking table.

Ha! She apparently liked what she saw, too.

Jesus Christ. It was so electric. I looked away and start peeling the label off of my beer bottle like nothing had happened. I didn’t know this at the time, but Darlene was sitting there grinning and watching us the whole time. She told me after that it was like watching a goddamn play. Crazy, because that’s what it felt like, too.

When I looked up, Raven Babe was looking at me. She gave me a devilish smile, a shrug, and a wink. “See what you do? ” she said to me.

She had a husky voice, soft and deep. I felt like I could have just dived into it.

I smiled. I maybe even peed myself a little, too. My teeth felt like they were glued together - 1 couldn’t think o f a single thing to say.

I continued to watch her play while trying to not look like I was. I tried chatting with Darlene. She told me after that I was talking in Esperanto or something. When

Raven Babe finished I turned my back to the pool table, but I could see in the mirror over the bar that Raven Babe was walking over to me. She moved well. Very well. She was tall and got taller the closer she got to me.

She stood right behind me and ordered a drink over my head. “Oh my, ” she said.

“I do have a thing for red heads. ”

I turned to look up at her. “Really? ” I said like I was just remembering I had red hair. This woman was like nine feet tall and I couldn’t believe how gorgeous she was. I 182

was like upside down talking to this gorgeous Amazon. “Be cool, be cool, be cool, ” I said to myself.

“Yes. I really do love red hair, ” Raven Babe said. “Yours is particularly beautiful. ”

“Thanks, ” I said, but thought: “holy crap. ” This woman didn ’t have to say another word for me to know that she was from Boston, too.

“I ’m from Boston, too, ” I said.

“No shit, ” she said. “Where abouts? ”

This was a test that I was about to pass. Plenty o f people from Massachusetts tell people that they ’re from Boston only to be really from Chelmsford or Lynn or Quincy.

People from Boston proper are from a neighborhood and all the neighborhoods have names.

“I’m from Dorchester, ” I said.

“No way,” she said. “I ’m from Dorchester. What parish?”

“St. Gregory’s,” I said. “You?”

“St. Brendan’s. ”

We grew up barely two miles from each other.

What are the odds that I would travel 3000 miles from where I grew up only to fall in love with the girl from practically next door?

“What are you drinking? ” she said to me.

“Beer, ” I said. “Um, Bud, ” I said showing her my bottle.

“Hey, Bud, ” the woman said. “My name is Margaret. ” 183

“Beth Quinn, ” I said.

“Let’s get out o f here, Beth Quinn, ” Margaret said.

“Ok, ” I remember saying. Don’t ask me how I remembered how to stand up or walk.

Darlene clapped me on the shoulder and said something to me, I don't know what.

Then Margaret Flynn escorted me out o f Maude’s, into her Karmann Ghia, and into her life. I ’ve never been the same since.

And she was a doctor no less. A freaking doctor!

I t’s what my mother always wanted. 184

EIGHT

Florida lulls the mind, makes one sleepy. Some say stupid. You can spend your whole life sleepwalking in Florida. That can probably happen anywhere, but it’s quite prevalent in that part of the hot, humid South. Is that redundant? It could be an explanation for a lot of the violent and impulsive behavior this part of the South is known for. But then, violent and impulsive behavior happens everywhere, too.

As a very young child, Roxanne Moore’s mother took off and left her with her maternal grandmother in Gainesville who took her to church and wouldn’t let her play on

Sundays. When her mother came back to claim her when she was nine, Roxanne was happy to go. She had no memory of living with her mother or even being left by her mother; she only knew that her grandmother was no fun at all.

“Kinda why I left,” Roxanne’s mother told her. “I needed to have fun. And I have surely had it. Gonna keep on having it, too. You ready?”

Roxanne and her mother lived in Pensacola for a while, ending up in Tallahassee by the time Roxanne was ready for junior high. Her mother wasn’t too good at cooking but she was good at leaving Roxanne money. “Go down to the DQ, sugar. Get yourself a double cheese.”

There were seemingly no rules at their house, Roxanne was free to come and go as she pleased. Sundry men who Roxanne’s mother liked her to call ‘uncle” also came and went. Sometimes an uncle was there just for a weekend. Sometimes for weeks or months. 185

Most of the uncles left Roxanne alone; they were only interested in her mother who was a young, good-looking woman. But some of the uncles took a great interest in

Roxanne. Some of them wanted her to sit in their laps and call them “daddy”; others wanted to stroke her hair and squeeze her bottom. Still others would wake her up in the middle in the night to breathe alcohol in her face and press their bodies on top of hers.

Her mother would always come running when she called out and that uncle would no longer be welcome in the three-room cottage they rented. When her mother asked her if she was all right, Roxanne would always say “yes.” Sometimes the bad uncle would come back and have to be told to leave more than once.

Roxanne looked like sunshine and she moved like a warm breeze. She could be a poster for Florida. A beauty, a star with a gravitational pull that drew boys to her. She couldn’t understand it. They would call her name and grab her arm as she walked by. All of them, it seemed to her, wanted to unbutton her, own her. None of them were content to simply know her, hang out, talk.

No one, that is, until Darlene Johnson caught her eye.

Darlene and Roxanne would talk all day and night. And not about clothes or movies, but about what they wanted from the world, about travel, about countries. Or, they would sit and look at each. Or lie down and hold each other.

If Roxanne was the sun, Darlene was the moon with her dark unruly hair casting a shadow over her face and distracting attention from her wide gray eyes. She was dreamy and thoughtful and paid so much respectful attention to Roxanne that she couldn’t help falling in love with her. And when they finally made love their bodies filled with light 186

and Roxanne’s spirit soared with hope. What is this thing they were doing and what do you call it? They just couldn’t get enough of each other, stripping off their clothes and writhing against each other every chance they got.

Both then knew that they were “those” kind of girls just as well as they knew that the South would hold a lot of hardship for them. The lezzie talk had already started from the boys neither Roxanne nor Darlene had time for. Some of them would threaten to fuck them straight.

“Don’t walk away from me, bitch,” they’d say. “Don’t act like you don’t want it.”

“It’s just talk,” Roxanne told Darlene.

“Now,” Darlene said. “That’s all it is now.”

For now, they were in high school. They had Roxanne’s house to hang out in.

They had each other. Darlene helped Roxanne to think about things other than uncles and

Florida. Darlene was brave and funny. It was because of Darlene, in fact, that Roxanne stumbled into a women’s bookstore called Herstore looking for information - anything that could reflect back to her what was going on in her life and mind. She started picking up pamphlets. Feminism. Women’s liberation. Gay liberation. Lesbian studies. Lesbian studies? Roxanne felt that she had wandered into a different dimension. How could literature like this exist within walking distance from her house? Roxanne started reading as if she had just learned how to.

The literature that Roxanne found the most compelling described lesbian communal living. When she read about these place she felt electrified; it was as if she’d been looking for something like it her whole life. A place where she belonged, where she 187

could be more than pretty - where she could be valued. Where no uncle would try to crawl into her bed.

Surely, Darlene would want to go to a place like this, too - a place where they could be together but with other women. Building a new world.

Roxanne began to learn the vocabulary of this new world - separatism, patriarchal order, male privilege, male domination, womyn - it was heady stuff. She began to correspond with women living in some of these communes that she had read about in Off

Our Backs. They were living in Womyn’s Lands, smashing the patriarchal order and subverting male domination. Some of these womyn wrote back and invited her to join them.

Join them! They wanted her to join them! She and Darlene had talked about leaving Florida and finding a place of their own. They talked about heading west. But where west? Every place that wasn’t Florida was west, it didn’t have to be California which is all Darlene ever talked about. San Francisco this and San Francisco that.

Roxanne would convince Darlene to join a womyn’s land while they were traveling.

Why wouldn’t Darlene want to? Why wouldn’t she want to?

Well, Darlene didn’t want to. She got all grumpy whenever Roxanne talked about the struggle, the need for womyn to find their own place.

“Why does “their own place” need to be fucking nowhere? Why can’t it be a place with stores and buses and shit?” Darlene complained. 188

Roxanne did manage to convince Darlene to detour down toward Tucson so they could check out Camp Sister Warrior, the place that Roxanne had settled on in her mind.

Camp Sister Warrior sounded like heaven!

It had been a hard trip west, so much had gone wrong, and after constant squabbling each of them took turns sulking. But when they got to Camp Sister Warrior

Darlene didn’t even want to look at the place! Ok, they were being kind of hard-ass about

Arrow, but at least she could go look. And they’d find a place for Arrow. Did Darlene really think Roxanne would leave him in the wilderness to die?

From the moment Roxanne stepped out of the car, she was transformed. It was as if she stood up and shed her skin. She knew the instant she saw the gate that she must enter and stay. She just knew.

At the same time, she saw Darlene digging in her heels, shutting down, the way she did. Christ, she could be such an asshole! And Roxanne knew she had to make a choice.

So, Darlene didn’t want any part of this? You know what? That’s ok. It took them an eternity to reach Arizona — and, by the way, what did Darlene think was going to happen? - by which time they were getting pretty testy with each other. All her life people have been making choices for her and none of them she liked - live here, no here; you’re old enough to take yourself to school; buy your own food; be nice to uncle; you can figure out how to get to the laundromat; smile. Roxanne could feel herself peeling off

Darlene layer by layer. Darlene didn’t even want to hear about what these places were about much less want to go into one. But the minute Roxanne saw the gate to Camp 189

Sister Warrior she experienced a rush that felt like the best sex ever. She had to be there.

With Darlene or without Darlene.

She felt light-headed watching Darlene and the dogs drive off. Giddy, almost. Her ears were ringing and she was crying, but she was also experiencing something that she hadn’t felt much before. She was thrilled. She was pretty sure she was thrilled. She was certain that this place was going to be the gateway to her whole new life.

The sound of Darlene’s car faded in moments and all Roxanne could hear was birds and the faint murmur of women’s voices in the distance. She looked down at her duffle bag and guitar. What had she done? She felt a light touch on her shoulder. It was

Scout.

“Come,” she said. And she led Roxanne into the camp.

Roxanne was not really a nature girl. In Florida, nature - bugs and snakes and vines - found you whether you wanted them to or not. You couldn’t avoid it. But that was different than living in the wilderness. Especially this rugged, high desert wilderness.

Roxanne hadn’t come from much but she was used to light switches and flush toilets and had grown up within walking distance from air conditioned shopping and buses that would take her anywhere. They were air conditioned, too.

Still, there was something compelling and other-worldly to Roxanne about the landscape at Camp Sister Warrior. Something she found profoundly captivating. She had heard about the air; maybe that’s what was happening to her. The thinner air was clearing her mind. 190

Perhaps because the camp was so very different than anything she knew or had seen before. Or maybe it was the heat and the altitude and the creeping realization that

Darlene was really gone and she had no way to contact her.

Here was a village full of women and only women. Women, womyn everywhere.

And it looked like they were making it happen. There were meals and places to sleep and clean clothes and showers. Women were singing while they worked and stopping to hug each other. Everything - gardens, animals - seemed well tended. There was order. And there were no scary men to wander into her bedroom at night or take her mother away from her. No man to tell her to get him a beer out of the fridge or to come on over here and give him a big hug and let him rub her ass.

Perhaps all that she was giving up was going to prove to be a gain.

The camp was a collection of cabins and tents with a large central building containing the kitchen and dining hall. There was a bath house. They had tapped into the grid to run a large generator that provided power and pumped water. There was a septic system. All and all it was pretty civilized. Darlene would have liked it.

Ah, Darlene!

The womyn had been in the desert for nearly eight years and the Camp had a feeling of a settlement. There were twenty-four women on the place when Roxanne arrived. They had run fences all the way around the property - to keep coyotes out as well as all other uninvited things.

Gone were some of the more primitive structures of the early years. They had given way to cinder block and cedar structures. Flower and vegetable gardens were 191

plentiful. Fruit trees, goats, chickens and pigs. The animals were taken to a neighboring farm for breeding and butchering. No male animals were brought into the camp. The womyn bought fertilized eggs for chicks to be hatched in incubators. The impression of the place was somewhere between summer camp and low security prison. There was a lot of talk about the need to keep everyone safe and keep out intruders. Many of the womyn there had lived through some rough times and had been brutalized by men.

At night they would sit around the fire and sing and share their stories. Oh, and the stories they told! Rape and beatings. About loving women. Being thrown out of houses and moving cars. And many stories about being made to feel small, feel less than.

All of the stories contained yearning about wanting to be where they belonged. Roxanne listened agog. Who knew that so many hurt so much?

The ages ranged from early twenties to mid-sixties. The founders of the camp,

Blue Heron Warrior and Still Mountain Warrior, were nearly seventy.

It didn’t take long for Roxanne to realize that her twenty-five dollar contribution was doing very little to keep the camp running. After a month or so Roxanne began to understand that most of the womyn at the camp were very well-educated - college graduates with advanced degrees, in fact - and came from well-to-do families. These women were the ones who wrote the pamphlets that Roxanne had been reading! They had their own money and were the main contributors to the camp, besides Blue Heron and

Still Mountain and it became clear that their opinions held more sway to how things ran than hers. They’d let slip things like when their parents bought them their first car, or 192

having a beach house or a horse or dance lessons, or vacations in Europe. What could these people possibly be running away from?

But what did Roxanne know? She was happy to be there, happy to be able to listen and learn from these amazing women and grateful for the kindness - and comfort - they offered.

The camp was huge - nearly one hundred acres and there was building happening all the time. Women were designing and building their own places from the ground up.

They reminded Roxanne of the books she used to read about adventurous girls who made their own way in the world. There was something a little magical about those girls and there was, in Roxanne’s eyes, something a little magical about Camp Sister Warrior.

If only Darlene had stayed!

Everyone was nice to Roxanne, no one tried to hit on her. Sex happened all the time and was considered part of camp life., but everyone was respectful of boundaries.

Womyn walked around in various stages of undress if they wanted to. Some of them were naked except for their boots. All of them were older than Roxanne and all of them impressed her with their calm and wisdom. They were so not like her mother! Everyone, including Darlene, thought her mother was cool. Her mother was not cool; her mother had left her with her grandmother for years and when she came and got her she brought her to a place where she was scared all the time.

Nothing about that was cool. Nothing.

All the women here just seemed to have figured out what they wanted out of life and they didn’t want men to tell them what to do or how to live. Or at least that’s what it 193

looked like to Roxanne. All of them spoke in hushed tones about their “experience.”

They talked about Karl Marx and Nietzsche, whatever that was. They talked about the struggle, revolution, utopia. They had come a long way to be in this place and they did what they wanted but they also worked together. Roxanne was entranced.

There was one woman in particular who Roxanne was drawn to. She was a bit on the outside of the group, a bit of a loner. Her name was White Eagle. She impressed

Roxanne with her stories of travel.

“I’ve been all over this country,” she said. “And now I’m here - ‘To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts’.” White Eagle smiled. Roxanne smiled back.

“Woody Guthrie,” White Eagle said.

“Roxanne shrugged.

“I guess I don’t expect you to know who he is.”

“Should I?” Roxanne asked.

White Eagle scanned the sky.

“Probably,” she said.

She had fierce blue eyes and silver hair that shone white in the sun.

“Is that why you call yourself White Eagle,” Roxanne asked running her hand along the back of White Eagle’s head.

White Eagle looked back up to the sky.

“No,” she said. 194

White Eagle was in the process of building her own rammed earth house by herself Roxanne wasn’t sure what rammed earth was until White Eagle explained it to her.

“Many cultures did this. The Spanish did it. They called it tapial. It’s a traditional way of building that crosses cultures. That’s why I like it. I dug me out a hole four feet deep and twenty feet around. That’s the earth I’m using to build the walls. The soil here is perfect - sandy, not too much clay. I’m going to line my hole with a twelve inch thick frame. I’m mixing my dirt with a little bit of gravel and some water to make a paste. Kind of like adobe. And then I’m pounding it into these frames. I’ll add a flue, some windows, a roof, and a door. The result will be warm in winter and cool in summer. Perfect for here. And I will have built it with my own hands. I will finally have my own place in a land that doesn’t just accept me for who I am, but celebrates me. After all the places I’ve been and all I’ve been through, I have finally found a place to be me. Some people die never finding it. I’m one of the lucky ones.”

White Eagle smiled at Roxanne, her face creasing like a paper bag. Roxanne had no idea how old White Eagle was or what she had been through. All Roxanne knew was that White Eagle has traveled a lot and knew how to do just about everything. For

Roxanne, every day at Camp Sister Warrior presented another experience like rammed earth and another character like White Eagle.

“Can I help?” Roxanne found herself asking. She had had enough of field work on the trip from Florida. She didn’t know anything about building but this seemed simple enough. 195

White Eagle considered this. The truth was she really wanted her new house to be her own solo project, but the truth also was that was hard, lonely work. Digging the hole had taken nearly a month. In two weeks she had built the frames, but not even started on a wall. She wanted to be done by winter.

“It’s not complicated, what I’m doing. You’ll pick it up easy,” White Eagle said.

“But I don’t want you doing nothing you don’t want to do. Still, I could use the help. So if you’re offering, I’m taking. Thank you. This land is your land, this land is my land.”

“What?” Roxanne said.

“Woody Guthrie.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’ve heard of that. We sang it in school. I guess I only remember the refrain, though.”

“That’s ok,” said White Eagle. “Anything you can remember is ok.”

So Roxanne worked with White Eagle. It was, indeed, hard work, but curiously satisfying. White Eagle was a calm and gentle teacher, ferociously strong. She talked about the work but she talked about life in general. Roxanne often didn’t know what

White Eagle was talking about. Every story sounded like a fable.

“There are roads and there are roads,” White Eagle said. “Some roads you choose and some roads you just find yourself on.”

“Been on a lot of roads, White Eagle?” Roxanne said.

“Oh, girl, truly I have. I only wish I paid more attention, you know? Every road has an on ramp, so to speak. How you enter makes all the difference. You’ve got to pay attention.” 196

“What happens if you don’t?” Roxanne asked.

“You end up all out of the way, child. All out of the way.”

The two women moved the molds around the circle base and pounded in the wet mixture. The heat dried it fast so they made progress every day and it was gratifying to

see. They worked stripped to the waist from early morning until noon. After lunch, during the hottest part of the day, they lay under an awning and napped. Sometimes

White Eagle would tell Roxanne about the places she had been, what things were like for her as a girl. Sometimes White Eagle would just sit and watch Roxanne sleep and appreciate what a beautiful girl she was. So young.

In the late afternoon, they cleaned up the site, washed, and planned for the next day. White Eagle liked to work slowly and methodically. “That way,” she told Roxanne,

“You can see problems before they arise.”

Roxanne nodded. What problems? Roxanne knew nothing about construction. As far as she was concerned, building just happened, turned up. She had never given much thought as to how things came together. She just liked the feel of the wet earth and enjoyed mashing it into the frames. It reminded her of kindergarten and White Eagle reminded her of her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Rose. After dinner Roxanne would fall asleep in White Eagle’s tent with her head in White Eagle’s lap. In the morning she would wake cradled in White Eagle’s arms.

In about a month the two women had finished the walls and it was time to put in the windows and door. 197

“I can take it from here,” White Eagle told Roxanne. “You need to take time by and figure out what you want out of this place.”

Roxanne was surprised. “But we’re not finished and I don’t mind helping you,” she said. “Don’t you still need me to help you?”

“And I don’t mind having you. But you’re new here. You need to find yourself.”

“Find myself?”

“Who do you want to be. What do you want to be.”

“How do I do that?”

“I listened to the wind. It talks to you. But I listened for a long time in a lot of places. I would’ve known sooner if I had listened better. I hope you learn to listen better than I did.”

Roxanne was beginning to feel a little like Alice in Wonderland. Was everyone here talking in code?

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Roxanne said. “I thought you liked working with me.”

“That’s two things,” White Eagle said. “I do like working with you, but I think it’s time for you to go look at what else the camp has to offer you, what else you can learn, and who all you can learn it with. And I know that listening to the wind doesn’t make any sense to you right now. It didn’t used to make sense to me either. That’s probably why it took so long for me to really hear what the wind was saying to me. I wish for that to not happen to you, because it might not be wind doing the talking. Might be the sun. Or water. Or the rocks. You just need to learn to listen to the things in the natural 198

world that are talking to you.” White Eagle spread her arms wide. “All this,” she said

waving her arms. “Holds wisdom.”

Roxanne looked at her blankly, then nodded and sighed. If White Eagle had

grown tired of her, why didn’t she just say so? “Let me know if you need me to help you

again,” she said and turned to walk up to the kitchen.

White Eagle watched Roxanne walk away. Why does it never get easier talking to

these young girls, putting them right? She brushed the dust from her shorts and scratched

her head hard.

Because they’re all looking for a mother, that’s why.

“And I’m long done with that,” thought White Eagle.

White Eagle

I was born way upstate, right near the Canadian border. We lived on a small farm

with some timber, dairy, hay, and a huge vegetable garden. We kids, boys and girls alike,

learned to do everything including milling lumber and grain. It was hard work but we

didn’t know anything else. At night we ’d listen to the radio or sing songs. I guess we were poor, but our standard o f living was the same as everyone around us so we paid no mind.

We lived in nature and hunted and fished. We got to know the herbs that grew

around us. We got to know a lot about sex, too, just watching the animals. As we grew, it

was only natural that we started to try things with other young people around us whether

they be boy or girl. Weren’t much else to do. 199

I happened to like girls the best, but boys were all right. We were all a little naive and stupid about conception though - our mothers told us nothing - so a lot o f us girls ended up with babies.

I was one o f them.

My son was beautiful, with the bluest o f blue eyes and a mess o f curly strawberry blond hair. I couldn’t believe how something that perfect could have come out o f me.

After the baby come, the boy who fathered him went rotten on me and I took up with a girl I liked. She was a few years older and she loved me and my baby like I didn’t know anyone could. My folks were glad to not have to house andfeed us. We kept to ourselves and didn’t think what we were doing was anything wrong. What business was it o f anyone's anyway?

My baby’s daddy came around a few times early on, but it was clear he wanted no part offathering or me. One day he came by and gave me a box o f doughnuts and $20 and I never saw him again.

I was nineteen. About two years later that boy wrapped his motorcycle around a tree and was killed. Two months after that his people come to me wanting me to give them my baby. I told them no. One o f his brothers threatened to come over with some o f his friends and fuck the queer out o f me and my girlfriend. He didn’t scare me much.

Scared my girlfriend, though. She had seen stuff like that happen.

Shortly thereafter his family sued me for custody o f my son and won. As a lesbian,

I was declared an unfit mother. The child services lady came over and took my little boy 200

right off my lap right there in court. I never saw my boy again after that. That was 1948.

He’d be thirty-three now.

After they took my boy 1 was inconsolable. My woman tried to heal me and keep us together but it was no good. She couldn't give me back what I lost and we parted.

I tried to move back home, but my folks were sickened when they heard about me.

Not sickened about what I had lost, but sickened about who I was.

My father gave me $200 and told me to go away and never come back. My mother wouldn 7 even say goodbye to me, but when I was leaving I turned to look at the farm one last time and she was standing at the window staring at me gray and grim-faced like a specter. I t’s an image that haunts me to this day.

I left New York and began to roam. I traveled throughout New England and then I lived deep in the Ozarks with a group o f women that I met in Maine, one o f whom was my lover at the time.

One o f the women had inherited some money and acreage in the mountains and had convinced us to go there and homestead, create a commune for women only. There were nine o f us and we had no idea what we were doing. Only a couple o f us had spent significant time living in the country and had skill in carpentry and such.

We cleared the land to plant and pasture. There was a well and electricity and a couple o f cabins already on the property - we were lucky in that respect. We built three more cabins, a communal kitchen and laundry and a barn. Four more women joined us.

We got some goats and chickens, made cheese, and created knit goods. We planted fruit 201

trees and grew vegetables. It was ridiculously hard work, but we were young. This was

1963. Kennedy was president. The world seemedfull of hope. Anything seemed possible.

But things took a turn. The next winter was brutal. We lost our fruit trees, two o f our goats, and all o f our chickens. We had illness and no doctor nearby. Some o f the women complained about inequities - we were running on one woman’s money and she wanted most o f the say so. That seemed only fair to me, but the others disagreed. Plus, a number were getting just plain tired o f the life we were leading and missing the things we didn’t have - television, washing machines. It was nothing but hard work. Me, I found that healing, but many o f the girls had never lived like that before and were getting sick o f it. It was not the paradise they had imagined. Also, there was nothing to do out there.

The nearest town was Mt. Judea and it wasn ’t much o f a place. And every other little town after that in the Ozarks was pretty much the same. None o f those places were anywhere for a woman to be hanging around in. Especially women like us.

The woman I was with couldn’t take it anymore and wanted to leave. So did a couple o f others. I had been settling into the rhythm o f the place to tell the truth. I like hard work and I enjoy seeing things come together. But it started to feel like the thing was doomed so I said my goodbyes to Madeline, the founder, and I moved on with my woman who was aching to go.

Once we got to Memphis, my girlfriend didn’t want any part o f me anymore. It hurt, but I wasn’t too surprised. She was sick o f country life and was looking for a city to be in. City life just didn’t sit right with me, never did, so I said my goodbyes to her and I started roaming again, this time heading west. 202

I just wanted to be who I am and live in peace. Isn't that what everyone wants?

I picked up work and found comfort where I could and got by. Everywhere I ’ve

ever been it has never been too hard to find a woman looking for another woman. It sure made the going easier. Before I knew it, a couple o f years had passed. I t’s a marvel how that happens.

One day I was eating eggs in a diner in Albuquerque. I was enjoying as many free

I coffee refills as the kind-hearted waitress would give me. It was 1966. A woman traveling alone was a rarity, but I was good at finding places where people minded their own business.

I looked up to see that two women across the diner sitting in a red leather booth were eying me. They were only a few years older than me, weathered, and wearing western work clothes. They looked like the kind o f women that no one ever bothered, at least not for long. I knew well the look they were giving me: it said nothing but spoke volumes, if you know what I mean. Next thing I knew they were offering me a place to stay for the night. I rested up at their place for a few weeks, then months, pitching in on chores and such. They asked me what I was looking for in life. Well, no one had ever asked me such a thing so I had to think.

“Ijust want a place to be, ” I said finally. “A place to be what and who I am and not having to be explaining or hiding. I guess that’s what I want more than anything in this world. ”

That’s when they told me about what they had in mind for a place in the high desert ofArizona just for women and women only. When I met these women they were 203

Gwen and Inez, but after I was living on their place a while they started calling

themselves Blue Heron Warrior and Still Mountain Warrior. They were changing their

names they said to turn their backs on the patriarchal paradigm that exists in our society

regarding surnames and to embrace their true anima with their forenames. They were

losing me quite a bit here, but eventually I got the gist o f what they were saying: they ) didn’t want no part o f men.

As for me, I had been traveling all around the country, working hard, and staying here and there when I could. It is a weary, lonely way to go. Even though I had been down this road before and it hadn't worked out, I still liked the idea o f a safe place for women where we could all maybe find some peace. I ’ve known a lot o f women in my day.

Every one o f them I ’ve met was looking for a place to fix what was broken in her. Most o f them were never going to find that place.

I was about to find mine.

Gwen and Inez, Blue Heron and Still Mountain, had done a lot ofplanning for this womyn ’s land as they called it. They were both whip smart, had taught at universities, in fact. I admit I was a bit dazzled by them - educated, well-spoke, and good with their hands. I had always figured you had to choose two out o f three, but they were the whole package. I could tell by the way they kept up their own place that they knew what they were doing and cared about how things were done — they had built everything on their own spread in New Mexico including digging the wells. I could also see how devoted they were to each other and to "the cause ” as they called it. They had bought this big parcel o f land near Tucson - these gals had money, 1 never asked them where 204

from. They told me that the land already had some structures on it, water, and a road to

it. They told me that the air was crystal clear and the sky as blue as anyone had ever seen. And all the women there would be safe and free to do what they wanted.

They didn ’t have to convince me much, I was ready to go. Four more women were

coming with us and each o f them had skills and education. And looks to boot. Fd never been with such a group!

O ff we went, each o f us driving a vehicle full o f supplies. We had building materials and cages o f chickens. We had sewing machines and enough provisions to last an army through the winter.

When we arrived, we found the cabins were sturdy enough to use and we set to building more. We cleared brush and dug and planted. Blue Heron and Still Mountain hired men to come and fence us in and do some plumbing and electrical Once they were done that was the last time a man has set foot on the property.

They were right about the air. It was clear and pure. And even though we were at altitude, I felt like I was filling my lungs for the first time.

We were settling in.

The other women who come with us were young, no more than twenty-six or seven

Fd guess. After we were there for a while, they got to changing their names. They wanted a new identity to go with their new lives - a clear break from the past and all that had hurt them. There was some history or her story, if you will, among the four o f them. At some point, some o f them had been partners or maybe had just had sex with each other. It was never clear to me and I didn 7 ask. They each had them some sad tales to tell about 205

family and how men had treated them. Their stories ran deep in me. Blue Heron and Still

Mountain named the place Camp Sister Warrior. All this got me thinking about my own name.

The name I was given had suited me fine; I never thought about it much. It had never occurred to me that you could call yourself what you wanted. It wasn ’t until I was hiking through the property and I heard a cry that shot through me like electricity. I looked up and saw an enormous bird gliding through the sky, casting a giant shadow on the ground. It was one o f the most beautiful things I had ever seen. So free. So perfect.

That night, I asked about the bird. I had never seen anything like it before.

“Probably an eagle, ” Still Mountain told me.

“It was huge, ” I said.

“Probably a female. The female is bigger than the male. ”

That’s when it come to me: White Eagle. I decided to call myself that. I didn’t even know if there was such a thing as a white eagle. Still don’t. And I never understood much about that paradigm stuff, but White Eagle just sounded right. I wanted to soar above it all, break free, be free. Like a cloud. Just like that bird I saw.

I ’ve been White Eagle ever since. Sometimes I forget what my given name even was. Ifind myselfforgetting a lot o f things, the more I stay here including what life was like any place else. I guess this is my home now.

William.

I called my son William.

Billy. 206

NINE

Mitch Bimbaum was not a complicated man. He liked boys. And he liked money and he liked to do as little as possible to get it.

He ran The Belvedere, a seedy gay bar near the Tenderloin. It was seedy when he bought it twenty years ago and Mitch had had great plans to turn it into a class joint. He put a little money into it fixing it up and then he started booking acts. But nothing he tried seemed to work, he was always missing the window of what was popular. This bar, this damn fag bar, had proven to be a lot of work for not a lot of return. Good thing Mitch was good at getting young guys to work for him on the cheap.

“Maybe if you served food,” one of his minions suggested.

“Food? What are you, high?” Mitch dismissed. “Just what I need: faggots and maggots.”

“I need to stop attracting the gym rats, the pretty boys,” he thought. “They take too good care of themselves. I need to attract the heavy drinkers. Maybe older guys.

These young guys show up high and just want to dance and drink water. They’re killing me. Fags!” Mitch shook his head like he wasn’t a fag himself. He reached into his shirt pocket for his lighter to relight his cigar. “I’m too old for this shit. Please, God, let me remember how to make money.” He eyed his dingy back room which was a popular rendezvous after hours. “Maybe I can get guys to pay to go back there,” he thought. 207

» The front door opened and the late-aftemoon sun poured into this bar where it was eternally night. Four figures were silhouetted in the doorway like giant paper dolls. Mitch took a drag from his cigar. The apocalypse?

“Hello, Mr. Bimbaum!” one of the silhouettes called out. “We’re here for our audition.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Mitch said.

“We’re the Westward Hos. You told us to come by around four. It’s four - here we are!” and in pranced four big guys lugging cases in heels and cowgirl drag.

“Oh right,” muttered Mitch. “Right. Which one of you is Heidi?”

“I am,” said Chip.

“You’re the one I spoke to on the phone?”

“That’s right,” Chip said. “I’m Heidi. Heidi Ho. You can call me Hi.”

“So that would be Hi Ho then?” said Mitch.

“If you like.”

“Right.” Mitch chewed on his cigar taking them all in. He wondered for a moment if someone was playing a joke on him. “What’s with the Annie Oakley outfits?”

“These are our costumes for our act.”

“Your act. I thought you said on the phone that you were swingers.”

“Western swing. And we’re singers.”

“What the hell is Western swing?”

“You know, Bob Wills.”

Mitch looked blank. 208

“Some Roy Rogers and Sons of the Pioneers, a little Patsy Cline.” Chip went on.

“Hillbilly stuff?”

“Not exactly.”

Mitch felt confusion and irritation crawl up his neck and into his ears. He hated that feeling. He sighed. Why can’t nobody be normal no more?

“Well, well,” he said. “My, my.” He took them all in: four big gals.

“So you sing, eh?

“That’s right.”

“For real sing or to records?”

“For real sing.”

“I see,” Mitch gave a thoughtful chew on his cigar. “What the hell? You’re here.

Let’s have a listen.”

“Great,” said Heidi. “Where can we plug in?”

“Plug in?”

“Our instruments. We’re doing a stripped-down set for you. We’re usually guitars, keyboard, drums, and stand-up bass with a little accordion, fiddle or mandolin depending on the number. But today we just brought electric guitar and bass so you can get a feel for what we do.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Instruments? You play music? And sing? Like a...band?” said Mitch.

“Well...yes,” said Chip. “I thought I made that clear on the phone.” 209

“Maybe you did,” Mitch said. “I talk to a lot of people.” He eyed the instruments and portable amplifiers. “You know, most guys here lip-synch to records. And our DJ handles that.”

“We’re not most guys,” Chip said twirling an amp cord. “You’ll see.” And he and the other three continued setting up their gear.

“Oh boy,” thought Mitch and took a seat at a table and watched them through the veneer of his cigar smoke. They weren’t bad looking for queens.

“Are you ready Mr. Bimbaum?” Heidi asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Hit me.”

“Right!” said Heidi. “Like I said, I’m Heidi Ho and this is Pixie Stixx, Frutti

Pebbles, and Bibi Gunn and we’re the Westward Hos! We’d like to start with a little number made famous by Hank Thompson called Bubbles in My Beer. Let’s go, girls!”

And off they went playing music the likes of which Mitch Bimbaum originally from the Bronx, but a resident of San Francisco ever since he got out of the Navy 30 years ago, had never heard. Midway through their second number, he was tapping his foot in spite of himself.

“Well, there you have it. Mr. Birnbaum,” Heidi said. “That’s just a little taste of our Midwestern goodness. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Jesus Christ. Mitch fished his lighter out of his shirt pocket and relit his cigar again, puckering his lips to push the butt further from his face and his ample eyebrows.

His brain was asking for more time.

“You’re good,” he said finally. “You’re very good.” 210

“We’ll shake the house down when we have our full set-up,” Heidi said.

“No doubt,” Mitch said chewing and puffing. “The thing is it’s not really what my audience is into. They come here for lip-synching queens in disco chiffon. The occasional dance number with boys in hot pants. This,” Mitch said moving his hands up in down in front of them. “This is not what they’re here for.”

“Mr. Bimbaum,” the one called Pixie said. He walked over and joined him at his table and placed his hand on Mitch’s forearm. “May I call you Mitch?” Mitch nodded.

“What do they call you?” Mitch asked.

“Pixie,” said Peter. “Pixie Stixx.”

“Cute. What’s your real name?”

Peter gave a half smile and put his hand to his head and patted his wig. “You’ll know me here as Pixie.”

“Ah, c’mon, what’s your real name?”

“Peter.”

Mitch sucked his cigar. “Peter. Even better.”

Peter took a breath and continued.

“Look, Mitch, we all have our different persona for different occasions. Take you for example. I love this crusty old New York Jew thing you’re doing. How’d did you come up with that?”

“I come by it honestly,” Mitch said. “I really am a crusty old New York Jew.”

“Really? How fun!” Pixie spun towards the other Hos. “Did you hear that girls?

Mitch really is a crusty old New York Jew!” 211

“Christ,” David muttered to Jack. “Why doesn’t she just stick her whole head up his ass instead of just her nose?”

“Mitch,” Peter went on, “When you say that your clientele is not ‘here for this’ we say ‘not yet!” You and your bar will be the first in San Francisco to offer our unique

sound.” Peter moved his hand from Mitch’s forearm to his hand. “And make no mistake,

Mitch. We are unique. This town ain’t never seen the likes of us.” Mitch placed his hand over Peter’s and squeezed. He reminded Mitch of a guy he knew in the Navy. Just as pretty but not as smart.

Peter smiled.

“Mitch, we understand that you’d be taking a chance with us Hos. So here’s what we’re prepared to do.” Pixie leaned in and stage whispered into his ear. “We’ll play three nights for free.”

“For free?” said David.

“For free,” Pixie repeated shooting Frutti a look. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? And let’s see how the boys take to us.”

“That’s how certain we are that the boys will love us,” Heidi said. “We always leave ’em begging for more!”

“They’re going to love us, Mitch,” said Pixie. “Love us. And they’ll have seen us here at the Belvedere first.”

“We packed the houses in Indiana,” the one called Bibi said. 212

“Indiana?” said Mitch. “Figures.” Mitch looked around the bar and saw that the

bar backs and delivery guys were ogling the Westward Ho’s like they were money dipped

in chocolate. Mitch sucked thoughtfully on his cigar.

“No harm no foul, as they say somewhere,” said Pixie. “Right?”

Mitch gave a thoughtful suck. “Ok,” he said. “Three nights. On you. Then we’ll

see.” He pulled a ratty calendar from his back pocket. “Let’s say the 27th, 28th, and 29th?

Thursday through Saturday. I’ll even spring for flyers and run ads in the gay rags. Deal?”

“Deal!” Heidi, Pixie, and Bibi and a reluctant Frutti said in unison. Afterwards,

Mitch could have sworn it was in harmony.

“What the fuck,” he thought. All his customers really cared about were their

dicks. “Make my dick happy, Mitch.” These broads were fun to look at and they sounded

great. Maybe his faigelah customers would like them. Maybe the Hos will make their dicks happy. Who knows anymore?

Mitch could barely remember what that was like. Happy dick. These days it was all about his prostate. “Talk to me in thirty years, bitches,” Mitch thought. “Then we’ll see what happy shit is on your mind. Think you’ll be twenty-five forever, don’t you?” He shook his head. Faggots!

Mitch watched the Westward Hos pack up their gear. They were talented, probably too talented for his joint. Oh, and young! And cute! Maybe they could help

Mitch realize his dream of turning the Belvedere into a class place after all. Not just a dance bar with a pork palace in the back, but a place where people came to hear real entertainment. 213

If only. What did he know about talent?

His cousin Maury booked talent back in New York. Real talent. Jerry Vale, Totie

Fields. Mitch could have done that too. Gone back to New York, worked with Maury. He hadn’t done anything stupid during his time in the service and managed to get an honorable discharge from the Navy10 so he had nothing hanging over him.

But he was processed out of San Francisco and he decided to stay. Wasn’t a hard choice to make. Guys here wore sailor suits and weren’t even in the Navy. Nothing fell from the sky that you had to shovel and everyone was a little kooky. In a fun way. He was young, still had his hair, and he got more action than he’d got being months at sea on a ship with 2,000 guys. Guys here wanted to fuck you and then read you poetry. Crazy!

Crazy fun.

San Francisco was the only option to have something resembling a life and not disgrace his family. He couldn’t go back to New York and live with his parents, face his family, them all lining up nice Jewish girls for him.

Sure, he could have married one of those girls and then had his own life on the side. So exhausting! But here — here! He couldn’t have lived his life in New York the way he was living it in San Francisco. So many boys! He’d let his mother go to her grave

(soon God, please) thinking he was a Jewish pioneer like Levi-Strauss and he was still looking for the right girl. And he’d run his faggot bar and become an old queen watching boys who got younger every day.

10 Blue discharges - also known as blue tickets - were issued to homosexuals in the armed forces until 1947. It was a less than honorable discharge and denied gay veterans benefits under the GI Bill. 214

Could be worse.

“Ok, Heidi and your Hos from Indiana or Idaho or wherever the fuck you’re

from,” Mitch thought. “Let’s see what you can do for Auntie Mitch” and he reached into

his pocket and pulled out a fresh cigar.

Mitch

San Francisco is a town full of distinguished high-class Jewish families: Levi

Strauss, Haas, Steinhardt, Zeller bach. Fm not from one o f them. Fm Mitchell Birnbaum

o f the Bronx Birnbaums by way o f Zgierz, Poland.

We spoke Yiddish at home. Until I started school I thought everyone spoke

Yiddish at home. The neighborhood I grew up in was tough; everyone fought everyone

else. Just for fun. I was short and a Jew so I learned to handle myself by the time I was

eight. Ifought everybody and ended up making friends with everybody - Italians, Irish,

Polish, Puerto Ricans, Blacks, other Jews. We were all boys together running through the streets.

The first boy I kissed was Herschel Rabinowitz. I met him at Hebrew school. His father was a rabbi. Fm not making this up. I used to kiss the rabbi’s son.

We were both thirteen, preparing for our Bar Mitzvahs. He had the voice and face

o f an angel. I could look at him all day. The kissing was his idea. How he knew that was

something I had wanted to try, I ’ll never know. It’s not like I went prancing around - like

I said, I grew up in a tough place. I f I wanted girls, I could kiss a girl every moment o f

everyday, that's how easy it was to do. But I had wondered for a long time what it would 215

be like, kissing a boy. It never occurred to me that there was anything wrong about it.

Odd maybe, but not wrong. I mean, I am as God made me, right? I would daydream at

school thinking about kissing a boy. I would lie in bed thinking about it.

Well, Ifinally did it with Herschel and it was wonderful.

Herschel and I did it behind the synagogue, o f course. Meaning we didn’t do it in

the synagogue. Which would have been warmer, that’s for sure. We were very discrete.

Again, I didn’t think it was wrong - 1 just didn’t think it was anyone’s business. Kissing

Herschel made my schlong hard - quite the sensation! Herschel told me that there was

more to it than just kissing. I was astonished. I asked him if he ’d show me - not how he

knew that, but would he show me. He said he would and then one day after Hebrew school we took a walk together into a woods and he did. My God! How he knew to do the

things he did to me is a mystery. A book? Instinct? I don’t know.

I ’ve been looking for someone to do it with ever since. Now, maybe just in my

mind. But then, then!

Herschel and I had a splendid summer that year. We d take the subway into

Manhattan and roam around Central Park making our way to The Rambles where w e’d meet up with lots o f other queer guys. What a time we had out there in nature! We’d eat our lunch under Belvedere Castle and believed that summer would go on like that forever like you do when you ’re 14. But in the fall, Herschel went o ff to a yeshiva high school and I ’d hardly ever see him. I ’d catch a glimpse o f him at the High Holidays, but he ’d be deep in prayer. 216

I dropped out o f high school when I was 15. Like the rest o f the country at the end

o f the Depression I was looking for ways to get ahead. I had relatives in the restaurant

business, clothing business, dry goods. They all offered to take me on. I worked here and

there looking for a way to distinguish myself. Prohibition had ended in ’33 and bars were

opening all over the place. I t’s not that I ’m in love with bars. I t’s just that bars have

always been a good place to meet other men.

I didn’t have enough class or money for the Oak Room at the Plaza or the bar at

the Astor Hotel. Those places were for “gentlemen. ’’ I was just a scruffy punk kidfrom

the south Bronx, rough around the edges, looking for other guys who were like me.

The Mob ran all the gay joints in New York City. Did you know that? Being a

homosexual was illegal and the mob had a flair for all things illegal. Booze, drugs, prostitution. Those good fellas viewed the finocchio — fairies — as a good business

opportunity. The Stonewall Inn where this whole gay liberation thing got started in nineteen-sixty-whatever the hell it was was run by the Genovese family, by the way. It’s true.

Anyway, a guy who worked for the Mob was about to open a queer joint called

Club 181 in the basement o f an old Yiddish Theater in the lower East side. I was

underage, but he hired me to unload trucks and stock shelves. I got to watch the club

come together. And they did it up in style. All blue and white like - what do you call it?

Wedgewood! Yeah! A real classy place.

Then the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. I had just turned 20 and was starting to

make my way around town. My draft notice came up in the spring o f1942. All my friends 217

told me to join the Navy, that I ’d have better luck with things in the Navy. So Iran to the

Navy recruiting office and signed up. Oh, those Cracker Jack uniforms were so adorable!

Those pants with the thirteen buttons - we were wearing bell bottoms that are all the rage now. They made everyone’s tuches look like a wrapped gift.

Off I go to the Pacific. God, I thought guys were brutal in the neighborhood!

What sailors did to those island girls was beyond belief I didn ’t think I shocked easily.

It’s like they didn’t even think the girls were people, someone’s sister, you know? These guys acted like Cossacks with these girls and then they were going to go back to where ever the hell they came from and marry the little virgin next door. The queer sailors were positively genteel by comparison. Guess we all got the message about what barbarians we were serving with, none o f us wanted to find out what they ’d do to us if they knew we were queer. I ’d get the wink from some sailor and we d make our way out to a stand o f palm trees, somewhere we wouldn ’t be seen. Then w e’d unbutton our buttons and have at it. We ’d always check each other to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be and then we ’d stroll back to base. It was a lovely diversion and, make no mistake, consensual. You ’d be surprised how many guys in the Navy wanted to walk in the palm grove with me.

Drag shows were all the rage in the Navy. I mean, we were stuck out on an island in the middle o f the Pacific with nothing to do, just guys, and the USO sure as hell wasn 7 going to come see us. So we'd make our own entertainment. Like that scene from South

Pacific. “Nothing Like a Dame, ” my ass. Some o f these guys were unbelievably good. 218

You ’d think it really was June Ally son - a Jew from the Bronx despite what she says, by the way - that's how convincing they were.

I have often wondered if it was the situation or the desire that caused these sailors to unleash their inner drag queen with such great effect. They sang, danced, and nearly everybody played an instrument in those days - all we had was the radio at home. In these shows, the performers looked great, sounded great, and had a great band backing them up. Nowadays all anybody knows how to do is push a button. Oy!

So the War wound down. I didn’t die, although I wanted to a few times. I was discharged from the Navy in December 1945 in San Francisco. It was raining like a bastard. I found my way to a queer joint called The Black Cat Cafe. There was some tweedy guy in the corner writing poetry and a few stools down from me were two drag queens having a drink and a laugh.

Ifelt like I was among my own people; Ifelt like I was home.

This San Francisco, I ’ll tell you. Smaller, more manageable than New York. And three thousand miles from anyone I was related to. I knew that it was the place for me.

But first, I had to go back to New York, to the Bronx. See the folks. Let them festoon me with rose petals for my meritorious service to this country that had been so good to our people - meaning, not burned down our village and killed us. Parade me in front every maidel they could find (look at those hips, boychick. The kinder she ’11 give you! ”) until 1 could break away and see how the Club 181 turned out.

And how it turned out! 219

People called it the queer Copacahana. We ’re not talking preening drag queens.

They were quality entertainers who sang and danced up a storm. They were the whole package. The Club had an excellent house band. And the Mob made it a safe place to be as long as no one was an idiot. And no one was. It was a class joint.

This is what I wanted. A place like Club 181.

So, back I go to San Francisco. Over my mother’s dead body, but you gotta do what you gotta do. You know, I think they had me pegged, I really do. But if anyone actually said the word “queer ” they ’d turn to stone. That’s how it was in those days.

Oh, well.

I had a little bit o f money saved and I started tending bar at the Black Cat. Got to know all the drag acts. Then one day quite by accident, I stumbled upon what is now my place. It had been a gin joint that closed down during Prohibition. Then the War came along and the owner couldn't find anyone interested in it so it stayed closed. Man, was it ever a dump! It was in kind o f a seedy neighborhood and the owner really wanted to get rid o f it. Next thing I knew, 1 had bought it. Must have been out o f my mind.

The place used to be called the Belvedere. Can you believe it? I had such great memories o f lolling around near Belvedere Castle in Central Park that magical summer with Herschel. A friend advised me not to try to compete with the class joints like

Finnochio ’s or Tait ’s Cafe. Have entertainment, sure, but also have a place where people could dance and have fun. And by people, I mean guys. And don’t name it after yourself - who the hell would want to go to a joint called Birnbaum ’s? So I thought about it while sitting on a bench one day watching trucks make deliveries to this store. They ’dpull up 220

and drop off all kinds o f boxes full o f different stuff A little this, a little that. Something for everybody.

And that’s when I thought about how I ’d run the place: a little this, a little that.

Something for everybody. And I decided to keep the name Belvedere because, like I said, it sounded classy and had great memories for me. Maybe “Belvedere ” would be meaningful to other guys passing through San Francisco. I could use all the help I could get. Plus, even after all those years, it still stung a little about getting turned away at places like the Oak Room. Anyone can get in to the Belvedere. Even a nebbish like me.

So I opened The Belvedere in late 1952. Got a lot o f military, guys either coming from or going to Korea. Lots o f sailors. Then and now, I love the Navy. I had a great juke box in the back room where guys could dance. The Black Cat might have won its case over its liquor license, but sodomy was still illegal, as was dancing with the same sex.

Plus I didn’t have the right permit. So we had to keep the dancing on the QT.

But then we started getting women coming in. Lesbians. Daughters o f Bilitis, that sort o f thing. Nice gals. They wanted to dance, too. They would dance with the men if anyone gave the high sign that a plains clothes cop had come it. Still, we had to be careful. The SFPD was full o f young hotshots looking to get their names in the paper for making a big arrest.

Now, San Francisco was never much of a mob town. I don’t know why. Most of the mob activity in town was small time and centered around the waterfront. But the City did have an upcoming Mafia guy by the name o f James “Jimmy the H at” Lanza11. He

11 James Lanza died on February 14, 2006 of natural causes. He was 103. 221

started Fisherman’s Wharf with this other guy named Alio to. The Mafia is complicated

and they all know each other and I was able to gain a good word on my behalf from the people at Club 181 in New York. Cost me $1000. Plus, Jimmy was a Sicilian. He liked

Jews because his family used to be Jewish until forced to convert in the 15th century or

some shit like that. Anyway, he liked me. I ’ve been paying Jimmy the Hat $500 a month

a bargain - since 1956 to make sure the police leave me alone. Helped me get a cabaret

license in 1961, too. I don’t know what all else he does, but I think h e’s a great guy.

Then comes 1967, Summer o f Love, and all o f a sudden gay boys start showing up

in San Francisco by the bus load. Who knew San Francisco was going to become the Gay

Promised Land? I mean, it’s just a town. But the boys kept coming and they keep coming.

I try to give them what they want.

The rest is history as they say. I got drag acts, I got gay beauty contests, and then

I got the Westward Hos. Oyl Did the ever remind me o f my days in the Pacific, putting

together those drag shows. The Hos were the whole package. Too bad San Francisco just

wasn ’t ready for them.

Anyway. That’s how it goes. You need to be in the right place at the right time.

Oh, yeah.

Not too long after I bought the Belvedere my mother wrote to me to tell me about

Herschel Rabinowitz. He became a rabbi like his father so he didn’t serve during the

War. He got into a jam in Manhattan - my mother didn't know the details, but I can

guess - and he got set on by four or five guys. Almost beat him to death. My beautiful 222

Herschel. He was sent down to Florida to live with relatives, but I guess he was never right. He died in 1958 or 9. Would have been about 36 or so.

I could tell you about others, but that was one that really hit home. I mean, I hadn ’t seen him since we were kids. But your first time is, well, special. He was special.

Along the way, I kind o f hoped I meet the love o f my life. There, I ’ve said it. But once I bought The Belvedere, all I did was work and the guys came in to look at each other, not me. So I looked at them, too. And I haven 7 stopped. I might have a prostate the size o f a honey dew, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.

I ’ve made money and it would have been nice to have made a life with someone, too. I have to admit, I get lonely. But a partner wasn ’t in the cards. I was too busy being a tough guy, making money, and too late figuring out the difference between sex and love. 223

TEN

Laughter, clatter of plates, chairs scrapping against the floor. The sun had passed its zenith in the cloudless sky. Another lunch was finished at Camp Sister Warrior.

White Eagle was finishing her tea. This was an herbal blend she particularly liked.

Chamomile did beautifully in the heat here at the top of the world. Add to that a little mint marigold and you have heaven in a cup.

White Eagle rubbed her hand across the plain table. Her hand was the color of the boards, equally knotted and scarred. She had helped make all the tables in the dining room, perhaps this one. She left a mark on the underside of every table she made. “IMT”

- 1 Made This. She ducked down to look under the table, but she could see no mark. She realized she’d have to get down on her hands and knees to really look and found herself almost laughing.

She looked up to see Roxanne standing there.

“What are you doing?” Roxanne said.

“Oh,” said White Eagle. “Nothing. Just looking.”

Roxanne pulled up a seat and sat down. She rubbed her hand across the table top.

The table looked like something made by an eighth grader in shop class. She missed

“real” things: real furniture, real beds.

“I thought you might like to know,” she said. “That I’m moving into Tucson for a few months to make some money. Then I’m going to hitchhike up to Oregon. There’s another womyn’s land up near Eugene that I’m going to check out. It’s closer to the 224

ocean. I miss the ocean. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ll probably head down the coast to California. I know someone in San Francisco. Maybe she’s listed. Anyway, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

White Eagle nodded slowly as if someone was explaining a math problem to her.

“I’ll be sorry to see you go, Roxanne,” she said. “You were a big help to me. You’re a nice girl.”

Roxanne tapped the table and waited for White Eagle to say more. “That’s it?”

Roxanne said finally.

“What’s it?” White Eagle said sipping her tea.

“That’s all you got to say about it?” Roxanne said as she rose from the table.

“You know, I thought I meant something to you.”

“You do.”

“Guess I was hoping for more than ‘sorry to see you go’.”

“I see,” said White Eagle putting down her cup and surveyed the dining room.

Women were collecting dishes from the tables. There was chatter and laughing as the dished were being washed. “Well, I’ve been here a long while.” She passed her hands in the air. “I helped build this dining room.”

“Yeah, I know,” Roxanne said. “You’ve told me that.”

White Eagle looked deep into Roxanne’s eyes. “All my life and wherever I have been people have come and gone whether I wanted them to or not. I would never try to stop someone from doing what they needed to do no matter how I felt about it. Surely, no 225

one has ever been able to stop me. So I figure if you’re going, that’s something you need to do. I don’t know what else I can say about it.” She smiled.

“Right,” Roxanne said getting up from the table. She stood in front of White

Eagle with her hands shoved in her pockets and shifting from side to side. “Well. I see. I get it. That’s it then. Ok.” Roxanne pulled a hand from her pocket and examined her nails. She stared at White Eagle’s tea mug and then glanced at White Eagle. “Well, bye then. I learned a lot from you. Thanks.” And she turned to go.

“I learned a lot from you, too.”

Roxanne stopped in her tracks. “Really?” she said. “Like what?”

“Oh, about time, about years. Patience. Beauty.”

Roxanne’s face registered surprise and then she smiled. “How’d I do that?”

“By being you. By being here.” White Eagle stood and put her arms around

Roxanne. “Be safe. Be happy.”

Roxanne returned the hug. “I’ll try. I’m a little nervous about moving on. But I think it’s the right thing for me to do.”

White Eagle nodded and released her embrace. Then she took Roxanne by the shoulders and gazed into her eyes for a few moments. Then she let her go and turned to bring her mug into the kitchen.

Roxanne stood and watched her walk away. What the hell? Then she turned and walked away shaking her head. She surveyed the dining room. It was pretty much cleaned up and women were heading off to do whatever work they had decided to do as if they were responding to a silent whistle. The place had started off being intriguing but 226

slowly became infuriating, especially after White Eagle let her go. Roxanne was surely

done with Camp Sister Warrior. It wasn’t that the women hadn’t been nice to her there.

They had been. And she had met some lovely women and she had had a good time with

them. Sex was fairly free-form in the camp. It had all been fun. But Darlene had gotten

Roxanne used to having someone love her, really love her, as well as look after her.

Roxanne hadn’t fully appreciated that until she left Darlene and she started living at the

camp.

“Dammit, Darlene” Roxanne thought. “I kinda thought I’d find someone here and

pick up with her where we left off.” She had thought that someone was White Eagle. “Six

months wasted.”

White Eagle was the most remarkable-looking woman Roxanne had ever seen

with skin the color of caramel. She walked through space in a very deliberate way, as if

she was paying attention to each step she took and noticing its effect on the ground. She

was tall and muscular with those amazing blue eyes and wild silver hair. She looked like

something out of a sci-fi movie or something that one of those desert spirits she was

always going on about conjured up. She acted that way, too. Then she started talking - wow! Her talk always seemed coded in some way. Like out of a book.

Roxanne was surprised by the attraction she had for White Eagle. She had just turned twenty and the only woman she had ever been with was Darlene. There was someone about White Eagle that reminded Roxanne of Darlene - that’s it! That slow, deliberate way. The tall, muscular build. The confidence. But White Eagle was... forty? 227

Sixty? Roxanne couldn’t say. It was hard for Roxanne to imagine being with someone

White Eagle’s age. And yet, if White Eagle would have her, she was willing.

But that’s all Roxanne was able to do. Imagine. White Eagle was happy to share whatever she knew and she was very grateful for Roxanne’s company and help building her house. White Eagle watched over Roxanne, helped her negotiate her way through the camp, get to know people, get to understand the camp rules. White Eagle was very sweet and gentle with Roxanne, but she never ‘made her move.’ “Doesn’t she want me?”

Roxanne thought. But as the weeks passed, Roxanne got more and more comfortable with White Eagle and just sharing her tent. Roxanne was content to let White Eagle tell her how the day, weeks, months were going to go.

When it came time for White Eagle to put the finishing touches on her house,

White Eagle dismissed her. Rejected her. At least, that what it felt like to Roxanne.

They continued to see each other every day. But Roxanne started sleeping in the bunkhouse. Eventually Roxanne made her way into other women’s tents. White Eagle didn’t even seem to notice. When her house was finished, White Eagle moved into it.

And there she would remain for many years.

There was something about White Eagle moving into her house alone that made

Roxanne so bitter. Why? Darlene had drove off and left her at Camp Sister Warrior without putting up much of a fight. She had hoped White Eagle would be jealous that she was with other women. White Eagle wasn’t even interested. Wasn 7 even interested. Is there no one willing to put up a fight for her? 228

While it seemed to Roxanne that White Eagle was ignoring her, but every time they saw each other White Eagle was warm and welcoming.

So confusing! And it eventually got to the point where Roxanne just couldn’t stand it anymore. Enough of this “you mean a lot to me” stuff. She wanted someone who was willing to fight for her, never let her go. Roxanne wanted to be treasured and held close like a thing that is precious.

Had things played out for her differently, had there been more time, she would come to see that she wanted what she already had.

She’d head into town and try to make some money and then move on. The altitude and dry air gave her a headache anyway. She’d see what the camp in Eugene was like - it had been up and running longer and was bigger - and if it was the same bullshit as here she’d head down to San Francisco and see if she could find Darlene. Darlene might not be interested in taking her back but she had probably found a place and was set up. She could probably stay with her for a while.

At least that was her plan.

Roxanne showed up in Tucson without many more skills than she had when she left Florida with. She doubted if there was a market for someone with rammed earth experience, but she was confident that she could get maid work in a motel pretty quickly.

She was right about the maid’s job; she soon got one working in a shabby motel on the Ajo Highway. She was, however, the only person in her crew who didn’t speak

Spanish and that made it really tough to communicate with the other workers or to 229

negotiate for more hours. She felt them talking about her. Or maybe they were just talking. However, the motel people did allow her to stay in a dormitory on the property very cheaply. She slept in a room with five other girls.

“$50 a week,” the motel owner had told her. “No men. No cooking. Otherwise, we don’t ask nobody nothing.”

Roxanne had with her about $200 and she was determined to not stay in Tucson for more than a month, two at most, until she could save up to at least $500. Weren’t much more than twenty hours driving time to Eugene she reckoned. She should be able to hitch that in two days. As she wasn’t able to get more than twenty-four hours at the motel, she got another job as an attendant at a public pool not far from the air force base.

The smell of chlorine in the women’s locker room made her gag, but she figured it was no worse than the dank, humid laundry room at the motel. Plus it came with the added benefit of being able to watch women undress and shower.

It was while she was waiting for the bus to take her back to the motel after her shift at the pool that she met Gary. He was emptying something out of his car into a trash can and he caught her eye one day. He smiled at her, she smiled back. The next day,

Roxanne found him sitting in his car in front of the pool when she got off work. He was eating tacos. He quickly wiped his mouth and scrambled out of the car when he saw her.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Roxanne said without stopping.

“Hey,” he said again quickly walking up to her. Roxanne looked around. It was late afternoon; there were people all over the place. She stopped and looked at him. 230

“Just finished work?” he said.

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must seem so creepy me running over like this. I’m really sorry.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I don’t want anything. I saw you yesterday. I’m over this way all the time. I think you’re really pretty. I guess I just wanted you to know that. I’m sorry.” He seemed truly embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“That’s ok,” Roxanne found herself saying. “It’s ok.”

Good,” he said. “Anyway. I wanted you to know that. You’re very pretty.” He turned like he was going to walk away. “I’m Gary, by the way.”

“Hi Gary,” Roxanne said.

“What’s your name?”

Roxanne looked up at the sky. White Eagle would do it all the time and it drove her nuts. She realized now that White Eagle was thinking. Looking at the sky gives you a moment to think. Sky. Clouds, no clouds, think.

“Roxanne,” she said slowly.

“Hi, Roxanne.”

“Hi.”

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” Gary said gesturing to his car. “I don’t need to be anywhere.”

“No, that’s ok. I’m taking the bus.” 231

“Sure,” he said. “Ok.” He turned to walk back to his car. “Boy, I hope that didn’t sound creepy. I’m not trying to be creepy. I kinda feel stupid now. I just wanted to meet you.”

“You’re not being creepy,” Roxanne said although she wasn’t sure any more how to evaluate that. “But I’m just going to take the bus.”

“Sure,” he said. “Of course. I’ll see you around sometime. I’m here all the time.”

“Ok. I guess. See you.”

The next afternoon Gary was not there, but the day after that he was. He was leaning up against his car again eating tacos.

“Hi, Roxanne,” he said.

“Hi.”

“So, you work here at the pool?”

“Yeah, just in the afternoons. I work somewhere else in the mornings,” Roxanne said as she continued to walk towards the bus stop.

“Wow, that’s ambitious,” Gary said wiping his mouth.

“I need the money.”

“Who doesn’t?” he said as the bus pulled up. “Do you have a long ride?”

“Not too long.”

“Well, see you around.”

“Bye,” Roxanne said. 232

It went on like this for a week or so. Some days Gary would be there, some days not. When he was there he always said hi, exchanged pleasantries. And then he offered to give her a ride again.

By this time, she had gotten used to seeing him. She didn’t know him, but she knew him well enough to say hi. Lord, all she did was work. Clear as day to her that she didn’t want to stay in Arizona. Here it was only May and already it was in the 90s. She might as well be in Florida. Hadn’t had a day off in over a month. Hadn’t had a ride in a damn car since she got out of the one she had been riding in with Darlene.

The next time he offered her a ride she said: “I’m staying in a dormitory at a motel on Ajo.”

“Get in,” he said.

He came to that part of town near the pool to get tacos. That’s what he said.

Over the next several rides back to her dormitory, Darlene told Gary of her plan to save money and leave town.

“I’m leaving town soon, too,” he said. “Going to see my family. Where are you headed?”

“Oregon,” Roxanne said.

“Me, too!” said Gary. “Isn’t that funny. Where in Oregon?”

“Eugene.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! That’s where I’m headed!

“Really?” Roxanne said. 233

“Really! Hey - this is crazy, I know. But do you want to drive up there together? I sure could use the company. And I’d hate to see a pretty girl like you hitchhiking all by herself. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Roxanne said. “I still need to make some more money.”

“My timing is flexible,” Gary said. “You just say when. What’d ya think?”

Roxanne looked at the sky. Some birds flew by, probably going home, wherever that might be when you’re a bird. Where do birds live?

“That might work,” Roxanne said. “Maybe two, three weeks?”

“Sounds good to me,” Gary said. “Like I said, I’m flexible. Real flexible.”

Two, three weeks happened. Roxanne had saved up $587.00. Gary was anxious to get on the road. “I’m flexible, but I don’t have forever,” is what Gary finally told her.

So I the third week of May, Roxanne quit all her jobs and waited outside her dormitory for Gary to pick her up and drive her to Eugene.

She had told Gary a little bit about why she was going to Eugene. She had told

Gary that she was from Florida. She had told Gary a little bit about what she was doing in

Arizona before she ended up in Tucson working.

Gary had told her nothing.

Gary seemed ok. Gary was a guy. Roxanne knew guys. They liked cars. They drove. This Gary liked tacos. This Gary liked her, he said so. But he only looked, didn’t touch. This Gary seemed ok.

Roxanne didn’t know why she had stayed in Arizona. It was impulse, pure impulse. Color her shocked when Darlene just up and drove away, dogs and all. Darlene 234

would tell her such sweet things, such sugar-filled loving sweetness. Ok, not so much during the last part of the drive west, but early on the trip and certainly before, back in

Florida.

Darlene was her “do” girl. Darlene would “do” her; Darlene would “do” whatever needed doing to make their trip west happen. All Roxanne needed to do is show up with her guitar and bag. Well, she still had her guitar and bag. But no Darlene. In her place was Gary. Fast driving, mostly silent Gary.

He was a looker, Gary. Not as in “good looking” but as in “looking at you.” Gary looked at Roxanne every chance her got. She would be looking out the window and feel him looking at her. He was a sharp-faced man, angular. Sometimes when he looked at

Roxanne, she thought of an animal. Fox? Coyote? What in the hell did they really look like anyway? All Roxanne could think of was the cartoons of her childhood. Wile E.

Coyote. Brer Fox. Do real animals even look like that?

They had been on the road for over seven hours, already driven past Las Vegas and were now deep in the Nevada desert.

“Want me to do some driving? Roxanne asked.

“No, I’m good,” Gary said.

“You figure to drive straight through?”

“Maybe. Probably not. But maybe.”

“Isn’t it, like, twenty hours to Eugene?”

“Eugene? Yeah, right. Something like that.”

“If you don’t want me to drive, then we should stop someplace for the night.” 235

“Yeah,” Gary said. “We’ll stop someplace. We’ll stop someplace soon.”

Maybe she should have just bought a bus ticket to San Francisco. Forget this womyn’s land stuff. Look up Darlene. Make nice. See if they could get back together.

Darlene would want to get back together. Oh yes, she would. She could make Darlene want to get back together. Want it. She knew how. What makes her think that the womyn’s land in Oregon would be any different than the one in Arizona? Maybe it’s even worse. Maybe their rules are even goofier. No males of any kind! Poor Arrow! She missed the dogs. Darlene was right to be pissed about them not letting him in. Why hadn’t she been pissed about that? The altitude. The excitement. She was swept away.

Yeah, something like that. The doorway to something new. Something new.

Wonder what Darlene is up to?

Florida had been wearing her out. There was nothing for her there. Hot, not quite so hot, then hot. Scooping ice cream, cleaning toilets. Boys saying shit. Wanting her. She wanting what she wanted which sure as hell wasn’t them. Wasn’t much of that to be had where she was. Not many other queer girls. Darlene, of course. O f course. Her hero! And she sure didn’t want to end up like her mother, flitting from one person to another looking for things that she should have inside her own self. Darlene would tell her that: you need to know your own self. Have your own stuff. Her mother had no money of her own. No nothing of her own. Roxanne wanted her own. Her own. She hadn’t written to her mother in over a month. Oh, well. Anyway, here Roxanne had come all this way, town to town, state to damn state, and hadn’t seen much of anything worth wanting. Gas stations, motels, road after endless road. Might as well be in Florida. Where was her 236

place to be? She kept thinking she’d know it when she saw it - yes, she thought it was

Camp Sister Warrior, she was wrong. So the only thing left was to keep looking. Like

White Eagle said. Or White Eagle understood. Whatever. Maybe the West coast,

everyone talks about the West coast. Maybe that side of the country would open up and

take her in, long lost daughter coming home. Child of mine, you don’t need to travel no

more, you are where you supposed to be.

Is that even possible? Is she crazy? She looked over at the man driving, this Gary,

this air force guy. No, not air force. Works on the air force base. Sometimes. Gary from

the bus stop, eater of tacos. He says he’s going home. Seems nice. Have I told him too

much? Where am I going?

Here on the road, everything looked like everything else. They had driven out of

Arizona - she had seen the sign. They had driven out of Las Vegas, she had seen that

sign, too. Gary liked to drive fast. The faster he drove, the more he talked. Roxanne liked

that, the talking at least. Gary talked about the places he’d been. He’d been everywhere.

He liked Arizona. He had spent a long time in a town in Kansas. He didn’t like it there.

The roads were saying north. Oregon was north. They were heading north.

Roxanne M. Moore, aged 20, from Tallahassee, Florida. Female, Caucasian.

Date o f birth: April 27, 1957. Blonde, blue-eyed, slim build. Five foot, five inches tall.

One hundred and eleven pounds. Last seen by the side o f the road; hitchhiking; running

barefoot on the crushed rock o f the shoulder; crawling naked on the weedy median strip; pleading; making a phone call; standing by a trail head; looking at the sky; sitting in a 237

diner; screaming; talking to a tall man; crying - somewhere, somewhere - on a road heading north, possibly, to Eugene, Oregon. 238

ELEVEN

October 27 - 30: This weekend at THE BEIVEBE1E •Dl Buz Meats

• YmHostesses Tneih& j fiflaB&a Siatcl & Missy Steak present QiscoSSivas! Singing aii vour favorite disco tunes!

PIUS Saturday night! Not Buns! Don’t miss the... i f . ilsiity WLtiei Cuntest And other surprise guests!

a l s o ThiWestnandRiis Western swing, nightly

David came stomping into the apartment. “Have you seen this? Have you seen this?” he said shaking a newspaper in his hand. “This is the ad that Mitch ran. Can you believe it? It looks like a gay talent show in Muncie! Or worse. Somewhere in

Kentucky.” He flopped down into a chair. “Kentucky!”

“Mommy’s home,” said Peter. He was standing by the window in his underwear ironing his costume. He was loving the San Francisco light coming through the window of their crowded furnished rental. This San Francisco was a very pretty place.

The Hos had been in San Francisco not quite a month and were sharing a one- bedroom furnished apartment. They were renting this frumpy apartment by the week and 239

sticking to the plan: live like Spartans for the first month or so. Then, once they had a handle on the place, they’d look for apartments. Perhaps together, perhaps separately.

However, with each passing day each one of the Hos had silently - or not so silently - questioned the wisdom of their decision of communal living. Sure, they had all bunked together when they were on the road, but this was different. It was a little bit too much togetherness, a little too intimate. It was four guys sharing a bathroom and in rotation for bed, cot, and couch. It was like being house guests at an eternal Thanksgiving weekend, minus the food.

“We’re going to be in this fucking apartment forever,” David whined.

“No, it will just feel like it,” Peter said putting freshly ironed clothes on hangers.

“You and I will look for a place soon. By the way,” he said gesturing out the window,

“Have you seen how beautiful the light is at this time of day?”

“How soon?” said David tearing at the announcement in his hands.

“Soon, dearest, soon. I promise. Mommy needs a job first. You might want to think about that, too. Just saying.” Peter was expert at being able to go to his “happy place,” but that ability was getting frayed. David wasn’t even trying to cope with the situation and buck up, he was just trying.

Jack was lying on the couch. He had been attempting to nap. Well, not today. He got up, scratched, and took the paper out of David’s hand and looked at it. “Well, at least they got our name right.”

David snatched the paper back. “They got our name right. Does nothing bother you?” 240

Jack smiled. “Where do I start?” He flopped back down on the couch. “Look, the way I see it, Mitch is doing us a favor. It’s up to us to do the rest.”

“Exactly!” said Peter hanging up the rest of his costume. “And we’re going to knock ’em dead.” He took another look out the window as the sky changed from pale blue to purple. The fog was just starting to roll in from Twin Peaks. Lovely.

“Honestly Fru, why do you get yourself so worked up? It’s not good for your complexion. Let me see that silly paper. Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s fine. What were you expecting? Engraved invitations? It’s a club. And a pretty divvy one at that from what I could see.”

“Once they hear us they’ll love us,” Chip said. He was giving himself a pedicure at the kitchen table. “This is just the beginning.”

“I don’t know why you bother doing your toes,” David grumbled. “No one sees them but you.”

“Asked and answered, darling,” said Chip screwing the top of the polish back on.

“Want me to do you?”

“Oh, someone please do her,” Peter muttered as he placed his costume in a garment bag.

Peter pulled the Gremlin up in front of the Belvedere and the guys piled out like a clown act, tossing their instruments and road cases out on to the curb.

“We should have taken the station wagon,” David said. “I feel like I got here via

UPS.” 241

“We should have remembered to get a smog certificate for the station wagon so we could have,” Peter said. “Isn’t it amazing what you can get into a Gremlin?”

“New rule,” said Jack. “No bean burritos day of a performance. Especially if we’re going to be in a closed car together.”

The Hos walked down an alley, past the dumpster, to the back door on which someone had nailed up a homemade sign that said: “perfromers only.”

“I guess that’s us,” Jack said opening the door. “Perfroming nightly!”

“This isn’t so bad,” said Chip stepping in, guitar case in tow. He was excited.

Their first San Francisco gig!

“Define ‘bad’,” said David with his hands on his hips taking it in.

The green room at the Belvedere was yellow although it was hard to tell whether that color was intentional or just the result of the ooze that dripped intermittently from the pipes that ran across the ceiling. The room was a collection of wooden table and chairs as well as a handful of beat-up upholstered furniture.

The Westward Hos lugged their road cases in and stacked them and garment bags and make up kits. They looked around and assessed the situation.

“No one’s here,” David said.

“You were expecting a welcoming party?” Jack said. “A cake?”

“Cake would be nice,” Peter said. “I’m starving.”

“If only these walls could talk,” Chip said.

“They’d say ‘paint me’,” David said eying the couch with suspicion. “I don’t want to know what this couch would say.” 242

“Home sweet home!” said Peter as he began to bustle about as if he was planning to move in. “There’s no business like Ho business, eh girls?”

“What a dump!” said Chip doing his best Bette Davis impersonation.

Jack laughed. “Seen worse!” he said.

“We have indeed,” said Chip hanging his garment bag on a rack. “God, remember that joint in Beverly Shores? What was it called? The Last Outpost!”

“The Last Outhouse was more like it,” David said. “A little too rustic for my tastes.” He opened a door to a lavatory. “Christ, have they never heard of bleach?” he said peering into the toilet. “This toilet has more rings around it than Jupiter.”

“Sweetie,” said Peter. “It’s an old building with old plumbing. Even we’ll look dingy when we’re old.”

“I’m never getting old,” David said. “Never!”

“It’s going to be cozy in here once everyone else arrives,” Jack said peering into the dressing room. “Let’s play nice, ok?” He looked directly at David. “Ok?”

The dressing room was long and narrow with four mirrors and makeup stations.

Old posters curled on the walls. It smelled like sweat and hairspray. Chip loved it.

“It’s perfect!” he said.

On any given night up to twenty people were trying to use the makeup tables.

Guys would be in there tit to jowl applying false eye lashes and mascara. There was a lot of elbow swinging but usually everyone accommodated each other. Unless, of course, someone decided to go all princess and then things could get testy.

Chip was very conscious of the Hos being the new girls. 243

“And I second that being nice part,” he said. “Let’s be on our best behavior.”

“David?” Peter said.

“What?” said David picking at his cuticles. “Why is everyone looking at me?”

“Because you’re so damn adorable,” Chip said. “We’re going to take it and like it because...'"’

“We’re Hos!” David, Peter, and Jack sang in perfect three-part harmony.

“When do the divas get here?” David said.

The Belvedere had a reputation of being the buffet table of gay bars. A typical

night could have a DJ, a talent show, lip-synching disco queens, a comedian, a singer

kneading away at an electric keyboard, and a beauty pageant. The drinks were weak and

cheap. There was a large, dark back room with revolving colored lights and a DJ where

disco pumped all night long. And a smaller, even darker room behind that where other

things were pumped into the wee hours. The Belvedere didn’t book talent of the caliber

of Sylvester, but Mitch the owner had hopes that someday it would. Someday it would be

a glamour palace of high-class entertainment. Right in the heart of San Francisco’s

crappiest neighborhood. No one believed that would ever happen, probably not even

Mitch. The Belvedere was a seedy and fun place. Lesbians and straight people were

welcome. Every night saw a mixed, good-natured crowd looking for a good time.

The Westward Hos arrived at the Belvedere at the height of disco and San

Francisco loved their smack-talking drag lip-synching divas. They were fun to watch and

they said all kinds of wonderful bitchy stuff. The Hos enjoyed them, too. But they viewed 244

them as performers, not musicians. They knew that they’d all have to learn to deal with each other. But they did feel a touch superior to their sisters in the dressing room.

Mitch hadn’t bothered to give them a start time, so they had obviously showed up way too early. For all their nonchalance, the Hos were excited. This was their first San

Francisco gig.

“We should practice a little,” Jack suggested.

“Good idea. But I want to get dressed and into character,” Peter said.

“Me, too,” said David unzipping his garment bag. “It’s Frutti Pebbles time!”

“Ok,” said Chip. “Then we should all get into costume. What do you say, Bibi?”

“Okey dokey,” said Jack.

“Okey dokey?” said Frutti. “What are you, ten?”

“Frutti, honey,” said Pixie pulling her falsies out of her garment bag. “Shut the fuck up. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

The Hos dressed and got into character. Each of them had their own unique way of doing that, but they all like to step about in their boots and feel the sway of their dresses before they sat down to pick up their instruments.

“I feel good about tonight,” said Chip. “I really do.”

“Yee haw! The rodeo is in town,” said a performer who called herself Missy

Steak. “Just get a load of you gals!” She was wearing a bouffant, white high heels, hot pink stretch pants, a leopard print top and about a half pound of makeup. She dropped her garment bag on the floor and fished through her purse for a cigarette. Finding one, she rummaged further for a light. 245

“Let me get that,” said Chip grabbing a pack of matches off the table. “I’m Heidi.

We’re the Westward Hos.”

“Thanks, honey,” Missy said accepting the light. She took a long drag and exhaled while looking the Hos up and down. “I figured as much from the flyer,” said

Missy. “Couldn’t image what a Westward Ho was. Now I know. Wait till Mama gets a load of you.”

“Mama?”

“Mama Snatch. She’s parking the caddy. She’s head diva so mind your Ps and

Qs.”

“Head diva. Can’t wait,” said Frutti.

“And you are?” Missy said.

“Frutti, Frutti Pebbles.”

“Cute.”

“Adorable!” said a large black queen marching in wearing a red spandex jump suit and red suede platforms. “What have we here?”

“These are the Westward Hos,” Missy Steak said. “Ain’t they something?”

“I’ll say,” Mama Snatch glided over to Heidi. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Heidi Ho.”

“Sweet. And you?” she said to Pixie.

“Pixie. Pixie Stixx.” 246

“I like it! “Tow I know,” waving a hand at Frutti. “Fruity, right? So that leaves you.” Mama Snatch walked over to Bibi and tugged on the silk scarf Bibi had around her neck. “What do they call you, darling?”

“Bibi Gunn.”

“Bang, bang. You kill me.” She slithered over and sat down next to Heidi. “Well, here we all are. Isn’t this nice? These are quite the outfits, “she said looking the Hos up and down. “Where’d did you get them?”

“I made them,” said Heidi.

“No way!” She took the hem of Heidi’s dress into her hands and examined it.

“This is quality work. Just beautiful. I don’t get the concept, but I can’t fault you on the execution. Someone done taught you how to sew! Got another one of those?” she said to

Missy. Missy lit a cigarette for Mama and handed it to her. Mama took a deep, long drag.

“So what’s your deal? You’re a band? Frankly, I thought you were strippers when

I saw the name,” she said eying their instruments. “Guess not. I can’t believe Mitch sprang for a band.”

“Sure sign of the apocalypse,” said Missy Steak. “But seriously, you’re a band?

You sing? For real?”

“We do indeed,” said Chip. “And play our own music. Western swing.”

“Western swing. As opposed to what? Backyard swing?” asked Mama Snatch.

“That’s a whole lot of stuff to be hauling around just to sing a few songs. You could invade Normandy with that much gear. Why don’t you just sing along with a record like the other girls?” asked Missy Steak. 247

“Urn, because we really sing and we really play our instruments. They’re not just for show. We don’t lip synch,” said David.

“Oooh. Don’t say it like that! Don’t say it like ‘eat dog.’ We don’t lip synch, we don’t eat dog,” hissed Missy. “Come on, we’re all civilized people.”

Some of the lip-synchers for the night’s talent show were beginning to arrive.

“Talking about us?” one of them called out.

“Always!” said Missy Steak. “Here we go!” she said to the Hos.

When they caught sight of the Hos they all stopped in their tracks. Five queens stared at the Hos like they were from another planet.

“Oh, my. Wagon train just pulled into town, I reckon.”

“These gals must be from that big old stage coach parked outside. How you doing? What’s your name? Becky? Miss Kitty? What?”

“Must be time for a Westward Ho ho-down.”

“Oh, I hate seeing a ho down, don’t you?”

“Girls,” said Mama Snatch. “There are the Westward Hos. Hos, these are the girls. Crystal, Ruby, Dopey, Sleepy, and Grumpy.”

“Lord, you have a lot of stuff! Ain’t you just gonna to sing to records?”

“No,” David huffed. “We ain’t gonna just sing to records. We’re musicians.”

“Hey now. Musicians. Fancy.”

“Listen, Chaka Can’t. Lip synching isn’t singing,” said David. “No one thinks that you’re Gloria Gaynor.” 248

“Oooh, why so much hating Calamity Lame? Is it because the boys don’t like you?”

Mama Snatch jumped into action. “Did you just say something bad about Chaka?

That sister’s from Chicago. Nobody says anything bad about Chaka.”

“I’m not bad mouthing Chaka.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t! I just said...”

“Ladies,” said Missy Steak. “It’s all show biz, right? Let’s just everyone settle down.”

“I guess that would be ‘whoa’ to y’all.”

David straightened up and began to walk over to the queens.

“David...” said Peter.

“What? What?” he said turning to David. “Are you going to just stand here and take this?

“Uh...yeah,” said Jack. “It’s all in good fun, right?”

“Right!”

“Hell, yeah. Fun!”

“No way are lip-synching to a record and singing and playing instruments live the same thing,” David insisted.

“Right! It’s better. Crowd comes to see us strut our stuff not to listen to Turkey in the Straw.”

“Better? Better? You know what...” 249

“David, stop it,” said Chip. “I mean it. Shut up.”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Shut up, David.”

“Yeah, shut up, David.”

“Now, now girls. Enough,” said Mama Snatch composing herself. “It’s almost

show time. Go get dressed.” The drag girls slunk off into the dressing room.

“And you,” she said to Frutti. “You need to go along to get along, you know what

I’m saying? You new. Mind yourself.”

That night the Westward Hos sang their little hearts out. They marched around the

stage making the fringe on their costumes wave like wheat. Everyone was from the

heartland that night.

At the end of the evening Mama Snatch took Heidi aside. “You gals are good.

First class. And I don’t give compliments easily. Ask anyone.”

“She don’t!” Missy Steak called out.

“How much Mitch paying you?”

“Right now, nothing,” Chip admitted.

Mama Snatch looked horrified. “Oh my God, you’re doing this for free?”

“Yeah, but...”

“Not even tips?”

“No, but...”

“But what?”

“But we’re getting the experience, we’re getting known,” Chip said. “We’re new in town.” 250

“Yeah, yeah,” Mama said lighting a cigarette. “Listen, girl, you are cra-az-zy.

Mitch is cheap enough without you all being willing to play for free.

“That’s what I think,” said David.

Mama spun to look at David. “Yeah, you a deep thinker. I know this about you.”

She took Chip by the arm and walked her to a comer.

“Listen,” she said softly. “You need to cut that shit out. Mitch is one cheap son- of-a-bitch. Don’t let him take advantage of you. You get a percentage of that door. The old man makes a fortune on drinks. You and your girls are the real thing, honey.”

The Westward Hos won Mitch over after their three-day trial; he kept them in his lineup. The crowds were always surprised seeing the Hos for the first time. They were used to lip-synching drag queens. There was certainly no one else like the Westward Hos in San Francisco. Mitch was in love with them, even if he didn’t exactly shower them with money and publicity and his audiences didn’t always know what to make of them.

The Hos reminded Mitch of the sister acts that were so popular during the war. He was particularly fond of Pixie-Peter.

“If I was twenty-five years younger,” Mitch would think.

But the Hos just never clicked with San Francisco audiences. Everyone appreciated their talent. The weeklies would list them as “not to be missed” and “fun incarnate.” But their star did not rise. No one knew how to dance to western swing, for starters. But they were fun and would usual play around 9 o’clock giving people something to do while they got liquored up before partying in the back room. 251

And so the Westward Hos limped along. They played weekly at the Belvedere.

They played at the Russian River. House parties. Christmas parties. Anywhere people

asked them to. People enjoyed them, but the big break they were waiting for never came.

“I’m ok with that,” Peter said. “I mean, I have a decent job now. This is just

extra.” Peter had started working in the financial district doing equipment leasing,

whatever that was. He rode Muni into work every day wearing a smart suit and tie.

Jack had started playing piano at a fancy Pacific Heights restaurant a couple of

nights a week and encouraged Chip to do the same. “It’s just like old times,” he told him.

Jack had also started back to school, deciding to get his master’s in education and, perhaps, teach music. He ended up getting an unexpected bonus in graduate school - he met Gordy, an aspiring kindergarten teacher and a nice boy from Wisconsin. Within months, Gordy moved into Jack’s apartment.

“I got me a man!” Jack crowed.

And there was some fallout, some bad blood. The stress of the move west proved to be too much for Peter and David as a couple. They had grown up together in a way, but now they were like kids in a candy store: there were just too many good-looking men in San Francisco. The love remained between the two of them, but the like was sorely taxed.

“You are just about the bitchiest person I’ve ever met,” Peter would complain.

“You need to get out more,” David would retort.

David, that arbiter of good taste, was custom-made for real estate sales. In fact, he would say that having to study for and take the real estate exam was the hardest part of 252

the job. Gay men were beginning to have some serious money and everyone wanted to live in the Castro.

“I just throw myself on a couch like a pillow and prattle on about square footage and views and hardwood floors. The houses practically sell themselves.”

“You know, I don’t care if! never see another road case,” David confided to the others. “Look, I’ve loved being a Ho, but I think our ship has sailed.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” said Jack. “I’m still having fun.”

“Yeah, don’t even think that,” said Chip. “We just need more time to establish ourselves.”

“More time?” said David. “Honey, we’ve been at it here in San Francisco for four years. We’re all in our 30s now. No one’s getting any younger. It’s over. Time to move on.”

“Well, I enjoy the Hos, too, mostly,” said Peter. “Although I must say that the gigs take a lot more out of me than they used to. But, you know, I don’t really mind not making money at these gigs, but the act is actually costing us money. It’s not a winning proposition.”

Peter always had a head for business - despite what David might say. He was a business major at Ball State after all and he continued to follow market trends after he left school. The eighties were all about making money. There were so many interesting investment opportunities being developed at that time but the Westward Hos wasn’t one of them. 253

What Peter hadn’t corrected calculated was the impact the dissolution of the Hos would have on Chip. The other guys were all finding their way with new ventures and boyfriends. But Chip was kind of stuck.

Time to move on? To what? Chip considered this. Peter, David, and Jack had majored in things that they could use to launch careers, get real grown-up jobs. He had majored in musical theater. Actually, he had mostly majored in boys.

Acknowledging that he could not take the Westward Hos further was almost more than Chip could bear and he went into a deep depression.

Peter was worried. “Look, sweetie. Come work for me. I’ll find something for you to do.”

Something for him to do.

For a brief while, Chip played piano at drag restaurant and bar called Chez

Mollet. But all the old queens in there looked like Miss Marple. No one had a sense of style and they only made him more depressed. “You don’t have to let yourself go just because you’re a gal of a certain age,” Chip thought. “Jesus, what would Karla say?”

“I can sing and I can sew,” he told Peter. “That’s what I know how to do.”

“You know how to do all kinds of things. Try something different. Do something different.”

Chip took Peter’s advice to heart, but looking at the want ads in the paper was also depressing. He didn’t want to work in an office or a restaurant. He actually didn’t know how to work in an office or a restaurant. He had absolutely no skills.

What else besides signing and sewing did he know how to do? 254

“I’m big,” Chip thought. “What can I do with that?”

Chip took a job at San Francisco General Hospital as an orderly. It gave him a reason to get out of the house each day and make rent. It also made him feel needed and useful, two things he hadn’t considered much. The hospital was actually thrilled to have him.

“They like me at SF General,” Chip told Peter.

“Of course, they like you. Who doesn’t like you?”

“Well, I find myself a little iffy at times.”

Peter put his arms around Chip. “Honey, you’re a very pretty girl. All the boys like you. So chin up, sunshine.”

Chip put his head in Peter’s lap. “I can’t believe that the Hos are done,” he said softly. “I really thought...”

“We all did,” Peter cooed. “We all did, sweetie.”

At Peter’s encouragement, Chip even took a course to be certified at a nursing assistant.

“If you’re going to do this, then do this,” Peter had told him. “I’ll even pay for it.

Let’s move you up the hospital food chain. Hey, what do nursing assistants wear?

Anything sexy?”

Mama Snatch

Oh, them Hos! 255

We talked a lot o f shit backstage at the Belvedere, but don’t get me wrong - 1

loved those girls, the Westward Hos. Loved them. They were like sisters to me. That Heidi

Ho, let me tell you, she was the real deal. I would have loved to hear her sing some soul

or R&B and lose that yippee-yi-yo shit, but that was her. That was her thing. And I

respected that. I respected that about the Hos. But, lord, if Heidi ever wanted to let go

she could have beaten those Weather Girls to death. To death! She could have owned San

Francisco. Flat out owned it. And yeah, that Pixie and Bibi - sweethearts, sweethearts, sweethearts. Sweet singing, sweethearts. Even that bitchy little Fruity Nuts or whatever the fuck she called herself, Iliked her, too. I did. She was sharp. Ilike ’em sharp. Woulda killed her if we was too much together, know what Fm saying? But in the doses I had, she was right on time. Oh, I do like some spice in my gravy, a little kick. So me and that

Fruity bitch were cool in the end. Took a year or two.

It s a shame that the Westward Hos couldn ’t make it happen. You just never know how things are going to work out.

My, my. Times change, people come and go. Drag scene just ain’t what it used to be. But what is? Young gays used to come here from Ohio or Idaho or Iowa or wherever and be so wild-eyed and happy and everyone would be glad to see them and happy for them. Now everyone is freaked out, skulking around like it’s the end o f the world. I t’s not; it’s just another bump in the road. They ’11 fix this AIDS thing, they will. And our people will rise up, get equal rights, a seat at the table. I promise you, they will. Until then we all just got to hold on and calm the fuck down. Everything will work out.

Just not maybe exactly the way we thought. 256

I know, I sound like a greeting card. But you know what? I believe it. And I believe in this country. I ’ve seen a lot. A lot. You have to ask yourself “what is it I want? ” and “what am I prepared to do to get it? ”

Listen, before I was in San Francisco, I was in Chicago. And before that I was in

Vietnam. And before that, Korea. That’s right, honey. Mama was in the United States army. For twenty years. You heard me, twenty. For most o f my military career I was a drill sergeant. Yes, I can kill you with my bare hands. Don’t make me show you. I was given these dumb-ass, stupid pieces o f shit new GIs and had to teach them every aspect o f combat and trained and drilled their pointy little heads do they wouldn 7 get killed the minute they landed where ever they were being sent. Most o f these boys had been drafted, were scared to death, and didn’t want to be there so they’d do all kinds o f shit to get kicked out. Stupid. You do not want to get kicked out o f the army. Do not. The rest had enlisted but were all probably running away from something: people, poverty, something.

But I ’m getting ahead o f myself.

Let’s start from the beginning. I grew up black and queer in Chicago in the forties during World War II.

Chicago is a city that keeps you on your toes. The South Side had what they called the Black Belt or Bronzeville where the black folks lived. It abutted white neighborhoods and there was a lot o f differences within that zone. One minute you ’re in a neighborhood where it’s ok to be you. Next block you ’re not. Being black was hard enough. Being queer was crazy. You were a target no matter what block you were on. 257

My father had a decent job as a school janitor. Good enough so that my mother could stay home and look after the four o f us. My mother was very strict and kept us on a very short leash. Good thing, too. Especially for me. Boys are stupid: she made sure I didn't get in any trouble and finished school. And honey, there was plenty o f trouble I could have fallen into. Trouble my mother didn’t even know existed. World War II was happening while I was a kid so we were all collecting scrap metal and war bonds and victory gardens. I grew up being very proud o f this country. The war ended when I was in high school.

Straight people seem to think that one day you get sprinkled with fairy dust and you ’re queer. It ain’t like that, o f course, as we queers know. We all have a different way o f experiencing the realization that we ’re queer, a different way o f coming to know about ourselves.

A very common one is growing up thinking that there’s something wrong with you. You are not like other boys, but you like other boys even the ones who chase you down and beat you up.

Me, I knew I was queer at an early age. Just a feeling in my gut. “Not “oh, I ’m a homosexual ” more “I like to look at boys. ” I'd find myself staring at boys everywhere I went. Guys I knew at school would mention a girl we just passed. I hadn’t even seen her.

I was too busy looking at the boys. Unless, o f course, it was a sister dressed to beat the band. Then I noticed her and how. I was looking to see how she walked in them heels. I wanted to know where she got that dress.

Oh yes, I knew that about myself at an early age as well. I liked pretty things. 258

There are plenty o f ways to get yourself in trouble in Chicago. I was determined to find ever one o f them. I had sniffed around some o f the gay clubs in town. There were a few joints doing drag shows like The Ballyhoo and Joe’s Deluxe Club, but I was under­ age and could rarely get in. So I ’d hang around outside and watch people go in and out.

At the front entrance would come all the swells, all decked out to beat the band. Then I started hanging around the stage door to watch the performers go in and out. Man! They were something. I especially loved the big gal singers. Those black queens were amazing, just splendid in their gowns and furs. Didn’t realize at first that they were men. But when

I did I could barely contain myself. Oh my word, it was as if a flock o f little birds just come alive inside o f me.

Sometimes the kitchen help would let me come in and watch from the back in exchange for bussing tables and washing dishes. Those times I actually got to see some o f the shows. Got me to thinking about what that might be like -putting on a fancy dress like that, going out like that, acting like that.

O f course, Chicago had its balls. No, honey, not those kind o f balls. I ’m talking drag balls where black faggots who liked fur couldfeel at home. The most famous was the Finnie Balls'2, but there were others, too. At that time a little black faggot in Chicago who liked drag could not only dress up, but go out.

By the time I was sixteen, I was a budding drag queen. I spent hours fantasizing about dressing up and strutting about. I used to go into my mother’s closet and pull out

12 Albert Finnie was a black, gay street hustler and doorman who organized drag events in Bronzeville called Finnie’s Balls from the 1930s to the 1960s. The tradition of black drag balls continues in Chicago today. 259

her Sunday clothes and hold them up against me. My mother was a simple woman, nothing fancy about her, but she did have a few nice dresses and an old fox fur that I thought was just the bomb. She never caught me and I have no idea what she would have done if she had. My father probably would have strung me up, he was old school. I have no idea. Maybe all the stuff I imagined in my head was worse than what would have actually happened. I was too scared to find out. Shame can seize you solid.

My siblings, especially my sister Janice, suspected what I was about. But you know what? Drag was a part o f our community. So there was this shruggy kind o f acceptance. Men do what men do kind o f thing. Still didn’t give me the courage to come out to everyone, but it gave me a tiny plqce to stand.

So after high school what do I do with myself? There was no money to be had in drag, at least not the way I was doing it - with my little black nose pressed against the window ofjoints I was too young to get into. College was out o f the question, I had neither the grades nor the money. I could get a job, but I ’d never be able to afford my own place and living with my parents, sharing a room with my brothers, meant I ’d be sneaking around. And sooner or later, I ’d get caught. And not just by my parents, but by some white idiot who wanted to beat me or worse.

So, I enlisted in the army in 1948, just after I graduated from high school.

Sounds crazy, right? The service? You done lost your mind?

Here’s the thing: Iliked me them uniforms. At first I wanted to join the Marines, I liked their uniforms so much. They are so faggy I cannot stand it. But whenever there’s trouble, the Marines go in first. And if the ice was thin, so to speak, I ’m guessing that 260

they’d send in a nigger Marine first. And, you know, while the army was supposedly desegregated in 1948, the Marines still hadn ’t quite got that memo, if you know what I mean. Besides, the army takes everybody and I figured they ’d take me. Their uniforms weren’t too bad and when everybody is dressed up they look fine, brass buttons and all. I saw the uniforms as just another kind o f drag and I saw the army as a big old world o f men.

I also love this country. Like I said, I grew up during the war; I was very patriotic. Idiotic some might say considering how this country treated black folks. But still. I grew up watching newsreels o f bad men doing bad things in far offplaces and then the Americans came in and saved the day. I bought that shit.

I was a skinny, scabby, scared little black queer boy from Chicago. The army took me anyway. How hard can the army be, I thought. I intended to do my hitch, save a little money, and then think o f something else to do with myself when this thing called the

Korean War kicked in and I before I knew it I was hauling artillery through snow near the 38th parallel.

I did not see that coming, couldn 7 have found Korea on a map even if there was money involved.

Sweet mother Mary. When I was headed to Korea I thought more than once about playing the Q card and getting myself discharged, but an older black soldier who had me pegged took me aside and said “don’t do it, cousin. Go to Korea, stay in Korea, do what you ’re told, don’t get killed, come back and take all the motherfucking benefits Uncle

Sam is willing to give you as a veteran. 261

I took heed. The brother was right: getting thrown out o f the army is not something you want to have happen to you. It will mess you up for any kind o f work down the road. And there was more than a little winking going on between me and that older soldier, ok?

You know what? The army turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to this faggot. Now let me tell you, whenever lots o f men are together there are bound to be them that likes other men. In fact, plenty o f them. So that was one good thing. Another was that as long as you do what you ’re told, you can do all right in the service. And about the only skill I had was being able to do what I was told. I came back from Korea a corporal. Still didn't look like there was a lot o f opportunity for me in Chicago. So I reenlisted. Made sense at the time.

Next thing I knew some white captain was clapping his hand on my shoulder telling me I should consider drill sergeant training. Let me tell you how that works in the army. If an officer says to you something like “you should consider drill sergeant school” it means “we are sending your black ass to drill sergeant school unless you want your

Army career to end right here and now. ”

So yeah, that 1948 integration thing, executive order 9981 and all: bullshit. Units were segregated all through the Korean War. Felt like Bronzeville. The brothers used to joke how it didn’t make sense sending us black soldiers out in that motherfucking snow when the white soldiers already had the natural camouflage. But guess what units were the first in line? 262

But when we got back stateside, with the Korean War is done, the good old US

Army was suddenly all about integration and wanted a crop o f black DIs.

Like I said, I was “selected. ” And, frankly, Iw asn’t done with the army because I still didn’t know what the hell else to do with myself. So o ff I go to drill sergeant school in

Hattiesburg, Mississippi. And I thought basic training was hard, man, whool Between DI training and Jim Crow, I was about ready to kill myself But I ’ll tell you what, having been in combat I had a new appreciation for the responsibility a DI had. Korea kind o f made a man out o f me. One who likes lace, but one who likes order, too. Yes, I still wanted to slip into chiffon and heels, but now I knew how to take a man down and kill him with just my two hands. I t’s a skill that could come in useful for a black queen. I have come this close to using it many, many times.

And like I said, every kind o f person there is, is in the army. Every kind. This black faggot soldier wasn ’t lonely for long. I had me a lot o f men. Discretion was what was required and hadn ’t I learned that sneaking around drag clubs in Chicago at 16?

The fifties. What a horrible motherfucking decade that was. The music was good, but that was about it. White folks were out making money and niggers joined the army.

Black niggers, white niggers, yellow niggers, brown niggers. If you couldn ’t figure out what to do, niggers joined the army. And there I was ready to train them into some semblance o f a fighting machine. Truth was, it was peace time so I was, in fact, training them to go off to Germany, guard some check point, and impregnate frauleins, shit like that. But God bless America, peace time doesn’t last for long in this country. Just when I 263

was thinking, ok, I ’ve been in the army 15years, maybe it’s time to go do something else, a little thing called Vietnam happened and business in the army was booming again.

Army was all over me to stay.

So I did.

But this was new: it was my first time training draftees. It was one thing training idiots who had volunteered, quite another training idiots who had been drafted. Everyone was scared to death. No one had ever heard o f Vietnam much less knew where it was. I was thinking that the terrain would be a lot like Korea. Hell, they ’re both in Asia. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Like I said, I was stationed in Mississippi. We 're talking Deep South, honey. I am from Chicago, my parents are from Chicago. I didn’t grow up eating chittlings and grits and shit. But everyone who meets a black person assumes that we all were raised picking cotton in the Delta or Dixie or where ever and singing spirituals. I was raised Catholic on the south side o f Chicago. We had baseball and subways. Only thing that got picked in my neighborhood was locks.

I had this DI thing down just the same. Still, I was creeping up towards twenty years o f service - 1 could retire. But oh no: this time, a white major clapped his hands on my shoulders and told me how the army values my service and how much better my pension would be with one more tour o f duty as a platoon sergeant. Sergeant First Class

- whaddya say?

Next stop: Vietnam. 264

I was assigned to put together a rifle platoon that I was going to accompany to

Vietnam. Iw asn’t thrilled about it, I ’ll be honest with you. Started thinking about that Q

card again, to tell the truth. But after giving the Army nearly twenty years o f my life, I

wanted the maximum back. Now I had skin in the game, so to speak I was going on tour

with these knuckleheads. And knuckleheads they were, although I ’d seen worse. They

were going to be the tightest motherfucking platoon on earth. God help them.

I was damn sure that I wasn ’t going to get killed in combat because o f any one o f

the head-up-their-asses boys entrusted to me. I was especially hard on these boys, I admit

it. And they hated me, some more than others. Hate is a tool in the army. It helps a platoon coalesce. A good DI uses that hatred to get the most out o f his soldiers. It works.

But not always.

I had this one little nigger named Henry Beachem. He was a draftee from South

Carolina. Didn’t want to be in the army no way. I can spot them a mile away - scheming

his escape. I had his number, too. He was gay.

Damn.

Anyway, he was a mouthy motherfucker, always pushing my buttons. And he was

outrageous! H e’d sashay, he’d lisp. Lord!

I had a mixed race platoon, but because he was black and I ’m black I had to be

doubly hard on him. That’s how the army works. They don’t want to see you being easy

on one o f your own. Unless you 're white and then they don’t give a fuck. Anyway, this

nigger gave me nothing but attitude one day during target practice and I snapped. I had 265

had enough. So I dressed him down in front o f everyone. Nigger stood there smirking at

me, batting his eyes! He had my number, too. Lord have mercy - 1 needed to take action.

Look — I ’m not sadistic. Some DIs are, but not me. I love men too much.

But there I was in that hot Mississippi afternoon in those motherfucking fatigues

that are designed for weather that doesn ’t happen where we were, with a few dozen pairs

o f eyes on me.

I grabbed the rifle out o f Beachem’s hands and cracked him good in the face with

the butt. Broke his motherfucking nose, blood all over the place. He fell to the ground in

pain. There was a gasp from the other men. Then I grabbed him by his shirt, and pulled

him to his feet, and screamed in his face, told him he was going to report this as a

motherfucking training accident or I would beat him the fuck to death. He pissed his pants right in front o f everybody. Then I yelled at the other guys: “You have just

witnessed a training accident. All the more reason to be vigilant when handling fire arms.

Do you understand? ” Stunned silence. "Do you understand me? ” I screamed. And they

“yessired” me into next week.

I hated doing a brother like that, I really did. But I knew what the nigger was

doing he was trying to get thrown out o f the army. Which you do not want to do. So I had

a talk with him. He was just a kid and when you ’re a Dlyou ’re a soldier’s mother and father. And when you 're black and in the army you try to look out for each other. Except for that part about going easy on a brother like I said before.

It got complicated. 266

This Henry Beachem was gorgeous, did I mention that? Even with his face all

bandaged up. He was just a beautiful boy. And he knew it, too, which made him ten kinds

o f trouble. But at that point, after nearly twenty years in the army, I liked a little pepper.

Yes, I had probably been in the army too long. Hindsight, as they say, is 20-20.

Lord, wouldn 't you know that one thing led to another? And you can guess how

the story goes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was career army. I was his DI. I was

so close to retirement, one more tour - why fuck that up? I was already thinking about my pension. GI bill. New life. Maybe send my queer ass to barber school, open my own place. Maybe a club, a store. I don 7 know. But I was less than a year away from retiring.

And wouldn’t you know this Henry Beachem shows up. Pretty ass trouble.

This was the end of1967. I f you were wondering what was happening in Vietnam

in 1967, look it the fuck up. Oh, and there was this little thing called the Tet Offensive

that happened in January 1968 about two months after we got there. There’s probably all kinds o f shit written about that, too.

At least Mississippi prepared us for the heat in Vietnam. But we were in a motherfucking jungle. Never seen anything like it. The Viet Cong would pop out at us like they were spring-loaded. Crazy shit.

Once in Vietnam, all we did was patrol. What we drilled back in Mississippi was lying on our bellies shooting at shit, not tromping through the jungle waiting to be shot at. So this was new for all o f us, although I had to act like I knew what I was doing. Felt like we were begging the Viet Cong to kill us. We’d fan out, walking through the jungle

until things got hot. We 'd engage, but mostly spent a lot o f time lying in the dirt- like we 267

were trained, and then we'd go back to camp and make a report. “Enemy held at whatever the fuck coordinates we were at. ” This was a stupid motherfucking war. And 1 thought Korea was stupid. Honey, Nam took the cake. It was clear from the git-go once I got over there that no one knew what the fuck we were doing. We were just roaming around in the jungle looking for motherfuckers to shoot at. It was crazy. But at least it didn’t snow in Nam.

So, day in, day out, my lieutenant and I would take a group o f guys out, walk around, shoot at things, go back to camp. My lieutenant was a nitwit named Green. H e’d been out o f West Point for about ten minutes. Came from a big military family. And money. I could tell that he was figuring himself to be senator or something some day and this whole army shit was just a stop along the way. But he was quirky, too. And a little reckless. Figured it was all part o f that officer swagger. Man, did I peg him wrong.

When we weren’t on patrol, which was often, we just hung out at camp. The village outside camp had a couple o f bars with girls. Yes. In the Army you ’re going to find men who will do men on the QT. And you will also find men who will do unspeakable things to women.

My guys were bored to the point o f stupid. They ’d do anything for a thrill. They’d go into the bars in the village and be horrible to the local girls. Probably a lot o f kids over there who look like them now. Heroin was plentiful. In fact, for my underage soldiers - which was most o f them - it was easier to get heroin than alcohol. The Army was ridiculous about enforcing the ban on underage drinking. So what were they supposed to do? 268

It was crazy. I had to tell my guys “don’t be shooting up this shit. Smoke it, snort

it, but don’t shoot it. The jungle is no place to detox. And neither is your hometown which

I am bound and determined to return your sorry asses to. ” But not all o f them listened to

me, least o f all Henry. “Look, ” I ’d tell him, “a queer nigger’s got enough going on

without being a junkie too. ” He djust smile that lazy, heart-breaking smile o f his. “Yes,

sir, ” h e’d say. And then he ’d sneak into my tent at night and lie with me.

How many o f those guys who lived returned home as junkies, I don’t know.

Generally when we went out on patrol, it was predictable. Whenever we came to a place that looked hot, w e’d stop and wait to see if they’d engage. Sometimes they did,

sometimes they didn’t. That was our day. During monsoon season, which lasts, I don’t

know, 18-20 months, we wouldn’t go out as much, but when we did we'd go out farther

and longer, sometimes even camp. Didn’t make any sense but there you are. So one day

we were out on one o f our long patrols in the monsoon. Talk about misery. I t’s raining like the end o f the world; you ’re carrying about forty pounds o f shit and wearing a poncho over it. Plus, it’s like a hundred degrees. You ’re a walking sauna. You ’re sweating your balls off and tromping through ankle deep mud. You couldfeel the jungle rot growing on you. My lieutenant picked out a hill that he wanted to explore. Picked it out o f his ass by looking at a motherfucking map.

What? I raised my eyes and looked at him. Has he lost his motherfucking mind?

Why does he want to explore a motherfucking hill? Let’s just finish this motherfucking field trip and get back to camp. 269

I figured the lieutenant was bored, too. I hadn 7 figured that the looey was nuts,

maybe even suicidal.

“Beachem, come with me, ’’ he said. Henry! He wanted to take Henry with him.

Might was well take a blind, three-legged dog. Iwasn 7 so afraid o f the two o f them getting killed as I was o f Henry shooting the lieutenant and then running off into the jungle to take his chances with the Viet Cong.

“Sir, ” I said, “Maybe... ” and I looked at the soldier beside me “McNab here be a better choice. ” That brother looked at me like “What the fuck, Sarge? Looey didn 7 say any nigger. He said Beachem. ”

Lieutenant looked me sideways. “Sergeant, did you not hear me? I askedfor

Beachem. ”

Maybe he was planning to shoot Henry; nigger was nothing but a pain in the ass anyway, even to the lieutenant. But, I tell you what, when Green turned and glared at me, the look in his eyes scared me a little.

“Beachem, let’s go, ” he said.

Henry shot me a look I don 7 know what - help me, do something, I don 7 know. I just pointed up with my chin and gave him a sort o f smile. Feel like a right fool about that now.

“Go on, ” I said to him. “Go on. ”

Henry got up and straightened himself rearranged his gear on his back and around his waist. Green is standing there like he’s waiting for a date to come out o f the ladies ’ room. 270

“Come on, soldier, ” he said.

“Should we follow you, sir? ” I asked. Felt like puking, but it was an appropriate question.

Again, he turned and gave me that look.

“Cover us from here, ” he said.

So up that hill they go while the rest o f us hunkered down in the mud and covered

them. Rain coming down so hard it was hard to keep your eyes open. Like I said, it was a

stupid motherfucking war.

Fm watching them go o ff slogging through the mud and I ’m thinking, damn this is

some stupid shit they ’re doing. Cover us from here? I mean, it was not an easy position to

maintain: they were going uphill, hard to see. The hill itself was wide open - vegetation

on either side, but looked like someone once tried to put a road in and then thought better

o f it. What kind o f idiot is this Green anyway? What kind o f shit do they teach them at

West Fucking Point?

Time can do some funny things. I remember them taking a step and I started

counting. It’s something I do to calm myself. I counted off to twenty-one. And then boom!

The whole hill motherfucking went up. Me and my guys all flattened ourselves out on the

ground. And then I counted again, this time to four. That’s when mud and guts and pieces

o f metal and shit came raining down on us. Every time I replay those seconds in my head

it feels like hours. Funny, because I know it was seconds. I counted. It was seconds.

There must have been enough explosives in that hill to take out a herd o f cattle.

VC must have been at one time expecting a convoy or something. I ’ve never heard a 271

sound like that before. Loud, sure. But it was as if the boom echoed off of each drop o f

rain that fell. It got inside me that noise. It has stayed with me ever since.

Once the smoke cleared there was silence. Actually, I thought I ’d gone deaf it was

so quiet. Scary, scary silence. My guys looked at me all wide-eyed and mute. I ’m acting

like everything is ok. I took off my helmet and shook offfour inches o f crap. There was

nothing left o f the hill but a giant crater.

Silence.

While we couldn’t see anybody in the trees and there was no shooting, I just knew

that all o f a sudden the jungle was alive. I mean, the sound o f that explosion had to have

been heard for miles. Hard to reckon what the VC count might be, but I was in no mood

to stand and fight. I was eerie calm, running on pure adrenaline.

“We are getting the fuck out o f here, men, ” I said and motioned to my guys to follow me. They got in line right away. That’s how it works in the army: they were looking at me like I knew what I was doing; I was acting like I knew what I was doing.

They didn’t call me Plat-daddy for nothing.

We all crawled back down to a clearing, slowly stood up, and backed the fuck out o f there. Took us another hour or so to get back on the road then I ordered them to splay out, and walked back the three miles or so to camp. “Look sharp, ” I remember telling them as if that was going to a fucking bit o f good. We shot every motherfucking leaf that moved. I couldn’t believe what had gone down. 272

When we got back to camp, I reported to the CO and told him what happened.

“Did you carry them out? ” he asked me. “No sir, ” I said. “ Weren ’t nothing to carry out. ”

“I see, ” he said. “We 11 send a party in with bags tomorrow, see what they can find. ”

I ’d no sooner gone back to my tent, stripped off my gear, peeled off my clothes and stood in the shower and let the tepid water run over me when the CO called me back into his tent. Ifelt like a guest in my own body. I mean, I was able to get dressed and I was walking and shit, but I felt no connection to myself. Weren’t nothing to carry out.

Had never done that shit before, but heroin was sounding pretty good right now.

I get to the CO ’s tent and he’s all business. “Morgan, ” he tells me “Beachem was your report, I understand you knew him pretty well. “Yes sir, ” I said. I surely knew him pretty well. “Well, as such, ” he goes on, “I’d like you to write to his family. I ’ll get you the information. Perhaps you could pack up his stuff. And, by the way, I ’m also going to put in for a field promotion for you and make you commander o f your platoon. 2d Lt,

Robert Morgan. You deserve it. ” Then he stood there looking at me grim-faced. Iwasn't quite sure what to say, but all o f a sudden it dawned on me that Henry was dead, blown up to pieces and flung all over the jungle in this motherfucking country and I had all I could do not to cry or throw up. Fuck that stupid motherfucking lieutenant. Just fuck him to death. What was he thinking taking my Henry up that motherfucking useless hill?

White martinets like him were a dime a dozen. But I had lost one o f my guys, a special guy who had found his way into my head and heart against my better judgment and 273

efforts to prevent it, a troubled little queer nigger who I had taken on as a personal project. But this white captain kept staring at me and Ifinally managed to say “Yes sir,

thank you sir” or some shit.

I packed up Henry's things. I kept a pair o f his boxers and a couple ofphotos o f

him with some other guys. I shouldn ’t have done that, but I wanted to remember what he

looked like. I was struggling enough with there being no remains, nothing for his family

to bury. And then I sat down, took pen to paper, and wrote to Henry’s family. I told him

what a brave soldier he was, what a noble thing he was doing over here. Had to start the

letter about a dozen times as big fat tear drops kept hitting page and blurring the ink. I

wanted to kill myself. His poor family, poor me, poor America, poor Vietnam. What a

tragic waste!

Life went on. I not only packed up Henry’s stuff, but I packed up every shred o f emotion within me. Pinned on my lieutenant bars and went through my day like a machine.

The monsoon ended and so did my tour. Got back to the states, back to

Mississippi where no one wanted to see a black man no matter what he was wearing. I stayed in on base while I did all the things 1 needed to do to process out o f the army.

And then I was done. I retired from the army as an officer in 1968 after twenty years o f service. Twenty motherfucking years. I was 39 years old. Felt a hundred. I sure as hell wasn’t going to stay in Mississippi, so 1 went back to Chicago where no one gave a fuck about a Vietnam vet, especially not a black, queer one. Who liked pretty things. I ’d 274

been a long time gone, but I did know a little bit about the black drag scene in Chicago.

Or at least I thought I did.

My timing was exquisite. I got back to Chicago right smack in the middle o f the

1968 Democratic National Convention. There were hippies all over the place protesting the Vietnam war. Mayor Daley sent police out with dogs and tear gas and shit. The

Illinois National Guardjoined them. There were riots.

Where the fuck was I?

This was not my sweet home Chicago. I was afraid to wear my uniform outside.

Afraid! And I used to go skipping down alleys in mascara and high heels. I didn’t recognize the place any more. Talk about lonely. Talk about angry. And talk about feeling the fool - twenty years o f my life and two stupidfucking wars and no one cared.

I had worn that uniform with pride. It was my drab drag. I was a proud faggot officer. I had served my country in two wars. Two wars! In countries most people can’t find on the map!

My family closed ranks around me. I holed up at my mother's house and let her fill me with fried chicken until I thought I ’d burst. My father had passed. My brothers and sister all had me over and treated me like a hero. My nieces and nephews were respectful. They were growing up fine. Outside, white kids from other places were trashing Chicago and burning the flag. I didn’t know what the fuck to think.

I must admit, my family and I looked at each other like strangers. I had spent a few days with them over the years when I was on leave, but I hadn ’t spent extended time there since I left twenty years before. I know nothing stays the same, but it’s shocking to 275

see how much things change. My family had all stayed in Chicago; they had lived

through the changes. They treated me well, but Chicago just didn’t feel like home any more.

What did I want?

Lord, the first time I asked myself that I cried for two days.

I had convinced myself that the army was just a way to bide my time until I

figured out what to do with myself. But I made a career out o f it and stayed in for twenty

years. The army gave me a sense ofpride, a sense o f worth. I don’t think that wanting to

wear the uniform is contradictory to wanting to wear drag. Drag is just another uniform,

part o f a persona. I ’ve been yelled at and made to feel different all my life. In the army, I

did the yelling. I was in charge.

But what do I do now?

Well, what I did was put on some fresh lipstick and go downtown.

You see, the army had been a good thing for me for the most part. A very good

thing. But it was time for me to shake the army off.

The black clubs had drag balls twice a year. They were wonderful. I met some

nice people. I met guys in gowns and women in tuxedos. I started to tend bar, got myself

an apartment. I put a little act together, snappy patter, that kind o f thing. I was good at

organizing things, putting shows together.

But it was no good. Chicago just didn’t do it for me anymore. I was aching. I was

a different person. I had left Chicago a boy and returned a sad queeny vet faggot. And in

truth, I couldn 't get the war completely out o f my head. Months would go by and I d get 276

to a point where I ’d think I was ok and then I ’d wake up in a cold sweat screaming and seeing that motherfucking hill blow up all over again.

I was a sad, lonely old queen.

O f course, I didn’t come out to my family although I think they knew. They couldn ’t do anything for me anyway. A black family has quite enough problems without having to take on mine.

So I decided to do what many a faggot before me had done: pack myself up and go start a new life somewhere else. Somewhere else was LA for a couple o f years, but then I heard so much about San Francisco that I just had to come see for myself.

And that was that. Another twenty years gone by. I love it here.

You know, it took no time at all for me to get established and start putting on drag shows. I hit off right away with Mitch from the Belvedere. H e’s old school, we understand each other. And we ’re both veterans, we ’re both republicans. There was a time when it looked like Mitch and I were moving towards something other than business. But we never got there. I love him anyway.

Everyone thinks that Mama Snatch is just a nasty name I thought up and I like that folks think that. The name Mama Snatch comes from the feeling that I was snatched from the jaws o f death. Could have been me that day o f the hill all blown up until there was nothing left. And the Mama part, well, who doesn’t love their mama?

I love all these sissy boys, these glamorous faggots, these glorious drag queens. I want them to live long and be safe. And I ’m doing everything I can to do that, including carrying a purse full o f condoms. 277

They listen to me. This is my new platoon. I ’m Plat-mama now. 278

TWELVE

He had awoken early that morning soaked to the skin and out of breath. The sheets were drenched and his t-shirt clung to him as if he had gone swimming in it. He dreamt that he was running; he could remember that part. He couldn’t tell if he was running away from something or towards it. “Must be the dream,” Chip thought as he peeled off his t-shirt and stripped off the sheets. He put down a towel and went back to sleep.

He got up round one and went to make himself a Bloody Mary. “Who am I kidding?” he thought and he reached for a pitcher.

Sunday afternoon around two-ish a second Bloody Mary made Chip feel equipped to face the day or what was left of it. Sun peaked through the Venetian blinds. Chip peeked back. It was a beautiful day. Peter was always going on about the quality of the light in San Francisco. “Pretty,” he thought.

As Chip surveyed the wake of destruction in his apartment - clothes, cushions, and glasses everywhere - he vowed what he vowed many times before. “Never, ever bring tricks home.”

Chip collected glasses and bottles with his left hand while sipping from the glass in his right. Technically, Kenny wasn’t a trick, he supposed. He wasn’t exactly a boyfriend, but they had gone out a few times. They were friends he guessed, more than acquaintances at any rate. They had gone out to dinner and for drinks and gone home to their own apartments. No sex. That had happened at least twice, he figured. Other times, 279

they just tried to figure out a place to fuck. Sometimes in the club or outside it. But it was better in an apartment. Then they could really let loose. Every time he saw Kenny didn’t mean they’d have sex. But more often than not, they’d fuck. And, boy, when they fucked they made such a mess - next time, they’d stay at Kenny’s place. Amyl nitrate sure had a way of making every time feel like the first time.

“So I guess we’re fuck buddies,” Chip thought. Sweet guy, Kenny. What was it he did? Something in an office. A bank? Insurance?

Chip entered the bedroom and began picking clothes up off the floor. He paused over a pair of bloody underwear. His? Kenny’s? Did it really matter? He tossed it all into the laundry basket and headed back to the kitchen to make something to eat. While he burnt his toast, he considered the night before. Both he and Kenny had been really high last night and had each danced with six or seven guys before they kissed and danced and

Kenny suggested that they go somewhere more private. So they came here. It was closer.

Chip place was always closer, he realized. Maybe Kenny lived with a boyfriend. Chip paused to consider this.

Kenny would never spend the night. “Why spoil what we got by trying to make chit chat in the morning? Besides, neither of us is going to be looking too pretty,” he’d say to Chip. Chip would shrug; Kenny was probably right: why spoil it?

“Huh, I bet he has a boyfriend that dog. I need to stop this shit. I’m not getting any younger.” Chip decided after some thought. He felt a hundred. What would it be like to have a boyfriend? Would it be like hanging out with one of the guys with some sex thrown in? 280

But the next Friday night Chip was out and went home with another guy. And

another guy on Saturday. Neither night did the date stay until morning. Both mornings

Chip awoke panting and sweating and again he blamed it on a dream.

Sunday afternoon while peeing he saw something that freaked him out.

He went straight over to Jack and Gordy’s place.

Chip walked into their apartment, unzipped his fly, and pulled out his penis. “Is

this KS?” he asked Jack and Gordy.

“Come over into the light,” Jack said. Jack and Gordy took a close look at where

Chip indicated on the shank of his penis.

“No, I don’t think so,” Jack said. “I mean, I’m not sure what that is.”

“You should probably have it looked at,” Gordy said. “But it’s not KS. At least, I don’t think it is. But you should probably have it checked. Just to, you know.”

“Whew!” Chip said zipping up his pants. “Yeah, I’ll go see someone. Just showed up out of nowhere, you know? And then I realized that I’m not even sure what KS looks like in the beginning. You’d think I would, working where I do.”

Jack glanced over at Gordy. Gordy dropped his pants and lifted the leg of his boxers. He had a dense patch of raised purple skin on his right groin. “This is what KS looks like,” he said. “It’s looked like this the whole time.”

“Christ, Gordy,” Chip said. “I...”

“It’s ok,” Gordy said. “So far, it’s the only symptom I have.” He pulled his pants back up.

“Wow. How about you?” Chip asked Jack. 281

“I’m not pulling my pants down for you,” he said.

“Symptoms,” Chip said. “Do you have any symptoms?”

Jack sighed. “Night sweats,” he said.

“I have night sweats,” Chip said. The three friends gazed out the window. “But otherwise you’re fine?”

“Yeah,” said Jack. “Tired at the end of the day. But I work with wild animals.

Tired seems normal. Appropriate, shall we say.”

“I work with five year olds,” Gordy said. “Of course, I’m tired. And girl, I’m almost forty. So...”

Chip chewed the inside of his lip. He would say the only thing he had been able to think for weeks, perhaps months. “Should I get tested?”

“Well,” said Jack walking over to the sofa. “It’s something to think about, isn’t it?

It’s a hard decision. But probably. I mean, you should think about.” He sat down and pulled their cat Oscar onto his lap.

“I do think about it,” Chip said. “What gay man doesn’t?” It’s all he fucking thought about he wanted to scream.

“Both of us are HIV positive,” Gordy said quietly.

“I didn’t know that,” Chip said.

“Yeah, well. Neither of us has done much since this,” Gordy said pointing to his groin and joining Jack on the sofa. “I guess we’re living in a fool’s paradise. But we both feel great. So...” 282

“So, no news is good news. Or no additional news. We don’t want to be stupid.

But we don’t want to be one of those guys who get their t-cells re-counted every time their stomach hurts. We know a lot of people on anti-virals and a lot of them feel like crap. They think it’s the drugs. It’s hard to know what to do,” Jack said. He tugged on

Oscar’s ears. “What would you do Oscar? Do you want something to drink, by the way?”

“Have you seen a doctor?” Chip asked.

“For this?” Gordy said pointing to his groin again. “Yes. But this is the only symptom I have. The t-cells are what they are, holding steady. It’s weird. Usually KS doesn’t show up without other symptoms. Or so they tell me. What the hell do I know?

Weird. HIV is weird.”

“It is weird. And I feel like it’s just a matter of time,” Jack said quietly. “I mean, you know.” Gordy reached over and took Jack’s hand and squeezed it. “If more symptoms come up, we’ll deal with them. Start some regime. I don’t know. But, for now...”

“Yeah, for now,” Gordy said stroking the cat. “Right, Oscar?”

Chip nodded. “For now.” He felt like crying.

“You know,” said Gordy. “You really should get that checked out. I mean, you work in a hospital, there must be people you can go to.”

“I’m kind of embarrassed,” Chip said.

“Embarrassed?” Jack said. “Whatever for?”

“Well, I know all the doctors on the ward. It would be weird.” 283

“Weird how? That they’re going to know you’ve had sex? Honey, you’re a gay man. It’s what we do,” Gordy said.

“Plus there’s that incubation thing that’s so fucked up,” Jack said.

“Incubation?”

“Yeah, HIV takes its sweet fucking time to show up. Gordy and I have been together for over five years. There’s been no one else since then.” Jack nudged Gordy.

“Right?”

“Right!” Gordy said. “We are a boring old married couple.”

“Five years?” Chip thought. He considered what he had been up to over the past five years, all the men he’s been with, and his face darkened.

“Beer?” Jack said jumping up and heading to the kitchen causing Oscar to leap and head to the bedroom.

“You scared Oscar,” Gordy said.

“Sure,” Chip said stretching back in his chair. He looked out the window of Jack and Gordy’s charming apartment. The sky was beginning to tint a pinkish-lavender.

Wispy clouds streaked the sky. So this is what Peter was always going on about.

“Pretty,” he thought.

Monday, Chip went back to work.

He worked the swing shift.

It was nearly a quarter to eleven. Chip rolled the juice cart down the hall of Ward

5B as quietly as he could, although he knew that as far as noise went the juice cart was 284

hardly a culprit. There was a constant beeping and buzzing of equipment on this floor no matter what the hour, nurses coming and going. He couldn’t figure out how anyone got any sleep there.

For some weird reason, the ward at night reminded Chip of his father’s workshop.

When he was little, Chip was convinced that the ventriloquist dummies came alive at night and roamed around the house, spying on him, going through stuff, turning things on. If he ever awoke in the night he was certain he could hear them.

The dummies had always freaked Chip out a little. They were so life-like and they got so much of his parents’ attention: his father in the making and his mother in the dressing. His father sold a number of them but at any one time there were always at least fifteen or more on hand, not to mention his father’s work bench being covered with heads and arms and legs. Body parts.

His father considered the dummies to be his children, like some real- life

Geppetto. It wasn’t until Chip was grown and out of the house that he had any sense of how odd his household was.

“No, Chip,” Jack had told him. “It’s not you. It’s weird. Growing up in a houseful of life-like dolls that your parents talk to and dress and shit is weird. And I’ve seen that work bench you’re talking about. That would freak any kid out. Trust me, I know a little about weird. Your family? Sweet, but weird.”

Chip’s shift was nearly done; he peeked into rooms as he rolled by. Most patients appeared to be asleep, but many were not. For those who were awake, lying in dim light underneath a flickering television or a breathing mask or just staring out to space, juice 285

would probably be of little use or comfort. These guys were all on the ward until they

weren’t and when they weren’t Chip hoped it was because they went home.

“I don’t know how you can stand it,” David had said.

“It’s a job; it makes me feel needed.”

David shook his head. “It’s like being a conductor on the train to the afterlife. All

aboard!”

“Shut up, David,” Peter had said.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Chip said. “Really, I think it’s kind of an honor to be able

to work with these guys.”

“Well, I’m proud of you,” Peter said.

“Yeah, we are, too,” Jack said. “We are,” Gordy chimed in.

“Oh, Chip,” David said. “I’m proud of you, too. Of course I am. I just wish for

something a little better for you, doll. Something less... clinical.”

“Clinical?” Peter said. “What part of ‘shut up’ did you not get?”

Chip had been thinking about the conversation he had had with Dr. Flynn earlier.

Dr. Flynn, the famous Dr. Flynn. He had finally screwed up the courage to try and make an appointment with her only to be told the wait would be about four months. Unless it was urgent and then accommodations could perhaps be made.

“Is it urgent?” the receptionist had asked Chip.

“No,” Chip said. “I can wait.”

Chip was shocked that Dr. Flynn had noticed him much less knew his name. 286

“Have you ever considered going into nursing, Chip?” she had asked him that

afternoon.

“Nursing? No, not really. I mean, I got certified as a nurse’s aide so I could do

something other than lift patients on and off a gumey and make a little bit more money.

But I’ve never thought about becoming a nurse.”

Dr. Flynn gave a quick nod. “I see. Well, you have a really great manner with

patients, Chip,” she said. “You’re organized and efficient. And compassionate. All good

qualities for nursing. We could also really use more gay men in the profession. Especially

now.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m not sure I can handle that much school. I was a musical theater major,” Chip said and laughed a little.

Dr. Flynn shrugged. “So?

“So I’d have to take a lot of prerequisites. I’m in my thirties, I’m not a kid.”

Margaret Flynn smiled. “You’re still a young man - isn’t there a song that goes like that? You ’re still a young man... You’re not too old. Don’t think that for a minute.

Anyway, it’s something for you to think about. I can put you in touch with some people if you’re interested.”

Nursing? Chip shook his head. He thought about the conversation at Jack and

Gordy’s the day before. He was being stupid about his own health and he knew it.

Pretending nothing was wrong was a ridiculous way of handling the situation.

Nursing! 287

Still, despite or perhaps because of his growing concern about his health, what

Chip really wanted to do was fuck - everyone and everything. It took his mind off how futile everything seemed, how much of a loser he felt. How scared, how lonely. When he thought about the Westward Hos it felt like he had swallowed fire and all the bitterness would amp up and consume him.

Had it all been for nothing? The singing, the sewing. What was the purpose of it all?

“Are you on a points system or something?” Peter had asked him. “You seem to be fucking anything that moves.”

“They don’t have to move,” said Chip.

“Oh, honey, it’s not that bad, is it?”

“Well, it’s not all rainbows and unicorns. More like Quaaludes and bloody underwear.”

“Yes, well,” said Peter. “Dating isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Dating? Christ, Peter was so civilized.

Here was Peter, a success at...whatever the hell it was he did. Equipment leasing, limited partnerships, something like that. Stuff that involved a lot of money. He worked in a fancy office. He had staff. David was selling real estate. Real estate! And making a fortune. And even Jack, music teacher, Jack. Teaching in a high school. Helping to coach varsity baseball. Working with the scariest kids Chip had ever seen in his life - he had certainly never seen the likes of them in New Albany, Indiana. And living with Gordy, living as a couple, as good as married, with the world’s most adorable kindergarten 288

teacher. They had made a lovely little life together. Chip was happy for them; Jack

certainly deserved it.

“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” Jack said.

Chip loved Jack so much; the jealousy he harbored made him feel so guilty.

Where’s my safe landing? Where’s my happy ever after?

“And what if I’m sick?” Chip thought. “Fuck, what if I got it?”

Chip stood in the hall listening to the whir of machines, the soft murmur of

televisions. He looked at his watch: eight minutes to quitting time.

The hall was empty save for a lone shell of a man standing in his gown and

holding onto the pole of his rolling IV like he was riding some nightmare bus.

Chip had watched him the whole time he had walked down the hall: the man hadn’t moved. Why are the nurses letting him stay out in the hall like this? He looked barely strong enough to stand.

“Need some help?” he asked the man in the gown and the IV. “Do you need help

getting back into bed?”

The man looked at Chip slowly and then his eyes registered fright. “Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re in a hallway at San Francisco General, doll,” Chip rolled his cart up against the wall. “Let’s get you back to your room, ok?”

“I ...don’t... know,” the man said. “There... isn’t ...a.ny ....more.”

“Any more what, sweetie? Is this your room? Where are you supposed to be? Let me look at your wrist, what does your band say? James Sinclair. Hi, James Sinclair. This 289

looks like your room. Shall we get you back into bed?” Chip put his arm around the man’s waist. He felt like a child, so thin. “I don’t suppose you want some juice? I haven’t any vodka so what’s the point, right?”

“He’s ...gone,” the man said pointing to the other bed. “He’s ....gone.

Chip looked across the room. “Yes, he is,” he said softly. The man in the other bed had died a few hours earlier. “Can you walk? Can you take a step for me? Big step, attaboy.”

“I ...thought,” said the man.

“You thought? What did you think?” Chip gently lowered the man to the bed and then reached down to lift up his legs. He pulled the sheet over him and adjusted his pillows. “There,” he said. “How’s that? Good?”

“I... thought...if I... wasn’t...in this....b..ed...that...death...wouldn’t...be a..ble..to...f..ind....me.” He collapsed his head back on his pillow, exhausted. “He

.. .knows..,this..r..oom. Been...here.. .today.”

Chip looked at this tiny, depleted man. What could he tell him?

“I’m sorry it’s so hard,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you, James?

Anyone I can call to come?”

“J..immy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“CalLme.Jimmy.

“Ok, Jimmy. Who can I call for you, Jimmy? A relative? A friend?”

“My fr..iends are either sick...or dead.” 290

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m...not.” And he grabbed for Chip’s hand. “There’s...no...one.

Every...one...dead. Family..won’t...talk..to me. Hate me. No one. Just...me.”

Chip suppressed a sigh. “Well, I’ll stay with you for a while.” Chip said pulling up a chair. He folded his hands over Jimmy’s. “Maybe you can get some rest.”

“Thank...you. Thanks.” Jimmy’s face relaxed and he closed his eyes. He breathing was short and labored. Jimmy’s skin was waxen; he looked like he had been badly carved out of soap. A few wispy curls framed his withered face; Chip imagined that they had been luxurious once upon a time. He looked ancient, but Chip could see by his chart that he was in his twenties. He opened his eyes and looked intently at Chip.

“What is it, Jimmy? What can I do for you?” Chip said softly.

“My..m.other used to sing..this..s.ong.”

“Did she?”

“Do ...you..know...the song. Can...you...sing? Would... you...sing .. s..omething ...for...me?”

“Oh, Jimmy. You have come to the right place. I’d love to sing for you. What would you like to hear?”

“I...was...lit..tle. From...when..I ..was...little.”

“Sure, if I know it. If I know it, I’ll sing it. What’s the song?” Chip said like Mae

West.

“Je...sus... Loves... Me. Do...you...know..it? 291

Chip finally let go of that sigh and squeezed Jimmy’s hands. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Chip closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. He moved in close to Jimmy so that his mouth was very close to Jimmy’s ear and sang.

Barely an hour later Chip would ring for the nurse. She would place a stethoscope on Jimmy’s chest and then look at her watch. “Time of death, 11:57,” she would say.

Name: James Arnold Sinclair. Age: 27. Male, Caucasian. Religion: none listed;

Next o f kin: none. Cause o f death: complications from AIDS; disposition o f remains:

County.

At the bottom of the form, Chip wrote: A child of God.

f 292

THIRTEEN

Months raced by, a year. San Francisco became more familiar to Beth, but never

less weird. In Boston when you order a roast beef sandwich you got roast beef between

two slices of bread of your choosing. And if you want it, mustard and or mayonnaise. In

California, the same sandwich came with a whole side salad - in the damn sandwich - as

well as a big hunk of fruit on the plate. Beth was horrified to get cantaloupe juice on her

potato chips. Who wants that? And what is this sourdough bread nonsense? To Beth it

tasted like a mistake, like something had gone wrong in the baking process. The BART

train made you pay according to how far you were going, not a flat fare like the MBTA

(which is what God intended). Fortunately, Beth rarely took BART to venture over to the

land called the East Bay. She had heard that the summer weather was better there, but there were too many other things to fathom on the West Bay otherwise, ok only, called

San Francisco. And there’s a rainy season in California as opposed raining any old time

Mother Nature wants to (which is also what God intended).

Gay people were everywhere, day and night. And gay people were loud here. In all the gay joints there was shouting - hey, girl and all that - but also just yips and

screeches, noises that Beth supposed had been suppressed for a long time. Queers were glad to be here and they made it known. “Thank Christ I am no longer in

______(insert your city/state here). Beth knew the feeling: she was positively

giddy herself sometimes. 293

She had found a great place to live and a fabulous flat mate in Darlene, the wild

Floridian. Darlene, too, expressed incredulity about San Francisco. “This is the Wild

West, darling,” she drawled. “No place like it.” Darlene did gripe about San Francisco was all about guys, gay or straight. “But what place isn’t?” she said. And she complained about there being no swamps or gators. “What are you supposed to do with the body after you kill someone?”

She was probably pulling Beth’s leg. Beth never believed that Darlene was the yokel she made herself out to be. Clearly, she had San Francisco figured out. Darlene had managed to score a two-bedroom apartment for free just for doing maintenance and collecting the rents. “She’s an old dyke. She likes me. What can I say?” Darlene said.”

She charged Beth $300 a month - with the landlady’s approval - for the second bedroom.

Darlene also cleaned and emptied the coin cups at the landlady’s laundromat for which she drew a small salary, in addition to walking dogs and occasionally babysitting. All of it tax-free.

Darlene was doing just fine.

Darlene had helped Beth get oriented and find her way around. She introduced her to a bunch of fun gay bars. The Stud, the Trocadero, and the Belvedere. Beth adored the drag queens; they reminded her of her days at Howard Johnson’s and the generosity of the girls who used to come in. It was great seeing them strutting around in a town that gave them a lot more elbow room.

On her first Halloween in San Francisco, Darlene told Beth “I am about to blow your mind. Let’s go.” 294

“Where are we going?”

“To the craziest party you’ve ever seen.”

“Really? Should I put on a costume?” Beth asked going to her closet.

“Got one?”

“I could throw one together.”

“Like?”

“Waitress? Or...fancy party girl?” she said pulling out a thrift store cocktail dress.

“Either one,” Darlene said. “Well, maybe the fancy party girl. I’m going as a swamp rat. No one has ever seen a swamp rat so this will do,” she said putting on a sleeveless flannel shirt. With an eyebrow pencil she drew on some whiskers. “There!

Swamp rat! Don’t ask me where I got this,” she said throwing the eyebrow pencil in a drawer. “I don’t actually know.”

“You look more like a swamp cat,” Beth said. “Just saying.”

“Hmm,” Darlene considered this. “Swamp pussy, then. Swamp pussy! That’s even more excellent. Is there such a thing?”

“There is now!”

Darlene took Beth to Castro Street and she wasn’t kidding - it was the craziest party Beth had ever seen. The Castro was closed off to traffic and throngs of people filled the streets. Thousands hooting and singing, having a ball. It was like Mardi Gras for gay people.

“You weren’t kidding,” Beth said to Darlene.

“I never kid,” Darlene said winking. “Welcome to San Francisco, sweetie.” 295

Beth had also landed a fun, interesting job, kind of by accident, working at a small firm that leased all kinds of crazy stuff: planes, shipping containers, railroad cars. She was hired by this fabulous guy, Peter, who was more interested in her story than her skills. He needed someone to help him create marketing materials for these multi-million dollar deals he was putting together. “Is that something you know how to do?” he asked her.

Beth hadn’t a clue. “Absolutely!” she said.

“Excellent!” Peter had said. “A good marketer always answers ‘yes.”

She was hired.

And of course, there was Margaret.

Margaret!

Beth figures that she must have done something really right in a former life to deserve this miracle called Margaret Flynn. She tried so hard to play it cool and take it slow.

“You got a tiger by the tail, girl,” Darlene had said. “You might as well just roll over and let her devour you.”

“You think so?” Beth said. “I mean, I think I can handle this. I don’t think

Margaret and I need to rush into anything.”

“Bullshit,” Darlene said. “You’re picking out china patterns in your head already, aren’t you?”

“I can’t get her out of my mind.”

“See, you’re thinking with your clit. Admit it.” 296

“Well...yeah. But I love this place. I love living here with you.”

“Right,” said Darlene. “You’ll be living together in a month.”

Darlene was right. Within the week, Margaret was lobbying for Beth to move in with her. “I have tons of room. You even get your own closet!” she told Beth. “You will have to share a bed. But you get your own closet!”

It was so hard for Beth to move out of Darlene’s place; it felt like leaving home all over again. Darlene was such a dear and Beth felt that she owed her so much.

“Go,” Darlene told her. “Don’t worry about me. And you’re not going to get rid of me. Ever. You’re part of my tribe.”

The eighties hit the gay community with a vengeance. San Francisco’s gay rainbow was tinged with black at the edges. All the gay rags were filled with obituaries of the causalities from the new gay cancer.

“My family would call this the wrath of God,” Darlene said. “The wages of sin and all that shit.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Beth asked. “I mean, God doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“As God is supposed to be a man, probably not,” Darlene said. “But if God is really a woman...”

“Jesus, Darlene!”

“I know. It’s just that...”

“What?” 297

“That men gay or straight don’t give a fuck about women until the shit hits the fan and they need us. Then we’re all one big happy family.”

“You know, in Boston queers were queers,” Beth said. “Everyone was running for their life.”

“In Florida and in the South,” Darlene said quietly. “Men are men. Always have been, always will be. They have all the power. Women have shit.”

“This isn’t the South,” Beth said. “This is San Francisco and this is about us. This is about all of us.”

“And this is why I love you,” Darlene said.

By the time Beth and Margaret met in 1986, Margaret had already been working at San Francisco General Hospital for three years. She had been recruited for her unique blend of science and medicine, but her background in immunology was taxed by the vagaries of HIV. It just didn’t behave the way other diseases did which made it exquisitely hard to treat. As a scientist, the work thrilled her - no one had ever seen anything like this; every aspect of it presented a challenge. As a person, AIDS terrified her: the disease was predictable until it wasn’t, it responded to a drug therapy until it didn’t, it progressed quickly or slowly - counseling patients was excruciating. What the fuck do you tell them? Margaret imagined one of her brothers dealing with this. As a physician, what could she do?

There was a dizzying array of complex and often contradictory research being published about AIDS while an increasingly growing legion of desperately ill patients 298

presenting quixotic symptoms crowded her waiting room. The drugs were unproved, unreliable at best and extremely toxic at worse. Margaret had always relied on science to shine a light on best practices and treatment, but she like every other physician was constantly stymied by this disease. The frustration of being surrounded by so much suffering and not being able to ameliorate it made Margaret want to put a bullet in her head.

“What good am I?” she thought. All her AIDS patients fell into one of two categories: Dead and Not Dead Yet.

And right when she was just about at her wits’ end, questioning her ability as a physician and healer, she meets Beth, this pretty, punky, feisty Dotlj girl. The kind of girl her parents didn’t want her to play with because she was a toughie. While Margaret’s mother celebrated her independence and verve, she hoped that Margaret wasn’t pricing herself out of the market. She really wanted her Margaret to have a home and family and not go scaring off anyone who wanted to do that with her. Beth’s mother wanted that for her daughter as well and she didn’t mince words about it.

“What are you doing out there in California to find a husband?” she’d ask over the phone. “Are there any single guys in that fancy office you work in doing whatever it is you do?”

In Beth, Margaret had met her match. In Margaret, Beth had met her ideal mate.

They were exactly what each of their mothers wanted for them. Sort of.

13 Dot is Boston slang for the Dorchester neighborhood. 299

“One of Peter’s friends came into the office today. This guy, David,” Beth said to

Margaret over dinner. “He’s a realtor. And a riot.”

“A riot realtor? Really.”

“Yeah, really,” Beth said. “Very funny guy. He and Peter go way back. I actually think that they used to be an item. Anyway, David showed me some pictures of the houses he’s staging. You wouldn’t believe what these guys can do with space.”

“I have six brothers,” Margaret said. “I know what guys can do with space, believe me.”

“I mean, how realtors are making these places look. So lived in. So ‘move in ready’ as they say. No more just big, empty rooms. The houses now all look like whoever lived there just stepped out.”

“Were there wet towels on the floor in the bathroom next to splashes of urine?”

Margaret asked.

“No,” Beth said. “No, there were not. There were scented candles and fresh flowers.”

“Ah!” said Margaret. “Gay men’s bathrooms.”

“Exactly!” Beth said. “Anyway, they were lovely. It made me think about how nice it would be to have a house. A yard. All that.”

“It would be nice,” Margaret agreed. “We can actually afford that, if that’s what you’re hinting at. What would also be nice would be to have the time to hang out in a back yard. Christ, to have the time to hang out anywhere.”

“You work too hard,” Beth said refilling Margaret’s wine glass. 300

“Well, there is a health crisis going on, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Gosh, aren’t any other doctors in the whole wide world working on this?”

“A couple.”

“Maybe we can talk to David about what we’d like in a house,” Beth said.

“Maybe,” Margaret said sipping her wine. “You’ve already set something up,

haven’t you?”

It was over dinner in a very lovely restaurant that Beth said to Margaret: “I know

what I want in a house. A family. I want us to start a family. I want to have a baby.”

Margaret just about spit out her marguerita. “I don’t exactly have the right equipment to make that happen, sweetheart,” she said.

“Ha ha,” Beth said. “You’re a doctor for Pete’s sake. You know how babies can be made.”

“Jesus, Beth,” Margaret said. “You’ve met my family - all 300 of them. You know what my childhood was like. I just never pictured myself with kids. I’m just so happy with us.”

“I’m happy, too,” said Beth. “Why do you think I want to have a kid with you?”

“That doesn’t track for me, babe,” Margaret said.

“You’re right,” Beth said. “It doesn’t track. It makes absolutely no sense at all.

I’m almost thirty-six. I want a baby.”

“I’m forty years old,” Margaret said.

“I know how old you are,” Beth said. 301

“We’re lesbians!” Margaret said.

“Gosh, I know that, too. What else do you have to share, doctor?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Margaret said. She already knew that she had lost this battle. Chicks with red hair: she was powerless against them.

“Fair enough,” Beth said, “But when you are, I’ll do all the work. I’ll get pregnant. I’ll carry the baby.”

“And what do I do?” Margaret said.

“Be a parent,” Beth said pulling a brochure out of her bag and pushing across the table to her. “But before that read this. We need to make an appointment and start looking at donors.”

“I should have known,” Margaret said signaling to the waiter to bring her another marguerita.

Peter’s annual Christmas open house had morphed from cheese and crackers to a full blown catered affair. It was his chance to bring people together that he felt should know each other. He was delighted that his star employee and her partner Margaret were using David as their realtor.

“I’m looking forward to finally meeting Margaret,” Peter said to Beth.

“’’She’s looking forward to meeting you, too. Say, is it ok if I also bring an old friend of mine? She gets kind of mopey around the holidays and I think your party will cheer her up.”

“Of course,” Peter said. “The more the merrier.” 302

“Wait to you meets Peter,” Beth said to Darlene. “He’s such a trip. He’s so

accessorized; he has a melon bailer on his Swiss Army knife.”

“What’s a melon bailer?” Darlene asked. “Or do I even want to know that?”

“It’s a scoop for making balls out of a melon.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?”

“It’s fancy... I don’t know. I was making a joke.”

“Oh,” Darlene said. “Is this ok?” she asked holding up a red sweater. “I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your fancy friends.”

“It’s fine,” Beth said. “And they’re not so fancy. They’re just very, very gay. Our realtor David’s feet just barely touch the ground, if you know what I mean.”

“Queeny,” Darlene said.

“Big cha-cha queen,” Beth said. “But he’s great. I like him a lot.”

“Let’s go jingle those bells,” Darlene said walking out of her flat with Beth to join

Margaret waiting for them in the car.

“Wow,” Darlene said as they pulled up in front of Peter’s place. “Nice house. He lives here all by himself?”

“Yep,” Beth said. “Come on, let’s wassail.”

Peter greeted them at the door wearing a reindeer sweater. “Merry Christmas!

Welcome!”

“Great sweater, Peter,” Beth said after introducing him to Margaret and Darlene.

“Thank you,” Peter said. “I wore it especially to piss off David.”

“Didn’t work,” said David striding over. “Didn’t notice.” 303

“Right,” said Peter. “You notice if I have a hang nail. Come in, come in. Let me get you a drink.”

“Nice house,” said Darlene as she, Beth, and Margaret walked into the living room. “Very, very nice.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. “I have a friend who’s a realtor.”

“You have friends?” David said.

“You know, you look familiar,” Darlene said. “You both do. Do you live in Cole

Valley? Or the Haight?”

“I pretty much have always lived in the Castro,” Peter said.

“And I live in the Oakland hills,” David said. “Over yonder. No one goes there.

No one,” he said looking pointedly at Peter.

“It’ll come to me,” Darlene said. “I know I know you guys from somewhere.”

“The guys are here,” David said looking towards the door to see Chip, Jack and

Gordy arrive.

“Hey guys!” said Peter. “Merry Christmas! What are you drinking? Help yourself! Take your clothes off! Make yourself at home!”

“Wow!” said Darlene pointing to Chip. “Now, you look really familiar. I was just telling Peter and David that I think I know them from someplace. I think I know you, too.

And you!” she said looking over at Jack. “Wait a minute, this is driving me nuts.”

“What’s going on?” Beth asked.

“I swear I know these guys,” Darlene said. “You know how when you know you know someone from somewhere but can’t remember where? It’s making me crazy.” 304

“It’ll come to you,” Beth said watching Margaret make her way around the buffet.

“I’m going to grab a plate.”

“Well,” said Peter sipping a martini as Beth walked away. “We did all used to be in a band together.”

“Yeah,” said Chip pouring himself some wine. “But I doubt if you’d have seen us.

No one else did.”

“What was the band?”

“The Westward Hos.”

“The Westward Hos? You’re kidding! Oh my God! The Westward Hos! I loved you guys!” Darlene gushed.

“Really?” said Chip, clearly flattered.

“Yeah! You guys used to play at the Belvedere, right? Western swing. I love

Western swing. You guys were the best!”

“Well, thanks!” said Peter.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Chip. “That’s the first time this has happened.”

“That what has happened?” asked Beth coming back with a full plate.

“That anyone knew who we are.”

“Who are you?”

“The Westward Hos!” shouted Darlene. “These are the Westward Hos!

Remember I used to tell you about them? The Westward Hos? How great they were?

These are the Westward Hos! I can’t believe it,” 305

“Can’t believe what?” Margaret asked coming into the room with her own full plate.

“Well, hi Chip! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hi, Dr. Flynn,” Chip said. “Good to see you.”

“Oh, call me Margaret, please.”

“Ok. Hi, Margaret.”

“How do you know Chip?” David asked Margaret.

“From the hospital. Small world.”

“Indeed,” said Peter. “Your friend Darlene here is one of the six people in the world who has ever seen us play.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Darlene. “You guys were great. I bet you had a following.”

“Yes, we were usually following some lip-synch drag act,” said David. “Those were the days. Is the Belvedere even still there?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Jack. “We’re in bed by ten o’clock. Boring old married teachers.”

“Beth,” said Margaret. “This is kind of amazing. These guys were in a group together once that Darlene used to go hear. You work with Peter, I work with Chip, and

David is finding us a house.” She turned to look at Jack. “Surely, there must be a way that Beth and I know you.”

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Play baseball?” 306

“Or tuba?” said Gordy. “I’m Gordy, by the way,” he said extending his hand.

“This is Jack. We’re partners. He teaches music at Mission High and coaches the baseball team. I teach kindergarten. Now we’re all caught up.”

“I like baseball,” Margaret said. “Tuba, not so much. But I can be persuaded.”

“So, are you all from Indiana?” Beth asked.

“Alas, yes,” David said. “Although Jack here started out in Minnesota.”

“Please don’t hold that against me. Indiana or Minnesota.”

“We won’t,” Margaret said. “God, I love these kinds of coincidences. Did you know Beth and I grew up barely a mile apart, but didn’t meet until we were out here? I

love when these kinds of connections happen.

“It’s a small world, as they say,” Peter said. “Isn’t there a song..?”

“Don’t,” said David raising his hand.

“Looking through these profiles is getting creepy,” Margaret said tossing down the one she was looking at. “These profiles read more like they’re from a dating service than from a sperm bank.”

“It would be easier if we knew somebody, I suppose,” Beth said.

“What do you mean ‘knew somebody’?”

“Someone willing to donate.”

“Sperm?” Margaret asked, slightly shocked.

“Well, yeah,” said Beth smiling. “We have the womb part covered.” 307

“That could be creepy, too. Not to mention awkward. ‘Hey, how have you been?

Got some sperm we can have?”’

“You know, for a doctor, you really can be clueless.”

“What do you mean? Do you have someone in mind or something?”

“Actually,” Beth said tossing the profile she was looking at back onto the pile. “I do.”

Margaret was pensive while she drove Beth in to have her first ultrasound.

“Do we want to know the baby’s gender?” she asked. “We don’t have to find out.

We can just check to make sure everything is going ok and have the sex be a surprise at the birth.”

“I’m ok with that,” Beth said. “I like surprises.”

“It’s a little too early to determine the baby’s sex now anyway,” their obstetrician told them as Beth got up onto the table. “Most people want to know nowadays. I think it’s very cool that you want to be surprised.”

“I like surprises,” Beth said.

“Surprises aren’t my favorite things,” Margaret said. “But it this case, I’m ok with it. In fact, I like the idea. All its life this child will be identified by its gender. I think it’s nice that it has a period where it’s just ‘baby.’”

“I agree,” their doctor said. “Now, just lie back and let’s see how things are going,” she said to Beth. “This is going to feel a little weird,” she said has she smeared 308

jelly across Beth’s stomach. “Ok,” she said rubbing the wand through the jelly. “We have a picture!” she said gesturing to the monitor. “There’s your baby’s head. And there’s... another head.”

“Another head?” Beth said.

“Our baby has two heads?” Margaret said, stricken with panic. And at that Dr.

Margaret Flynn, renowned immunologist, fainted to the floor.

On April 22, 1991 at 4:57 am Patrick Martin Flynn-Quinn gave out a lusty cry after filling his lungs with air for the first time. Eleven minutes later, his sister Erin

Maureen Flynn-Quinn did the same thing. Each baby weighed in at just over five pounds, had all their fingers and toes, a shock of red hair, and was perfect in every way. The new family - mothers and babies - spent the night piled together in a mound of pink, exhausted, and grateful flesh. 309

FOURTEEN

Peter placed the morning paper beside his fresh squeezed orange juice and French press. The little breakfast nook in his house on Casselli in the Castro soaked up the gorgeous spring morning light. It made Peter feel like he was in an Impressionist painting. David really had done right by him finding him this house.

“You made it easy by having such good numbers,” David had told him. “Banks can be leery of single people. Especially men. Especially now.”

Peter took a sip of juice and scanned the headlines. Unpleasantness. Everywhere unpleasantness. Iran and Iraq were battling it out. It was so hard to figure out what the conflict was all about. “Honestly, I don’t know how those people tell each other apart,” he thought, and then stopped himself. “Shame on you, Gunn. You’re starting to sound like David.”

He opened the paper up and flipped through a few pages of local news. His eye came to a halt over a headline: Gay Bar Owner Beaten and Robbed. “The elderly owner of the popular gay bar The Belvedere was robbed at gunpoint and then beaten by two men shortly after closing time on Tuesday night, San Francisco police have reported. The owner, 79 year old Mitch Bimbaum, was taken to San Francisco General where he is listed in critical condition.”

“Mitch! Holy crap!” 310

Peter picked up the phone to call Chip to go look in on Mitch and then stopped himself. Chip wasn’t working at General any more. Chip wasn’t working anywhere. Peter hung up the phone.

He considered calling Margaret, but she didn’t know Mitch. “And she’s a busy person. I’ll go see him tonight,” he thought.

He thought about Mitch all day. “That old bastard, that rascal. I hope he’ll be ok.”

Seventy-nine? Wow. Hard to believe that any gay man is seventy-nine.”

After work, Peter drove over to the hospital to see Mitch. He stopped in the

Castro and picked up a copy of Blue Boy for him on the way. “Let’s see if this will make his donkey run,” he thought.

Peter wandered the labyrinth that is San Francisco General until he found Mitch’s room. Peter hadn’t seen Mitch in more than five years. He seemed so tiny and frail and every day of his seventy-nine years.

Johnnies are a great equalizer. Everyone looks like crap in them. Peter reminded himself of that as he walked over to the bed. He saw that Mitch’s eyes were closed. He didn’t want to wake him so he turned to leave.

Mitch’s eyes popped open. “Who’s there?”

“Hi Mitch. It’s me, Peter Gunn. Pixie. From the Westward Ho’s.”

“Really? Peter!” Mitch said shaking himself awake. “Darling, Peter! You came to see me? How sweet of you. How fucking sweet.” He reached over for the bed controls and raised up the head of his bed until he was sitting. “Well, let me get a good look at you. You look great! No kiss? I’m not contagious. Just old,” he said offering his check. 311

Peter leaned over and kissed Mitch on the check and then his forehead. “I’m glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you! Look! I’m not dead!”

“I read about what happened to you in the paper and wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Not dead!” Mitch said throwing open his arms.

“I see. That’s great! I also wanted to see if there’s anything I can do.”

“Make me twenty years younger. No, thirty. Make me thirty years younger.”

Peter laughed. “I wish! I’m so sorry about what happened. Do you know the guys who hurt you? Do the police have any leads?”

“Leads, schmeads,” said Mitch waving his hand. “The little pricks beat up an old man and stole maybe $400. The police aren’t going to drop what they’re doing to go find these schmucks.” Mitch adjusted himself in the bed. “I didn’t recognize them. They didn’t look gay, you know what I mean? They looked Mexican. Not that Mexicans can’t be gay, but you know what I’m saying? They looked like thugs. Young Mexican thugs. I suppose they could have been Filipino. Who knows? What a world!”

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked.

“I’m sore, but not too bad. This is the worse part,” he said pointing to the bandage on his head. “Eleven stitches and a concussion. And this is sprained, not broken,” he said pointing to his bandaged left wrist. “They say a sprain can be worse that a break. Makes no sense, but what do I know? They take all kinds of precautions on account of my age.

I’m almost 80 - did you know that?” 312

“I didn’t. I’m glad you’re not doing too bad. The paper listed you as critical.”

“It’s the age thing. I’m going to be ok. I’m almost 80.”

“Good. I brought you something,” said Peter handing him the magazine.

“Ooh,” said Mitch ogling the cover. “Nice! I’ll save it for later. It’s not chocolate so these Nazi nurses will probably let me keep it. Did you know I’m diabetic? I’m diabetic.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“Yeah,” he said pointing to the night stand. “Could you put one of those bendy straws in that cup and fill it with ice water? It’s so dry in here. It’s like Arizona. Ever been to Arizona?

“Yes.”

“Dry as fuck, isn’t it? Dry as fuck. Who’d want to live there?” Mitch took three long pulls from the straw.

“They’re probably going to let me go home day after tomorrow.” Mitch shook his cup to indicate that it was empty and handed it back to Peter to refill.

“Really?” Peter said handing back the refilled cup. “Will you be all right? Is there anyone to look in on you?”

“I’ll be fine. They’ll be a visiting nurse or some such bullshit. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you have family out here?”

“No. I have some nieces and nephews in New York, but they don’t want to have anything to do with their faggot uncle.”

“That’s too bad. And how about.. .financially. Are you ok?” 313

“Ha!” said Mitch. “Am I ok? Well, the bar is closed. And I might keep it that way. I’m too old for this shit.”

“Can you afford to do that? How will you live?”

“How will I live? One day at a time - isn’t that what they say? I’ll be ok.”

“But with the bar closed... do you get social security?”

“A little. But, you know, bars are a cash business and you always play it fast and loose with the tax man if you know what I mean.” He winked.

“So, what will you do without income, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind. Ask me anything! Christ, I’d kill for a cigar.” He sipped his water demurely through the straw. “You know, I do own the building. I live upstairs.”

“You do? How many apartments?”

“Four, including mine.”

“So you’ve got some income.”

“So I’ve got some income. Fuck my nieces and nephews.”

Peter laughed. “You sly dog. Good for you.”

“Yeah, good for me,” he placed the cup on the night stand. “So tell me about you and your friends, tell me about the other Ho’s”

Peter brought Mitch up to speed on his career. “Fancy,” said Mitch. “Very nice. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but I’m proud of you.”

Peter then went through what Jack and David were up to. Mitch seemed impressed. 314

“Real estate. Teaching. Such respectability! But the other one. The big one with the big voice. Heidi? What’s she up to?”

“Chip,” said Peter. And his eyes welled up with tears.

“Oh, no” said Mitch softly. “Is he sick?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “He’s sick.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Mitch.

“Thank you,” said Peter. “I’m sorry” he said wiping away tears. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Mitch. “You love your friend. That’s a beautiful thing.

He’s lucky. You’re lucky. You’re both lucky.” He fiddled with the bandage on his wrist.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” he said. “As you can see, the world isn’t exactly beating a path to my door.”

“I’m glad I came,” Peter said. “It’s good to see you. You know we all had a ball at the Belvedere.”

“Yeah, it was some fun, wasn’t it?” said Mitch. “Those were the days. Yessirree.

Those were the days. And now all this,” he said waving his hands.” This hospital is full of guys with AIDs, did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Sad. All those beautiful boys. Well, this is the alternative,” he said pointing at his face. “Not a pretty picture.”

“You’re not so bad,” said Peter patting Mitch’s arm. 315

“What are you, blind?” Mitch said, taking Peter’s hand and squeezing it. “Hey, drop by and see me when I get home. I’d love the company.”

“He owns the building?” David said after Peter told him about Mitch’s injuries..

“Retail plus four apartments? Christ, that must be worth a fortune. I could help him unload it or just lease the bar to someone else. Either way, he could afford to move out to a really nice place somewhere. If he wanted to. The old bastard. Who knew? He always looked like a derelict.”

Peter could see that David was madly doing calculations in his head. “Down boy,” he said. “I don’t think Mitch is looking to sell. I think he likes it there and wants to stay. The idea is to make him comfortable and let him stay at home.” He reached over and patted David on the knee. “You know, he’s actually a sweet old guy.”

“Mitch? Sweet?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Peter continued. “He’s lonely. A little scared. This whole robbery freaked him out more than he wants to admit. And his health isn’t the greatest.

No one wants to die alone.”

“Saint Peter,” said David.

It truth, Mitch was a very sick man.

In addition to the diabetes, Mitch had high blood pressure and pulmonary fibrosis from years of smoking cigars. 316

“Sucking on cigars is killing me,” he told Peter when he came to visit. Mitch’s apartment building was, indeed, in a pretty funky neighborhood, but his apartment was lovely: tastefully decorated and full of natural light.

“Seems like sucking on anything kills you nowadays. What a world!”

Mitch turned off the television. “All this fighting over oil. Everyone worried about running out of natural resources. You know what resource people should be worried about running out of? Kindness. It’s in short supply. Worth its weight in gold.”

He took the cup of tea that Peter offered him. “But I guess we’ll never run out of it as long as you’re alive Peter, sweet boy. What did I do right to have you wander into my life right when I needed you?”

Peter smiled. “I’m only after your money, you know that.”

“Of course. Why the fuck else would you be interested in a shriveled old Jew like me?”

Mitch put his tea down on the little table beside his chair and with some difficulty got up and walked over to his stereo. “What shall we listen to?” He selected an album, and took it out of its jacket. “This is one of my favorites,” he said as he put the record on the turntable. “I hope you like it. I like opera. Do you like opera?”

“I do.”

“It’s so faggy,” Mitch said easing himself back into his chair. “But I love it.

“When the season starts back up we should go.”

“Go to the opera? You’d take me to the opera?” Mitch said clearly tickled.

“Why not? It would be fun, don’t you think?” 317

“It would! Can we get all dressed up?”

“Of course.”

He got back out of his chair and toddled into his bedroom. “I have the perfect outfit!” “Ha! That would be wonderful. Like a date,” Mitch said returning into the living room carrying a blue serge suit. “Think it will still fit?” he said holding it up. “I used to love getting dressed up. People will think you’re my son. Or worse, my nurse. Well, fuck

‘em.”

“Fuck ‘em.”

Mitch draped the suit on the back of a chair. He went back into his bedroom and returned with an arm full of neckties. “Does your friend like opera? Chip? Does he like opera?”

“He does. He loves all music.”

“Bring him! We’ll make a threesome!” Mitch tossed a tie against the suit. “What do you think? Hah! That’ll really give people something to talk about. Hah! Fuck ’em!

Fuck everyone!” Mitch said chuckling. “Oh,” he said stopping suddenly. “Will Chip be able to go? Is he well enough?”

“We’ll see,” Peter said and he felt his chest tighten.

The San Francisco Opera went on strike for the first part of September 1990, but fortunately not for the show Peter had purchased tickets for. The tickets were for

Wozzeck, by Alban Berg, an opera about the military, madness, and murder.

Mitch loved it; Chip didn’t make it. 318

It had been an intense spring and summer for Peter and Mitch provided him with

a much needed distraction. Peter shopped for Mitch and drove him to all of his doctors’

appointments. It was a little bit like hanging out with his father, if that had been

something Peter had ever done.

His own father had been so disgusted initially when he found out Peter was gay,

but then so proud later on when Peter was such a success. Their relationship had

devolved into a handful of safe topics to talk about.

“How’s your car running?” his father would ask.

“That’s how you say ‘I love you’ to your son in Indiana,” Peter would joke.

“Especially if he’s queer.”

Peter got someone to clean Mitch’s apartment and make him lunch. The two of them had dinner or saw a movie at least once a week. Who knew that such a grumpy old guy could be so delightful?

Mitch died on the first day of Hanukkah in 1990, barely seven months after his accident, but long enough to turn 80. He had changed his will just five weeks before his death.

He left Peter everything. 319

FIFTEEN

David stepped over to the window that looked out onto the street below. He was sipping a glass of very mediocre white wine. He considered making a remark about the supermarket chardonnay but thought better of it; he needed to calm down and collect himself. He had been squabbling with Peter’s ridiculous boyfriend, Ignacio

- “Nacho”- and if Nacho said one more idiotic thing he might have to drop him to the floor and kick him around like a ball. David knew that this was neither the time nor the place; Chip’s parents were expected soon.

Chip!

David watched a cab pull up outside the building and he drained his glass.

“It’s show time, girls,” he said turning from the window. “The Joads are here.”

“Right,” Peter said. “Right.”

“Right, what?” said David.

Peter pursed his lips and looked at the one person that, if truth be told, he cared most about in the world. “Chip’s parents are here. And we need to talk to them.” And reached over and took David by the hand. “Really talk to them.”

David nodded and shrugged as Jack leapt from the couch.

“I’ll go tell Chip,” Jack said as he skipped towards the bedroom. “Ok?” he said turning to the group.

“Yes, go,” said Peter. He turned to David. “This could be...weird,” he said.

“Help me here.” 320

David shrugged again and plopped down on the couch. “Of course,” he said.

“You can count on me. Do you have a plan?”

“Not really,” Peter said.

“Why will it be weird?” Nacho interrupted.

“Because they haven’t seen Chip for a while,” Peter said quietly. “I don’t think they fully appreciate how sick he is.”

“How sick is he?” Nacho asked.

“He’s.. .dying,” Peter whispered.

“Dios mio! ”

“Oh, for Christ sake,” David muttered. “Donde esta tu cabeza, chica? Su culo?”

“Que?” said Nacho spinning on David. “Que?!”

“Guys!” said Peter. “Please!”

Jack slowly opened Chip’s bedroom door. Chip was sound asleep; he hated to wake him. “Heidi honey,” he said softly, “Your folks are here,” He walked to the windows and opened the shades. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said.

Chip opened his eyes and for a moment didn’t know where he was, an occurrence that was happening with increasing frequency. He flailed a bit in the bed.

Jack placed his hands on Chip’s back and rubbed slowly. “Hey sweetie,” he cooed. “Your parents are here.”

“They’re here?” he said hoarsely. Chip struggled up on his elbows and sighed.

He wanted to just lie back down but he willed himself to sitting. 321

“Yep, they’re just coming up.”

“Christ, 1 must look like a derelict.”

“You look fabulous,” Jack said. “They’re going to be so happy to see you.”

“Should I shave?” Chip said running his hand over his face. The KS on his

neck made it hard to get a close shave, he’d let his beard go for a few days and act like

he was doing it on purpose.

The sight of Chip’s thin wrists always made Jack stifle a gasp. “No, the stubble

makes you look outdoorsy. Manly.”

Chip smiled. “Rugged,” he said.

“Exactly,” Jack said. “Let’s just brush out this bed-head of yours a little bit and get you a fresh t-shirt.”

“Ok,” Chip said and raised his arms in the air like a little kid so Jack could pull his shirt over his head.

Naked to the waist it was painfully plain how ravished his body was. Chip had always been sensitive about his size before he got sick; now he looked a deflated, depleted version of himself.

“Poor little Biafra boy,” Jack thought as he pulled the clean shirt over Chip’s head. “Jesus Christ.”

“There!” he said. “Perfect! Ready to get up?”

“Give me a minute,” Chip said. “I have to think about standing before I stand.”

“So,” Peter said gesturing to David and Nacho. “Are we good?” 322

“Great,” said David.

Nacho said nothing but stood sullen faced with his back against the wall.

“These guys treat me like help,” he thought. “Well, at least, this guy” meaning

David “does.” True, Nacho didn’t pay much attention to Chip - he was always sick,

looked like hell, and was never any fun - and he had not met Chip’s parents before. He

hated meeting parents. Nacho was already jealous about the relationship the four guys

had with each other, all their inside jokes. He hated thinking that the relationship

extended beyond just the four of them, that they knew each other’s families, that they had

known each other for years. But he supposed that was the price he paid for free rent and

other niceties from his mijo Peter. Maybe if he could pass the equivalency test he could

get Peter to spring for art school.

When Chip’s parents entered the apartment, Peter greeted them like old friends.

“Mr. Maffey,” Peter said. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Call me Hiram,” Chip’s father bellowed refusing Peter’s handshake and opening his arms out for a hug. “And call Mrs. Maffey, Dolly. That’s ok, isn’t it?” he shouted

looking at his wife.

“Absolutely!” Dolly said looking around the room. “It’s good to see all you boys again.” I don’t think I know you, though, do I?” she said walking over to Nacho. “I’m

Chip’s Mom, Dolly.”

“Ignacio,” Nacho said taking her hand. “But choo call me Nacho, hokay?”

“What?” Chip’s father yelled.

“Nacho,” Peter repeated. “His name is Nacho.” 323

“Nacho.” Chip’s father yelled. “I like that. Nacho.”

“Who doesn’t?” said David. “Remember me?” he said as he walked towards

Chip’s parents with open arms.

“David!” Chip’s parents said in unison.

Nacho gave a demur smile and pulled Peter into a comer. “Why is this man shouting? His son is dying in the next room - why is this man shouting?”

“He’s deaf,” Peter said. “He doesn’t know he’s shouting. He can’t hear himself.”

“I can hear him fine. All San Francisco can hear him, dios mioT

David leaned over to Nacho. “Hey Charo,” he whispered. “Why don’t you go make us some bean dip or something?”

“I hate choo,” Nacho hissed.

“Girls, please,” Peter said. “Really, Fru?” he said to David. “Now? You want to pick a fight now?”

David rolled his eyes and folded his amis.

Peter turned to Nacho. “You know, sweetie, it would actually be kind of helpful if you could bring out the rest of the snacks. Give us a chance to catch up. Be a dear?”

“Hokay. But for choo, not for heem,” Nacho said and slunk into the kitchen. i Peter put his arm around Dolly and led her over to the sofa. ‘You know,” Peter said. “I’m just realizing how much Chip looks like you.”

“What?” Hiram shouted.

“He said that Chip looks like me.” 324

“He got her looks and brains,” Hiram chuckled. “I’m just one of the dummies. I make ventriloquist dummies, you know.”

“I remember!” Peter said. “Here,” he said patting the sofa. Come join us.”

“What?” said Hiram.

“Come sit down, Hiram” Dolly shouted.

“Ok,” said Hiram taking a seat.

“No, over here! Come sit with us over here!”

“Ok,” said Hiram moving to the sofa. “What was wrong with that chair?”

“So,” Peter continued. “When was the last time you saw Chip? May?”

“Yes, that’s right. May,” Dolly said smoothing down the front of her pants suit.

“What is this?” said Hiram waving a cracker over a bowl. “Onion dip?”

“It’s hummus,” said David.

“It’s what?” Hiram said.

“Hummus!” shouted David.

“Humus?”

“Hummus!” David repeated.

“Hummus? What the hell is ‘hummus’?”

“It’s...” Peter began.

“Oh for Pete’s sake, Hiram, it’s a dip!” Dolly said. “Eat it or don’t eat it. Stop making such a fuss!”

“Ok..,” said Hiram. 325

“Anyway,” Peter said. “You know, he’s had a bit of a rough ride the last month or

SO.

“Well, yes. He was in the hospital, but he didn’t want us to come out. We should

have come out,” she said to Hiram.

“What?”

“I said we should have come out when Chip was in the hospital!”

“He didn’t want us to!” Hiram shouted.

“Yeah, well,” Peter continued. “It took a lot out of him. He’s been having trouble

getting back on his feet. He’s lost a lot of weight.”

“I see,” said Dolly.

“A significant amount of weight,” David said.

“How much weight?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Forty, forty-five pounds maybe?” Peter replied softly.

“Goodness, forty pounds!”

“Forty what?” Hiram shouted.

“Forty pounds, Hiram!” Dolly shouted. “Chip has lost forty pounds!”

“God, he must be skin and bones!”

“Well, yeah, he’s quite thin,” Peter said. “He’s also... Well, the thing is it just makes it that much harder for him to stave off any infection.”

“Of course.”

“He’s very frail,” David said.

“I see.” 326

“That’s why I thought it would be good for you to come out now.”

“Yes,” Dolly said thoughtfully. “We’re glad you suggested it,” She smoothed down the front of her pants suit again and looked around the room. Such interesting things Chip had - so many records, lots of art books, statutes of men. Were they African?

When she looked back at Peter and David she saw them staring at her intently.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell us?”

“Well. Yes. I don’t know exactly how to say this,” Peter began. “Things aren’t ... looking so good for Chip. I just don’t think, the doctors don’t think... that his body can take a whole lot more. One more big infection or even not so big infection and... well...”

“His health has been severely compromised,” David said. “You see, his immune system...”

“What?” Hiram shouted.

“They say that Chip is dying,” Dolly shouted.

“Dios mio,” Nacho could be heard saying from the kitchen.

“He’s dying? Well, hell - didn’t you think we figured that out? Let’s go have a look at the boy.”

On September 11, 1991, Chip awoke just before dawn was breaking. He was

wearing the pajamas his mother had just brought him. She had made them. They were

a soft, light blue flannel. It would have been so much easier to have just bought him a

pair. He fingered the piping on the cuff and almost cried.

Such a lot of work, so beautifully done. 327

He was looking forward to the day ahead for a change. His parents had come to town the day before. It was good to see them and they seemed to be dealing with his situation pretty well. Their brave Indiana faces didn’t betray any fear or sadness. They were as solid as trees and about as demonstrative. Neither of them gasped when they saw his thin face or flinched when they embraced his ravaged body. Chip was happy to see them, as happy as could remember being about anything in a long time. He reflected on how they were aging. It made him smile. “/ must look like death,” he thought.

As Chip tried to sit up in bed, he knew immediately that something was very wrong. He placed his hand on his chest. It felt like a fistful of quarters had lodged at end of his throat and were dripping molten metal into his lungs. He dropped back down against the pillows and tried to catch his breath. He closed his eyes.

By 7 a.m. when his home healthcare worker arrived Chip’s breathing had become labored and shallow and his skin was waxy and cool. The nurse sat with him for a few minutes and tried to get him to open his eyes. By 7:40 the nurse was on the phone to his parents’ hotel and to Peter. Just after 8 o’clock, Chip developed a low gurgling in his lungs. By 8:45 Peter, David, and Jack had gathered around Chip’s bed.

Jack sang a little bit of Patsy Cline’s Crazy to him. Chip was unresponsive. His parents arrived a few minutes after 9 a.m. Chip’s eyes fluttered open for a moment and then shut again. At 10:11 a.m., Chip took one tiny sip of air and at 10:13 gave his final exhale. He was 40 years old. 328

It took gallons o f semen to launch one, brave little sperm bobbing and weaving

past hostile flora and obstacles as it pluckily made its way up the vaginal canal

through the cervix to fertilize that one lucky egg which had endured its own perilous journey through the fallopian tubes into the uterus. That fertile egg would result in the

creation o f the being called Hiram Maffey, Jr.

It took oceans o f semen to kill him. Wave upon wave, the semen seeped

through the tender lining o f his rectum delivering its Trojan horse. HIV did not take

over his immune system like an invading army, but rather like stealthy ninjas killing

offT-cells one by one and replacing them with replicas o f themselves. Killing offT-

cells until there were none, until Chip’s immune system was like a field covered with fresh snow and each incoming germ made an indelible foot print measuring his trudge

along that Last Mile to his death.

First there were the night sweats, then the weight loss, then the oddly shaped

black dot behind his ear which turned into a very large Kaposi’s sarcoma lesion, then

another one on his chest, then on his face, then on the sole o f his foot. Then there were

the bouts ofpneumocystis pneumonia. And o f course, the chlamydia, first on the roof

o f his mouth, then under his arm pits, and then in his testicles. With each opportunistic

infection, the host was awe-struck until all o f his organs and systems were so hunted, so injured, so exhausted that they ceased to function.

Except for one.

Although he was incapable o f testifying, he came to know however briefly that what they say is true: the hearing is the last to go. In Chip’s last moment, the producer 329

o f that happy-go-lucky sperm that had gone to all that trouble to create him placed his mouth against Chip’s ear. First, warm, moist breath delivered by a quick, shallow inhale. And then that familiar voice, clear as water, loud as thunder, said:

“Chip. It’s Dad.”

In the hours after Chip’s death, his parents discussed taking his body back to

Indiana for burial.

“Oh, Dolly,” Peter said. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“He loved it here. Things didn’t always go his way, but he never regretted coming. I believe that one of Chip’s greatest accomplishments was coming here, coming to California,” Peter said.

“And bringing us with him,” Jack added.

“Really?” said Dolly. “Was Indiana really all that bad?”

“It’s not that Indiana was that bad,” David said. “It’s that here is so much better.”

“I... don’t understand,” Dolly said, suddenly getting upset. “Indiana is home.”

“Was home,” Peter said.

Through her tears Dolly looked at these three handsome boys. She had known them for over twenty years. She knew what they were. Both she and Hiram knew what they were. And what Chip was. They knew. Of course they knew. And they knew that

Chip didn’t get sick by someone sneezing on him. Oh, how she had prayed that God 330

would change him and then hate herself for asking. Change Chip? Her Chip, her

wondrous boy? He was so perfect! She had just wanted to save him from a hard life, a

shadow life. She had never imagined this. How could anyone imagine any of this? But

then, she knew about that Ryan White14, an Indiana boy, a normal boy, and all of this

had happened to him, too. Came to him through blood, not by - Dolly closed her eyes.

She had loved her husband and they had had so much sex to conceive their one and

only child. So much sex. And the world, the straight married Indiana world, applauded

them for it. Hurray! You have had lots and lots of sex and it resulted in the creation of

a child. And now that child has had lots and lots of sex and it has resulted in the death

of him.

These boys were right: Chip did not belong in Indiana.

She nodded and wiped her eyes and sighed.

“Did he ever talk specifically about what he wanted?” she asked.

“I believe,” said Peter. “That he wanted to be cremated.”

“He saw release in that,” Jack said quietly. “We actually talked about it quite a

bit. He saw himself being released from all his body had experienced through the fire

of cremation.”

All that he had experienced. Dolly nodded some more. Goodness.

14 Ryan White, December 16, 1971 - April 8, 1990, was a hemophiliac who contracted AIDS as the result of a blood transfusion in 1984. AIDS was little understood then and Ryan was expelled from his Indiana middle school forcing his family to move from Kokomo and search for a community that would accept him. The family eventually settled in Cicero, Indiana. Ryan gained the national spot light when his cause was taken up by a number of celebrities including Michael Jackson, Phil Donohue, and Elton John. His legacy continues through a number of AIDS charities that have been funded on his behalf. 331

“Do you suppose,” she said. “Do you think that I could maybe take some of his ashes back to Indiana with me? There was a place by the river that we used to walk when he was little. I walk there still. It would be I think... I think it would be a comfort to me to know a little bit of him is still there. Do you think that would be all right? Do you think he’d mind?”

“I think Chip would like that very much,” Jack said.

“Me, too,” David said.

“So do I,” Peter said. SIXTEEN

In the days after Chip died, all Peter could manage to do was get up, go to work,

and come home. He had no time for Nacho, especially when he grew petulant because

Peter wasn’t paying attention to him.

“Listen doll, I’ve just lost one of my dearest friends. “I’m not in the mood to go

out.”

“But I am!” Nacho insisted. “What about me?”

This was kind of the last straw for Peter. Yes, David and even Jack had long been

nagging him about Nacho. Peter had finally begun to suspect that Nacho viewed him as

an aging blank check. When Peter cut him loose, Nacho spewed a lot of pent up

resentment in an almost nonsensical Spanglish, huffed, spun around and minced out of

the house as if she was Joan Crawford dragging a fur behind her. Nacho prided himself

on being a good read of his viejo rico. “You’re so sad, mi todo. Let me suck your dick,”

he had said after Chip died. The fact that Peter pushed him away should have been a sign.

He should have seen this coming. “Maldita sea, I thought I could get more out of him!”

Peter watched from the doorway as Nacho missed a step on the walkway and

landed face down on the pavement.

“And he’s not even in heels,” Peter thought.

Peter would be the first to admit that Nacho had been a mistake. A beautiful, expensive mistake. He was no Einstein, that was for sure, but he was lots of fun. David hated him, of course, just hated him. David hated all of Peter’s boyfriends, but there he 333

had special kind of vitriol he kept for Nacho. When Peter was dating a guy from

Kentucky, David would say things to the boyfriend like “So, dirt floors, what’s that

like?” and “Does squirrel really taste like chicken?” But eventually, they would make a

truce and there would be peace. Until the next boyfriend came along and it would start up

all over again.

“You’re such a catch,” David would say to him. “Why can’t you hang on to these

guys?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because they sense you’re part of the package,

darling boy.”

“And what a package!” David would purr.

It was different with Nacho, though. David took the venom and the sniping to a

new level of bitchiness. Of course, David was thrilled when Peter told him they had split up.

“Oh, thank God!” David said. “I never, ever understood what you saw in him.”

“Admit it,” Peter said to him. “The boy had a body like Adonis.”

“And a brain like adobe,” David responded. “He was illiterate in two languages.

Peter grimaced. He knew that David was right.

“At the least you could have put him in a maid’s uniform and gotten some housework out of him.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little racist, David?”

“A little racist? I meant it to be a lot racist. I must be losing my touch.”

David, David, David,” Peter thought. “You can take the boy out of Indiana...” 334

“Anyway,” David continued, strolling about the room. “Good riddance. You need

to start dating grownups. Date someone your own age, for Christ’s sake.”

“There aren’t many of them left,” Peter said, readjusting himself in his chair.

“And, you know, Nacho was a lot of fun. You remember fun, don’t you?” and David

leaned down and kissed Peter on the lips. He looked him in the eyes and rubbed his chest.

God, Peter,” he said, “You have all this money now since Mitch died. You could get anyone.”

“That’s a significant part of the problem,” Peter said.

“Remember when we could barely make rent?” David said.

Peter nodded.

“I’m going to stop by Jack and Gordy’s,” David continued. “See how they’re doing. See if those little lambs need anything. Jack’s been looking a little peaky, don’t you think? I’m not sure this new drug regime is all it’s supposed to be. I’m not sure they’re eating right. I’m going to bring them some veggies and tofu. And vitamins.”

“You are just a little golden ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Peter said.

“It’s why I’m here,” David said. “If you ate better, maybe you wouldn’t have that pooch. By the way, you need a haircut.”

I love you, too,” Peter said as David walked towards the door.”

“These are dead,” David said pointing to the flowers in the hall as he waved over his shoulder with his other hand.

“Bye, sweetie,” Peter said. 335

It seemed like a whole life time had passed since Christmas when the Hos were all together and they were all getting to know Margaret and Beth as a couple. Of course, they all knew that Chip was sick then, but Jack’s illness was a surprise to Peter and

David.

“Why are you keeping this shit a secret for us,” Peter complained. “We’re your family!”

Even after Jack had told them around Valentine’s Day 1991 that he had been diagnosed, he seemed so robust. Chipper, in fact.

“Gordy and I have started a regime,” Jack had said. “We’re very diligent.”

“Good for you!” Peter said.

“That’s the spirit,” David said.

“We’re going to just keep plugging and doing what they tell us until they find a cure,” Gordy added. “And I think that’s going to be sooner rather than later.”

“Absolutely!” Peter said.

“That’s what I’m hearing,” David said.

Of course, David had got to know Margaret and Beth through selling them a house. He ended selling houses to a number of Margaret’s colleagues as well. He was really drawn to Beth and Margaret. He rarely hung around women, but Beth and

Margaret were a smart, fun couple. But what David was really the most interested in was the children. That kind of blew his mind. He had always regarded children as simply shit and snot machines. Perhaps it was his age; he had never heard of a thing as paternal instinct, but maybe such a thing existed. Or maybe it was because his own family was so 336

skewed and damaged that seeing a semblance of normalcy at close hand was so

appealing. He couldn’t say. He was even developing a fondness for their hillbilly friend

Darlene.

Together, he and Darlene threw Beth and Margaret a baby shower after the twins

were bom.

“I had no idea a baby needed so much crap,” David marveled.

“In this case, times two,” Darlene added. “Although I’m not sure they really need all of this stuff. What’s this, for example?” Darlene said holding up a plastic contraption.

“Breast pump,” Beth replied.

“Oh my God!” David shrieked.

“Jesus!” said Darlene dropping it to the floor

In the summer of 1991, David had hired a decorator to turn his Oakland Hills house into the dream home he imagined.

“You’re turning into Martha Stewart,” Peter teased. % The house gave David a welcome distraction from the horror of watching what

AIDS was doing to Chip. Peter had Mitch; David had his house.

And after Chip died, David was over at Beth and Margaret’s all the time.

Margaret, Beth, and babies were the first family David had ever sold a house to.

“Gay men don’t pay any attention to how many stairs there are or how easy is it to get into the lower cabinets.” he said making his way through baby toys on the floor. “Maybe they should.” 337

Margaret watched bemused while holding one of the babies. She kissed the baby’s chubby hands and removed them from her necklace before the baby could strangle her. The baby farted and then let out a magnificent belch.

“Goddess,” Margaret said to her.

“I like this one, what’s it called again?” David asked peering into the baby’s face.

“Erin and it’s ‘her’. She seems to like you, too,” She said as she handed the baby to him. Erin grabbed for David’s nose. “God only knows why.”

“She has good taste. Don’t you, Erin?” David said as he took Erin’s hand and gummed on it. “Erin. Is that Irish or something by the way?”

“Or something,” Margaret said “I love watching you pretend to not like kids.”

“Oh, they’re cute and all but they’re so hard to go clubbing with.” David said.

“When’s the last time you went clubbing, princess? 1982?”

“1984. Oopsy - do you have a cloth or something?” he said as Erin burbled over the front of his shirt.

“And he’s calm under fire, too,” Margaret said handing him a cloth.

“Oh please,” David said. “It’s just a little spit up. It’s not like she’s had fourteen beers and has been eating turkey tetrazzini. I don’t think these are the bodily fluids that everyone is so freaked out about.” David wiped off Erin’s chin.

“You know, I pretty much saw it all when Chip was sick,” he said quietly. “This is nothing.”

He rocked Erin. Look at her! Look at this little nugget! She seemed so familiar beyond her own little baby self, she seemed like someone David has known his entire 338

life. “I know that Chip hasn’t been gone for very long, but I miss him so much,” David said. “We were all so young when we met. And there he was - such a force of nature. So very talented. So sweet. He seemed so sure of himself. I never thought anything could stop him. We were all going to be famous and live forever.” He paused, collecting himself. “We all would have followed him anywhere.” Erin gurgled up at him. “We did, I guess. Thank God it was San Francisco!”

“I miss him, too,” Margaret said. “It’s been strange not seeing him walking the halls at the hospital. Not being able to chat with him. That’s my favorite part of the day, chatting with staff. “

David looked at her and feigned shock.

“It’s true -staff see things that we clinicians are blind to. They are so on top of what is going on with patients.” She smiled. “And it was even stranger when he became a patient. Which happens, it happens a lot, sad to say.” She adjusted the front of Erin’s sleeper. “In my practice, I get to meet so many great guys. And then...” Her voice trailed off. “My job often breaks my heart.” She said in barely a whisper. Margaret rubbed her hand over Erin’s little bald head. “It wasn’t just anything that happened to Chip, David. It was everything. Everything happened to Chip.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It really was everything. And he was everything. He’s the reason I’m here.” He lifted the baby up for a kiss.

“Here,” he said passing Erin back to her. “I don’t want to cry on the baby.” 339

On Sunday, October 20, 1991 just before noon, David Pearson stepped out onto his deck overlooking the wooded East Oakland hills and watched ash drift down and settle on his swimming pool. He sniffed the air. “I don’t smell it,” he thought.

“Must be all the coke I did back in the day.”

He had stayed in the night before listening to music and reading. He was in bed before eleven but slept fitfully and awoke sweaty and feeling queasy and out of sorts.

It was very still and hot. He spent the morning sipping ginger ale, watching the increasingly alarming news reports of the fires spreading through the hills on the other side of town, and wondering what might be causing the odd tingling in his left arm. “I must have slept on it wrong,” he thought.

By noon the news was showing people packing stuff, kids, and animals into cars and evacuating North Oakland. According to the map on television he was safe where he was; there was no need for him to panic or flee. The tingling in his arm had turned to numbness and his chest had tightened and it hurt to breathe. He considered driving himself to the emergency room, but decided instead to dial 911. Just as the recording that said “Due to the high 911 call volume caused by the fire emergency in the Oakland hills, we are unable to take your call. Please hang up and try your call again later” had begun, his glass of ginger ale slipped out of his left hand. It shattered on the travertine floor sending ice and shards of glass in every direction. His decorator had advised against the travertine saying that it was not in keeping with the country cottage look David was going for. As David fell to the floor he could see, finally, that his decorator had been right. Lying on the floor and clutching his chest, he thought “I should have called

Peter.” And then he died. He was 44 years old.

PETER

I had been calling David for hours that Sunday afternoon. His line was always

busy. Ifigured that the phones were all screwed up because o f the fire. I knew his

house wasn’t in danger, but I thought he might want to get away from all the

commotion and come stay over here. When I couldn ’t get ahold of him I assumed he

went to stay with his realtor friends at the Russian River or someplace. I assumed he

was ok. In my wildest dreams I never could have imagined that my David could have a

massive heart attack and just drop dead.

When his phone was still busy on Monday and I was told that he had neither J c< called nor showed up at his office I began to get worried. I drove over to his place late

Monday afternoon and found him there on the floor. It was shocking. Ten years later

it’s still shocking. Ten years from now I expect it to continue to be shocking. We had

lived through the very worst o f it or so I thought and Ijust expected that we would be *

a couple o f old queens together. At his memorial service I had accused him o f wanting

to die while he still had his looks. Everybody laughed, especially those who knew him from the early days, because they knew I was probably right.

David, Fru, honey, you were my first love and I have never loved anyone like I

loved you. I will never love anyone like I loved you.

Bitch. 341

ii r 342

SEVENTEEN

After David died, Peter could barely function and Jack felt the inside of himself

leaking out. He felt that all the dreams that he had carried from Indiana were finally

welling up and pouring out of him like sewage.

“Chip was right, there’s nothing left,” Jack wept to Peter. “And now this. Now

David.”

“You have a great life with Gordy,” Peter told him. “You need to hang on.

They’ll find a cure for this. They will.”

“David didn’t even die of AIDS,” Jack wailed. “He wasn’t even HIV positive.

He was a healthy young man. It makes no sense.”

“Well, apparently he wasn’t so healthy,” Peter said. “Apparently he didn’t

follow his own advice.”

Beth took David’s death especially hard. “He had kind of become a member of the family,” she said.

“True. But you know, it’s kind of an important but ironic reminder that gay men can die from something other than AIDS,” Margaret said to Beth. “They’re human first, gay second.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Beth said. “But do we really need fucking reminders like this? I mean, what the fuck is wrong with God?”

“I kind of think we do,” Margaret replied. “And what God?” 343

As 1992 was beginning, Jack began having a recurring dream. He dreamt that

his penis sprouted legs and walked off his body, out of his apartment, and into the

street. His penis walked through all the old haunts and up the ass of every trick he ever

had. His penis was on stage again with Westward Ho’s, wearing a little cowgirl dress,

singing up a storm. After the show, Hi, David, Peter, and his penis had a few drinks, did

a line or two, and laughed, laughed, laughed. Then his penis came walking back to him.

Before it nestled back down between his legs his penis blew Jack a kiss and said “This

is it, Jacky boy. We’re done.”

“What do you suppose it means? “ Jack asked Gordy.

Gordy shrugged and held Jack close.

On a rainy Tuesday afternoon in late April of 1992 while the twins were

napping, Beth called Margaret at her office.

“Peter left a message on the machine while I was putting the twins down to say

that Jack is back in General,” she said.

“Oh no,” Margaret said. “Did Peter say what was wrong?”

“Not really, just that Jack was having a lot of trouble breathing.”

“Damn it and I’m not at the hospital today. Could be the pneumo again.”

“Could be. I asked Darlene to sit with the kids for a couple of hours tonight so we could go see him. Oh wait, there’s another call. Hold on a sec, sweetie.” Beth clicked the phone to take the other call. It was Peter. 344

“Hey you, I have Margaret on the other line. We’re planning to go see Jack in the

hospital tonight. Will you be there?”

“I just came from there.” Peter said.

“Oh, really? How’s Jack?” Beth asked.

Peter let out a long exhale. “He’s dead. He died about two hours ago.”

PETER

Getting out o f Indiana seemed so hard because it was. it fucking, was. We were

running for our lives and once we got to San Francisco, we thought everything was going

to go on forever. Who knew that forever would be so short?

Being in the Westward H o ’s was the most fun I ever had or ever deserved to have.

Jack was crazy, but he was a wonderful musician, a beautiful soul, and a true friend.

Now h e’s gone.

Everyone’s gone.

I have truly left Indiana.

Jack’s sisters, Cyndi and Michelle, were as straight as rulers. They were younger than Jack by eight and six years respectively, but they looked like they could have been

his mother. Rigid, terrified, and with their heads firmly up Jesus’s ass where it was too

dark to see any vestige of humanity in anyone. Their Christian duty, as they saw it, was to

let homosexuals know that everlasting damnation was their fate. 345

Why, just look at what happened to Jack.

They knew no shred of good would ever come of Jack’s lifestyle and they told him so the two times a year he called them - Thanksgiving and Christmas. Their mother had been telling them that the wages of sin was death since they were little girls. Of course, they never thought God’s wrath would strike so close to home. What a waste!

Jack had such talent - why did he go and squander it and move to this sinful town and take up with a man. A man. Then goes and gets himself cremated like a dog. Well, he lived like one so perhaps that was fitting and gave him a taste of the fires of hell that he would experience for all eternity.

The sisters looked like a 1950s version of spinsters, hair in a tight perm, faces in a tight grimace, although both sisters were married and had seven children between them.

Uncannily, disturbingly, they looked like Jack, too.

Gordy was a little surprised - no, make that shocked - to see Jack’s sisters show up for Jack’s memorial service. Peter, kind-hearted Peter, had gotten in touch with them.

Gordy assumed that they were staying in a hotel somewhere. He wished he knew where.

He felt like he should reach out to them, get to know them a little before they went back home. They were practically family after all.

They sure as hell made no attempt to reach out to him, sitting hatchet-faced and stoic and ill at ease.

“I can put you in touch with them later,” Peter said. “Give yourself some time.

They’re not looking too... receptive right now.”

“God, what these women could have learned from Jack about style,” Gordy said. 346

“I know, they make Cinderella’s evil stepsisters look glamorous,” Peter said.

Gordy, of course, had been by Jack’s side in the hospital when he died and had been staying with Peter ever since. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be in the apartment without Jack just yet.

The memorial was a simple one - Jack didn’t want a fuss made or a lot of planning. They had it at Peter’s house. It was simple and lovely. There were teachers and some students from Jack’s school who placed a Mission High baseball cap beside Jack’s picture and a couple of old queens from the Belvedere days who shared some stories about the Westward Hos. Peter and Gordy sang a quiet, a cappella version of the Beatles’

In My Life bringing everyone to tears who wasn’t already crying. Gordy felt confident that Jack would have been pleased.

“A little boa, a little baseball, a fitting tribute to a nice Midwestern boy who liked other nice Midwestern boys,” Gordy said.

“Agreed,” said Peter kissing Gordy on the forehead.

Two days after the service, Gordy told Peter that he was going to go over to the apartment. “I want to look around, see if it might be time for Oscar and me to go home,” he said hugging the cat. “What do you think, buddy?”

“Play it by ear,” Peter said. “See how it feels. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. No rush.”

When Gordy called he was so hysterical that Peter could barely understand him. 347

“His sisters are taking everything!” Gordy screamed. “They’ve already packed up all his clothes and books. Those were our books! All the kitchen stuff is gone!”

“Calm down,” Peter said. “Where are you?”

“I’m at a coffee shop down the street from the apartment,” Gordy said. “The people here all think I’m mental. Oh, Peter, I don’t know what to do!”

“I’m on my way,” Peter said.

“He’s not on the lease,” Cyndi said matter-of-factly. “This was Jack’s apartment.

These are Jack’s things. We are Jack’s family, his heirs.”

“This was our apartment,” Gordy moaned. “We lived here. This was our home.”

“You heard my sister: you’re not on the lease,” Michelle repeated. “You have no legal right...”

Wait a minute,” Peter said. “Legal right? Really? Do we need to talk like this?

Ladies, like it or not, Jack and Gordy were a couple. Lovers. Do you understand? They lived here together. This is their apartment. These are their things.”

“Not according to the lease,” Michelle said.

“Look, you seem like a nice guy,” Cyndi said. “I take it you’re one of them. Too bad. Jack was a sinner. He lived contrary to God’s law. God punished him. End of story.”

“2 Thessalonians: They will suffer the punishment of eternal destruction,”

Michelle said. 348

“Amen,” Cyndi said. “It’s too bad Jack never saw the light. It’s too bad that he had to suffer the way he did. It’s not too late for you, though,” she said wagging her finger between Peter and Gordy.

‘“On account of your unclean lewdness, I will satisfy my fury upon you,’ Ezekiel

24:13,” Michelle said.

“Amen again, sister. Yes, it’s all too bad. But he’s gone now. We need to close up this apartment and dispose of his things. We need to move on,” Cyndi said.

“We need to get back to Minnesota,” Michelle said.

“Finally you’re saying something I can agree with!” Gordy sobbed. “Please let me have some time with his things. Please let me keep some of his things. This sweater - 1 gave him this sweater,” he said holding up a green v-neck. “We both wore it. We shared clothes!”

“I’m sorry, no,” Cyndi said emphatically. “You see, we’re his...”

“I live here!”

“Not any more. We’re his next of kin. We’re sorry. Truly, we are. We can see that you’re suffering. But you’re not on the lease. This was Jack’s apartment. We’re emptying it and getting his security deposit back.” Cyndi folded her arms across her chest and

Michelle did the same.

“What am I supposed to do?” Gordy said.

Cyndi shook her head; Michelle shrugged.

Gordy tried to calm himself. “Ok,” he said. “I’m not on the lease. You’re right.

But don’t you see, this is our furniture! Ours! And now this is everything I have in the 349

world!” Gordy sat on the sofa and sobbed. Oscar was mewling and hissing from his carrying case.

Cyndi’s face softened slightly. “You can prove that this is your furniture?”

“Can you prove that it isn’t?” Peter said. He sat down beside Gordy and put his arm around his shoulder. “What were you planning to do with everything anyway? Take it back to Minnesota? What are you planning to do with all his stuff?”

“Well,” Cyndi said. “We might keep a few things.”

“Sentimental value,” Michelle said.

“The rest we’re selling,” Cyndi continued. “In fact, someone is coming today that does estate sales to take it all away.”

“We’re entitled to some compensation after all,” Michelle said.

Gordy lost it. “You’re entitled? You’re entitled? You wouldn’t have anything to do with Jack. He reached out to you. Long before he knew he was sick he reached out to you. He loved you. You were his little sisters.”

“I think I see where this is going,” Peter said. “Compensation is a concern?” He reached inside his coat and took out his check book. “I think we can settle this equitably.”

He opened his checkbook on top of a stack of boxes.

“Do either of you have a pen?”

Cyndi took the check from Peter. She and Michelle stood in silence and looked at it and then they looked at each other.

“Well then,” Cyndi said finally. “I guess we’re done here.”

“We’ll pray for you,” Michelle said. 350

“You just bought back stuff I already own,” Gordy said. “You are the sweetest

man on earth.”

“It was the only way we were going to get rid of them. Especially once I saw what they were after. Parasites. Sanctimonious hypocrites. Hard to believe they are related to a

dear, sweet guy like Jack.”

“Thank you, Peter. I didn’t know what else to do. They just showed up and started taking things.”

“All they wanted was money. They didn’t give a fuck about Jack. I’m so sorry this had to happen, Gordy.”

Gordy stood and took Oscar out of his case and held him tight. Oscar showed no interest in being put down on the floor.

“The truth is now that I’m here and looking around, I’m not sure I can keep the apartment. First, I’m not sure I can afford it by myself, but more importantly, I’m not sure I want to still live here without Jack. So many memories. This was a happy place for us. Until it wasn’t.” Oscar moaned in Gordy’s arms. “What do you think, baby?” he asked the cat. “What should we do?”

“Don’t worry about money,” Peter said. “If you want to stay here, I’ll make it so you can afford it. If you want to move, I’ll help with that, too.”

“You’re so sweet, Peter. Thank you.”

“By the way, I made that check out to Cyndi. I’m going to have fun imagining her telling Michelle “Well, you’re name isn’t on the check...” 351

“Oh my God, you’re right,” Gordy giggled. “That’s just wonderful.” He kissed

Oscar. “That is just so great.”

Peter felt as if he had aged ten years when he returned to his office. After so many deaths in such a short time, he had hoped work would be his solace. He just was finding it hard to get enthused about making a lot of money for people who already had too much of it.

“These women had just gotten the keys from the landlord, went into the apartment, and started packing things up. It was the most outrageous thing I had ever seen,” Peter told Beth over lunch. “Poor Gordy, he was positively apoplectic. Those fucking women!”

“That’s horrible,” Beth said. “Unfortunately, not unique. It’s not the first time I’ve heard stories like this. “

“Seriously?” Peter said. “These kinds of things are happening?”

“All over the place. All the time, unfortunately. And most people don’t have a

Peter to save them.”

“That is outrageous. Outrageous!” Peter stabbed at his Caesar salad.

“What’s Gordy going to do?”

“Well, he can stay with me for as long as he likes. He can change his mind and move back to the apartment. Too bad we don’t have David to find him another apartment,” he said softly. “The thing is Gordy doesn’t want to live alone. But he doesn’t want to get a roommate and live with a stranger, you know?” 352

“1 can understand that,” Beth said. “I’m not sure I’d want to live alone either. I mean, I’d have the kids still, but you know what I mean. That apartment has a lot of memories for him.”

“Exactly. I actually think I’d take comfort in that. But everyone’s different, I guess. I just don’t want him to rush into anything.”

“You know,” Beth said scrapping the sprouts off her sandwich. “I know someone who is looking for a flat-mate. She’s had bad luck with roommates ever since I moved out. No one stays for more than a few months. I think she’s lonely. She’s queer, she’s quirky, she’s sweet. I think she and Gordy would make a good team.”

“Who is it?”

“Actually, Gordy already knows her. They met at your house at a Christmas party.”

“Darlene?”

“Yes, Darlene. It’s a wonderful flat. She’s a wonderful person. Odd, but wonderful.”

Peter chewed his salad thoughtfully and then smiled. “You know, it could work.

But it’s up to Gordy, of course.”

“Of course.” 353

EIGHTEEN

“It’s open!” Beth called out. “Come on in!” *1

Darlene opened the front door to Margaret and Beth’s house and stepped inside.

“Hi, Auntie Darlene,” Patrick said as he bounded past her.

“Hi, Patrick.”

“Hey Darlene! Watch out for Mia Hamm here,” Beth said.

“Whoa, never a dull moment,” Darlene said ducking a soccer ball Erin had just kicked across the room.

“Outside!” Beth yelled. “Outside with the ball! No balls in the house!”

Erin stopped mid-kick, shrugged, picked her ball up, and went outside.

“Sorry about that,” Beth said picking up the cereal box Erin had knocked off the table. “Are you ok? She knows not to do that. She might have been showing off for you.”

“No problem. I am unscathed,” Darlene said. “I’m flattered if she was showing off for me. Do you really think that’s what she was doing?”

“Oh, who knows what goes on in that child’s head? There’s not a lot of impulse control there.”

“I can’t picture Patrick doing that, that’s for sure,” Darlene said.

“No, Patrick would want you to help him load a nuclear warhead onto a rocket he’s building.”

“Sounds about right,” Darlene agreed. “Where is he off to, by the way? He practically knocked me down when I was coming in.” 354

“Did he? Sorry! He has important business in the garage apparently.”

“I see,” said Darlene. “Do we need to notify the authorities?”

“Got ’em on speed dial.” Beth smiled at her old friend. “How are you?”

“Good,” Darlene said taking a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m good.”

“How’s Gordy?”

“He’s... so-so. He was sick most of last week and that gave him the sads. Peter took him up to Napa today, maybe that will cheer him up.”

“Poor baby. If not the drive, then maybe the wine,” Beth said. “Speaking of which...” She pulled a bottle of white from the fridge and waved it at Darlene.

“Wine?” Darlene said.

“Just kidding,” Beth said and reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer. She handed it to Darlene. “Happy Saturday.”

“Happy Saturday,” Darlene said twisting off the cap. “How’s Margaret? Where is

Margaret?”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Beth said pouring herself some wine. “She’s working of course.

She works so damn much. You’d thing she was the only fucking doctor in San

Francisco.”

She peeked out the window at Erin in the back yard.

“Let’s see if Erin can not break something out there for a change, including her neck,” Beth said. “Destructo girl.”

“How’s the sports chat going with Patrick?” 355

“Not so good. He told us he thought running around after a ball was pointless.

What do you say to an eight year old who says things like that? We told him he had to pick a physical activity and give it a fair shot. At least eight weeks or whatever a season is. We have our fingers crossed for swimming.”

“Maybe he’s destined to be a mathlete. Or captain of the chess club.”

“You’re probably right. But we’re encouraging him to find ways to use his body as well as his mind. Even Margaret is on board with that.”

“Margaret likes sports.”

“She does. I don’t know what the deal is with Patrick. Must be some mutant sperm donor gene.”

“Well, Erin more than makes up for it.” Darlene joined Beth at the window to watch Erin hanging upside down from the top of the swing set. Her t-shirt was hanging almost over her head. “I am E-rah!” she chanted. “Ruler of the universe.”

“Girl aims high,” Darlene said admiringly.

“God, they are such different kids,” Beth told Darlene. “I can say no to Erin and she’ll stamp and sulk and then she’s over it in a flash and off doing something else like nothing happened. If I say no to Patrick, he’s completely undone. He thinks about what he wants or wants to do for a really long time. He devises these great plans in his mind.

So when you say no to him he acts like you’re pulling the plug on important government research. He just falls apart. He practically goes into mourning.”

“That’s funny,” Darlene said.

“It is in the retelling. It’s awful when it happens.” 356

“I bet it is,” Darlene said. “How is he when something truly awful happens? How was he when Mugsy died?” Mugsy was their much loved Pug mix.

“A rock,” Beth said. “He was consoling us.”

“Erin?”

“A mess, a weepy little mess.”

“Well, there you go,” Darlene said putting her arm around Beth’s shoulder.

“Together they make the perfect kid.”

On St. Patrick’s Day 2000, Margaret Flynn left the hospital at 7:37 p.m. humming

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. She had stayed late to finish up some paperwork and was hoping to get home in time to spend some time with twins before their bedtime.

“Ma, we made shamrock hats,” Patrick had told her over the phone. “They’re really cool. We made one for you and Mom, too.”

“They’re green,” Erin chimed in on the other line.

“Well, of course they’re green. Shamrocks are green,” Patrick said. “What other color would they be?”

“What I meant was they’re made from reused materials and they’re recyclable,”

Erin said. “They’re green-green.”

“Can’t wait to see them,” Margaret said. “I’ll be home soon. Tell Mommy I’m on my way.” 357

When she got home, after wrestling the kids to bed, she and Beth were going to have corned beef sandwiches and a glass or two of Guinness - their St. Patrick’s Day tradition.

“Still can’t believe that they’d cancel the damn St. Patrick’s Day parade13 in

Boston rather than let gays march in it,” Beth had said that morning.

“That was a few years ago,” Margaret said. “Shake it off.”

“It was just in 1994.1 just don’t know what to do with my people hating my people. Every year gays ask to march, every year they get turned down.”

“At least they’re not canceling the parade anymore.”

“Not the point. A damn Supreme Court upheld...”

“I know,” Margaret said and took Beth in her arms and gave her a kiss. “It sucks.

See you tonight, my fair colleen.”

Margaret was thinking of this as she walked across the parking lot to her car. “My people hate my people.”

“Beth’s right to be pissed,” she thought. She and Margaret had grown up going to that parade. How freaking stupid to cancel the whole damn parade just so gay Irish people couldn’t march. “Talk about denial,” she thought.

15 In 1994, Boston’s St. Patrick’s Day parade organizers Allied War Veterans Council (AWVC) canceled the parade rather than allow gays to march as ordered by local courts. In 1995, AWVC appealed their case to the U.S. Supreme Court who ruled in their favor citing a private organizer’s right to exclude groups. In March 2015, under pressure the AWVC allowed two gay groups to march: gay veterans’ service group OutVets and gay rights Boston Pride. The St Patrick’s Day parade lasts about two and a half hours. Out Vets and Boston Pride marched last. 358

As she approached her car, a man in a ski mask popped up from behind the car in

front of hers, pointed a gun at her, and demanded her wallet. Margaret handed it over to

the man immediately and without a word. The man took her wallet and then shot her in

the head.

She died in the arms of a coworker while attempting to carry her from the parking

lot back into the hospital.

She was 48 years old.

Margaret was notorious for not carrying a lot of cash. She was forever borrowing

money from coworkers to buy coffee. Surveillance cameras in the hospital parking lot got

a clear picture of a skinny, scared-looking young man and he was soon picked up trying

to use Margaret’s credit card in a liquor store to buy a forty-ounce can of malt liquor and

candy. He was still carrying the gun.

“This is pretty much and open and shut case,” the detective told Beth. “This guy

is known to us, he has a lot of priors. I know that this is probably not a lot of consolation

to you right now, but we will have no trouble making our case. This guy could end up

getting the needle.”

“I’m not sure I want that,” Beth said. “I’m not sure Margaret would want that. Her job was trying to save lives.”

“Well, this punk doesn’t have much of a life to save; he has a rap sheet going back to when he was 15. He.. 359

“Don’t say that,” Beth interrupted. “Don’t say he’s not worth saving.”

“Whatever you say,” the detective said.

“Is he gay?” Beth asked.

“I’m not sure if that’s germane to the case,” the detective said. “This doesn’t appear to be a hate crime. It’s a crime of opportunity. A crackhead with seriously impaired judgment needing fast money. Senseless. It’s a tragedy. I know...”

“Is he gay?” Beth asked again.

“Does that really matter?”

“It would have mattered to Margaret. It mattered to her that gay people died from causes other than AIDS; it would have mattered to her to know that she was killed by one of our own.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really!”

The detective thoughtfully fingered the file folder in his hands. “It appears,” he said, “that the suspect we have in custody is gay. A gay white male.”

“How old is he?” Beth asked.

The detective opened the file. “26.”

“26. He could have so easily been one of her patients.”

“Well,” the detective said closing the folder. “Now he’s a different kind of statistic.”

“Our people hate our people,” Beth said softly.

“Excuse me?” 360

Beth shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”

The detective looked at her carefully and shook his head. “I don’t understand you people, I really don’t,” the detective said.

“What do you mean? What do you mean by ‘y ° u people’?”

“Well, you get all over SFPD about gay bashing and now we catch a gay guy who killed your partner - and I’m going to go out on a limb here - who I’m supposing was a lesbian and you are, too and you act like you want leniency. If someone killed my wife

I’d have all I could do to not kill them myself.”

“I want,” Beth said, trying to swallow her rising anger “justice. I want justice for everyone. I want...” her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

She needed to get home. She needed to be with the kids.

“Are we done here?” she said.

The detective nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he muttered.

“You need to clean up your act, detective,” Beth said, standing. “It’s the 21st century.” 361

NINETEEN

Day dawned in velvet pinks and grays. Pinks and grays. Soon the sky would bleed red and then the day would bloom big and blue and before it’s done, she will be.

When she woke she was cold, but she could already feel the heat coming. She no longer wore a watch, but she knew exactly when it would happen. She could not give that time its exact hour, so she gave it a name. She called it “the heatening.” For her that time was as precise and predictable as day itself.

White Eagle made a fire and drank tea. Then she put on her boots - she figured that’s all she needed any more - and took off on her favorite walk. How many times has she done this? Walked this walk? That it was too many to count thrilled her. Anywhere else in the world and this path would be beaten down, but not here. Too much wind. Too much nature for this path to be tamed.

“I am eighty today,” she thought. “Or maybe I am 79.” She stepped out from her little earthen house. What difference does age make anyway? Compared to all this I am but a speck.

She walked through the saguaro feeling the sun creep up her back. She climbed a winding, rocky path up to the crest where she could see for probably twenty miles.

Maybe more. Distance was an illusion; she no longer cared how far or near anything was.

All she saw was mesa; the only thing that saw her was mesa. Mesa, mesa. And all she heard was wind. Today it was soft and steady. Blue Heron and Still Mountain had been wise to choose this place and White Eagle paused to honor them. 362

“Thank you, sisters,” she thought. “Thank you for your wisdom.”

She continued up and when she reached the top of the ridge she climbed atop her

favorite rock. The rock stood like a defiant prow of a ship and she stood upon it and felt the wind and the sun against her hard old body. She had been troubled before she went to

sleep the night before. She found herself thinking: “Where has my Billy gone? What kind

of life has he had? What kind of man did he become?” She scanned the sky. “Why didn’t

I fight for him?”

White Eagle had not let herself think about her son for over thirty years. As she

stood upon her rock, she asked “Why now?”

She listened to the wind.

“It’s time,” it said.

All the years gone. Miles gone. Places, lovers, gone. And all the work done here.

Hard work. Good work. Her little house has held strong against the elements and protected her like a pocket. Women nurtured. Women mended. All the happy times. All the singing and laughing and loving. All the working. Creating a life, a place here. A safe

place. A good place.

But now all the girls are gone. Every one of them has moved on to a place that

they thought offered better. More.

Oh, that yearning! How well she knew it! But for her the more moving, the more

yearning. So she stopped moving, stayed here, and tried to heal her heart.

The girls are gone now. They’re gone and there aren’t any more coming. 363

And youth is gone. And days are gone. She did not want to make the mistake of living too long.

The sun was high now. The shadows of the saguaro, those strange ghost-like trees, those guardians of the desert, were short.

“This has been a safe, good place,” White Eagle said aloud. I She felt that loving wind caress her.

Yes, it’s time.

She scanned the horizon one more time, a long, loving look, then stood on her toes, arched her back, reached high, spread her wings, and soared into eternity. 364

TWENTY

Peter held his plate on the edges at ten and two and drove around the offerings on the massive buffet table. He could hear David’s voice in his head: “Fat, fat, fatty, fat, fat.”

“That bitch has spoiled me for buffets,” he thought and smiled in spite of himself.

“I hate these fundraisers, too,” Peter heard someone say. Startled he looked up into a pair of piercing blue eyes.

“That’s right,” the owner of the eyes said. “I can read your mind.”

“Well, you’re right,” Peter said, laughing. “I do hate them. But I think I hate buffets even more.”

“I know what you mean,” the blue eyes said. “I think I saw this exact same hunk of smoked salmon at the Open Hand benefit last week.”

“Exactly! It’s always the same: salmon, bowtie salad or something, baked brie, and whatever that is,” he said pointing to a bowl filled with brown lumps.

“Meatballs, I think,” the blue eyes said peering into the bowl.

“It makes me have mad cravings for buffalo wings. With ranch dressing. And I don’t even like buffalo wings. Or ranch dressing.”

“It’s not the food, it’s the function,” the blue eyes said. “We used to have things like the environment, civil rights. Now all we have is AIDS.”

Peter sighed. “Yeah... you’re right.” He looked around the room full of men his age and he shook his head. 365

“I’m sorry,” the other man said. “I didn’t mean to be such a downer. I’m just starting to think that these organizations should just bill me every month. How many fucking benefits can anyone stand? Pardon my French.”

Peter nodded and thoughtfully placed a tong full of salad on his plate. “It’s better than staying home and watching tv. Not a lot. But, you know.”

“I know.” The other man reached for a roll and then put his plate down. “I’m

Billy, by the way,” he said and stuck out his hand. “Looks like you’re here alone, too.

Want to sit together if you can still stand me?”

Peter took Billy’s hand and shook. “Peter,” he said. “And yes, I’d love to.”

“Every time I come to one of these and put a plate together, I can hear my old boyfriend telling me what not to eat,” Peter said spreading his napkin on his lap. “He’s been dead over ten years and he’s still standing over my shoulder telling me what to do.”

Billy nodded. “Did you lose him to this?” he asked waving his fork around the room.

“No, he had a massive heart attack.”

“That’s great,” Billy said. “I mean, it’s great to remember that gay men can die from something other than AIDS. I mean...”

“I know what you mean,” Peter said. “A friend of mine used to say that all the time. I make a point of telling people that David didn’t die from AIDS because everyone assumes that he did. He was gay, a young man, had to be AIDS, right? Just a little reminder that gay men aren’t just AIDS time bombs.”

“Indeed,” Billy said. “We are oh so much more.” 366

“Indeed. How come you’re here by yourself, Billy?”

“Ah, well” he said. “My date wasn’t feeling well and I couldn’t find a last minute replacement. You?”

“My date wasn’t feeling well and I couldn’t find a last minute replacement.”

Billy laughed. He tossed his food around his plate with his fork. “This is terrible,” he said. “Either that or my taste buds have all abandoned me.”

“It’s pretty bad,” Peter agreed. “Of course, I didn’t come for the food...”

“Of course not! It’s the cause, it’s all about the cause!” They both laughed and then looked down at their plates.

“I’m starving,” Billy said. “Let’s go to Grubstake and get cheeseburgers!”

“Oh!” Peter said and his eyes suddenly lost their focus. “Corned beef hash!” he murmured.

“Onion rings!”

“Yes! Onion rings!”

“Shall we?” Billy asked.

“Let’s go!”

And the two men pushed back their chairs, left the ballroom and stepped out into the evening. Neither returned home until the sun was almost up.

Peter spent the day at home in a kind of fugue. He and Billy had talked all night.

Peter couldn’t believe that this amazing guy had just fallen from the sky the way he did.

When Billy called him late in the afternoon, after saying hello they both stayed on the line in silence for almost a minute. 367

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Billy said finally. “I actually cried when I got home I was so happy.” And then they talked for a couple of hours agreeing to meet for dinner the following night.

That night as Peter lay in bed it felt like David was in the room. At quiet times,

Peter often talked to David and he could really feel his presence. Usually, it was to ask for strength, to ask him to stand near him, to help him cope.

Tonight it was different.

“Oh, darling David. I have met the most wonderful man. He’s smart, he’s gorgeous, and he’s incredibly sweet. I think you’d like him, I really do,” Peter whispered into the night.

“Oh, and he’s a grown up! He’s actually older than I am. And he has the most mesmerizing blue eyes. Just stunning.” Peter felt a tear drip from the comer of his eye and make an emphatic plop onto his pillow.

I “I’m only saying this to you because you’re dead, dearest. But I think that maybe, maybe, his eyes are more beautiful than yours.”

“I love you,” he mouthed into the darkness as he drifted off. 368

TWENTY-ONE

Beth clutched her glass of wine and nervously looked around the room, trying hard not to make eye contact. God, there were a lot of women here! She couldn’t believe that she had let Darlene and the kids talk her into this. A lesbian professionals mingle.

The word mingle made her cringe. It conjured images of 1970s leisure suits and palazzo pants. She’d rather undergo oral surgery.

“You don’t want to go to bars,” Darlene said. “That’s all I got. This way you get to meet other lesbians and you know that they have real jobs. It’s a crap shoot in bars. I’m not so picky, but you got kids and shit.”

“Mom, we just want you to have someone to play with and be happy,” Erin said, putting her arms around her mother’s waist. “We want you to have something else to do besides wondering what we’re doing all the time,” Patrick said, joining in on the hug.

“Oh, and to have someone to play with and be happy,” he added when Erin shot him a look.

“I’m not sure I’m really ready to start dating,” Beth told Darlene when she showed her the announcement to the event.

“Who said anything about dating?” Darlene said. “Let’s start with meeting. Let’s start with getting you out of the house. You’re a good-looking, still youngish woman with a lot of miles left on you. Besides, don’t you want to go out with someone to see a movie that isn’t animated? Go to restaurants that don’t have pictures of the food on the menu?

And look, it’s twenty bucks so there won’t be any riff-raff.” 369

“Give it a shot, Beth,” Peter had encouraged.

“Et tu, Peter?”

“Hey, I’m putting myself out there. All aboard the geezer express!” He kissed her on the cheek. “Life is for the living. What else can we do?”

Beth put her glass of wine down and picked up a plate at the buffet. The food all looked the same. She placed a single satay skewer on her plate and then picked up her glass. She clumsily held her glass and her plate with one hand while she took a tentative nibble of her chicken satay skewer and looked around for a place to sit down. Women were sitting talking in groups of twos and threes. Everyone seemed to know each other. It was very loud. She felt like she was in junior high not getting picked for basketball. This was a big mistake: she decided that she would finish her skewer and her glass of wine and go home. She would be able to tell Darlene and the kids that she came and did her best to mingle, but she couldn’t do it. She doesn’t know how. She’s just not ready.

A very attractive woman wearing a suit she had tried on but decided not to buy because it was too expensive walked up to her.

“Hi Beth,” she said.

“Hi,” Beth said dropping her skewer back on the plate. “Hi. Um, hi. Do I know you? How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your name tag,” the woman said quietly. “I’m Lorraine.”

“Oh right,” Beth said. “Of course. I’m so sorry. Hi. I’m Beth. I’d shake your hand, but...I can’t.” she said raising both hands up showing glass and plate.

“I see,” Lorraine said. “It’s good to meet you, Beth.” 370

“And you,” she said. “I have two kids.” And her face clouded over.

“Wow,” Lorraine said. “Best pick up line ever.” She smiled. “Do you want to sit down? Here, let’s sit here,” she said as she moved Beth over to two seats.

Lorraine looked at her thoughtfully. She reached over and took the glass and plate from Beth’s hands and placed them on the table. “There,” she said. “Is that better? Are you ok?”

“Yes,” Beth said. “That’s better. I’m sorry. Every awkward social situation I’ve ever been in has been flashing before my eyes. I’ve never been to one of these things before.”

“Me neither,” said Lorraine. “A friend of mine kind of talked me into it.”

“Me, too!” Beth said and for a moment she was going to ask if it was Darlene, but of course, this woman didn’t know Darlene, did she?

“Let’s start again,” Lorraine said. “I’m Lorraine,” she said extending her hand.

“Beth,” Beth said accepting her hand.

“So, two kids?” Lorraine said.

“Yeah,” Beth said. “A boy and a girl.”

“How old?”

“They’re both 13. Twins.”

“Wow,” Lorraine said. “That must be a lot of work. “

“A lot of work. A lot of fun. It’s a lot. I’m a single mom,” she continued. “My partner died about four years ago.

“I’m so sorry.” 371

“She was murdered.”

“Oh my God,” Lorraine said. “I am so very sorry. That must have been incredibly hard for you. And your children. Wow.” Lorraine sat back in her chair.

“I really suck at mingling,” Beth said after a longish, awkward silence. “You must think I’m psycho. I’m not really. I don’t know why I blurted all that out. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“You probably should just get on with your mingling. I’m just going to sit here and finish this and then go home.”

“No, I’m done mingling and you’re satisfying my mission for the evening.”

“Your mission? Are you a Mormon or something?” Beth took a gulp of her wine.

Lorraine laughed. “No,” she said. “I’m kind of the anti-Mormon. Although most of the women in this room could qualify for that title as well.” She took a sip from her own glass of wine. “I promised myself that I wouldn’t leave here until I talked to three people. You’re the third.”

“Really?” Beth said. “That’s funny. I mean, that’s good. Goals are good. Good for you.” She drank more of her wine. “How do I compare?”

“Surprisingly well,” Lorraine said. “In fact, compared to the two other women I talked to, you are the picture of mental health. One of them is kind of stalking me right now. You want to talk about psycho.”

“Really?” Beth said. “Where?”

“She’s closing in behind you. Damn!” 372

“Hi, Lorraine!” A woman in a plaid jumper with too many teeth for her mouth

called. “It’s me again!”

“Well, hi again Susan!” Lorraine said. “Look who I ran into - an old sorority

sister of mine. I was just about to give her a ride back to her hotel.” She took Beth by the

elbow and they both stood up.

“Yes!” Beth said. “Hotel! Let’s go, sister!”

“Oh,” Susan said. “Are you heading downtown?”

“Nope, she’s staying at the airport.”

“Right,” Beth said. “I’m right there at the airport.”

“Hey,” Susan said. “I live in Daly City! It’s on your way - can you give me a lift?”

“Oh, sorry,” Lorraine said. “I drive an MG. Two-seater! Sorry!” And with that she whisked Beth out of the room.

“Thanks for that,” Lorraine said when they got out onto the street. “I couldn’t look at any more pictures of her cats. She thinks one of them is the reincarnation of Elvis.

I’m serious. When she told me that I got really scared.”

“Do you really drive an MG?” Beth asked.

“No, Honda Civic.”

“Oh,” Beth said. “Too bad.”

“Do you like sports cars?” 373

“No, not really. I mean, they’re fun. It’s just that my partner drove a Karmann

Ghia when I met her. And then she bought an MG when she had her mid-life crisis. It would just be a coincidence is all.” Her face clouded over again.

When Darlene had seen Margaret’s car she snorted. “A beaver bagger,” she said.

“This chick is trouble. Watch out!”

“I’m sorry,” Lorraine said as they walked along the sidewalk.

“Some memories are harder than others,” Beth said. “I hadn’t thought about that for a long time. I was so mad at her when she bought that car. I mean, we have two kids!”

They walked along in silence listening to the clicking of their heels on the pavement. San Francisco was putting on a great show - it was a clear night and a nearly full moon kissed the top of the Bay Bridge.

“I’m sorry,” Beth said again. “You’ve been so nice.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lorraine said. They walked a little further, Lorraine shooting quick glances at Beth. “Are you ok? I mean, I’m sorry to drag you out of there like that, but you seemed ready to go. Just now I’m wondering if you’re ok. Seems like a lot came up for you just then.”

“Oh, it was. And I’m fine. Thanks. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out.”

“I’m so it’s so hard.”

“Me, too.”

They had come to the corner of Market and the Embarcadero. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” Lorraine asked.

“No,” Beth said. “I also drove.”

) 374

“Well, ok then,” Lorraine said. “I parked in that lot over there.”

“I’m down thataway,” Beth said pointing in the opposite direction.

“Ok, then.”

“Ok, then.”

“It was nice meeting you,” they both said at the same time and then laughed.

“No, really,” Lorraine said. “The circumstances were a little odd, but I’m glad I got a chance to talk to you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Beth gestured in the direction from which they came. “I’m never going to do that again. But I’m glad you talked to me, too. I guess you helped me satisfy a mission I didn’t know I had.”

“I’m glad I could be of service,” Lorraine said reaching into her purse. She handed Beth her card. “Listen, let’s have dinner. Something very casual. And we can talk some more. In an atmosphere less charged, you know? I work in town not far from here.

We could meet after work maybe.”

Beth looked at Lorraine stunned.

“Or we can just talk on the phone,” Lorraine said quickly. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

“You would?”

“I would.”

“You’re not psycho, are you?” Beth said.

“I don’t think so,” Lorraine said. “Although my family has given me plenty of reasons to lose my mind over the years.” 375

Beth looked at Lorraine’s card. “Lorraine Iovanni. Italian?”

“Yep.”

“You’re an accountant.”

“Right again! What do you do?”

“I do marketing for a leasing firm. Wait - 1 have one of these, too,” she said waving Lorraine’s card. “Here,” she said digging out a card from her bag. “That’s me.”

“Elizabeth Quinn.”

“Beth,” she said and took a deep breath. “And I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“Right, Beth. Great! I’ll call you. Is that ok?”

Beth nodded.

“Is any night any better than any other night?”

Beth pondered this for a moment. Every night was pretty much like every other night - trying to figure out something the kids would eat, monitoring their TV time, nagging them about homework and hygiene.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m wide open.” 376

TWENTY-TWO

She couldn’t believe that her mother had made her and Patrick go to school.

Her mother and Lorraine were getting married tomorrow.

“It’s a long weekend, you’re going to have Monday off,” Beth said. “There is

going to be a lot going on here today. I really need you guys to be in school.”

“But we could help,” Erin said. Even she couldn’t help laughing after that.

Erin was very cautious when her mother and Lorraine first started dating. She

liked Lorraine; she liked her a lot, in fact. So did Patrick. It’s just that her family had

been gutted when Ma was killed; Erin wasn’t sure she’d ever see her mother smile again.

She didn’t want to see anyone hurt her Mom. Patrick and she used to view that as their jobs: Protectors of Mom. But then Lorraine came along. And now that Lorraine has been

living with them for over four years, it was hard to imagine life without her. Kind of

wacky, but true. When has Lorraine not been here?

Getting married just made them legit as a family. Erin saw how important that

was to their Mom. “Ma wanted this for us,” Beth had told them. “I would have married

Ma if we had been allowed to.”

Erin and Patrick both liked the whole legitimacy thing even though it was all

becoming a bit ho hum - this would be the fourth wedding of same sex parents among the kids they knew at school.

“What do we call you?” Erin asked.

“Lorraine works for me,” Lorraine said. “What did you have in mind?” 377

“Oh, we were thinking Lorraine,” Patrick said quickly eying his sister.

“There’s a kid at school whose mother makes her call all her boyfriends ‘uncle’,”

Erin said. “We think that’s kinda creepy.”

“It’s gross,” Patrick said. “I mean, I guess we could call you ‘Auntie,’ but we

already have an Auntie. It would be confusing.”

“Weird,” Erin said.

“Yeah, and kinda gross,” Patrick added.

“Ok,” Lorraine said. “Lorraine it is.”

“Cool” said Erin.

“Cool,” said Patrick.

A few months ago, Erin walked into the kitchen while her mother was on the

phone.

“For the last time, I’m not inviting you,” Beth said very slowly and emphatically.

“I’m just telling you. Because I thought you might want to know. Although now that

we’re talking I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. That’s right Mom, I said ‘fuck’

- deal with it,” and then she hung up.

“Well, that sounds like it went well,” Lorraine said pouring Beth a glass of wine.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Beth said wiping away tears. “I don’t know why I

let her upset me so much.” 378

“Mom, why is Nana Quinn upset that you and Lorraine are getting married? I

thought that’s what she always wanted for you,” Erin said putting her arms around her

mother’s waist.

“She did, she just can’t get over that I’m marrying a woman.”

“Why? I mean, what’s wrong with that? You love each other, it’s legal16 - what’s

the big deal?”

“I love this generation,” Lorraine said smiling.

“Oh honey, Nana is old school,” Beth said pushing Erin’s bangs out of her eyes.

“Nana is a drag,” Erin said.

“She’s that, too,” Lorraine said sipping her wine. “An old school drag. Still, she’s

your Mom’s mother. Imagine what it would be like if your mother didn’t like that you

were getting married.”

“I can’t imagine that,” Erin said. “Really, I can’t. That would be weird.”

“What’s up?” Patrick said pulling his ear buds out, walking into the room.

“Nana Quinn is a drag,” Erin said.

“Well, duh,” Patrick said. “What’s for dinner?”

16 On May 7, 2004 Massachusetts became the first state to legalize same-sex marriage. On June 1, 2008 a Supreme Court of California ruling made same-sex marriage legal in California. On November 5, 2008 California voters passed Proposition 8, a state constitutional amendment barring same-sex marriage in California. On June 26, 2013 the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the rulings of the U.S. District Court and Ninth Circuit Court o f Appeals declaring Prop 8 invalid. Same sex marriage resumed in California on June 28, 2013. Same sex marriage became legal in all states on June 26, 2015. 379

Erin and Patrick were both going to wear tuxedos to the wedding, the first time in their lives that they had ever dressed alike. The only part they couldn’t agree on was the shoes.

“Black dress shoes with a tuxedo are the only way to go, just ask Uncle Peter,”

Patrick said.

“You’re so straight,” Erin said. “I’m wearing high tops. But which pair?” she pondered holding a red pair and a light blue pair.

“Mom,” Patrick complained. “Erin wants to wear high tops with a tuxedo.

Doesn’t that sound low rent?”

“Low rent?” Beth said. “Where did that come from? Are you channeling your late

Uncle David?” She looked at her kids, two versions of exactly the same thing, squabbling in the middle of the kitchen.

“I’ll be happy if your sister wears shoes, any kind of shoes. Erin, wear shoes.”

“But which ones?” Erin whined.

“Surprise us!” her mother replied.

“Don’t wear one of each,” Patrick warned. “Do not wear one of each.”

Their Uncle Peter would be no doubt resplendent in one of the five tuxedos he owned.

“I go to a lot of events. Would a woman wear the same dress over and over? No she would not. I’m rotating my stock.” 380

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Billy said. He loved his life. He loved this little family. He adored everyone in it and was thrilled that Beth and Lorraine were getting married. He still had to pinch himself that it was legal to do so.

“I was kind of raised by wolves in nowhere New York,” Billy told Peter. “I love it that I’m walking into a ready-made tribe with you.”

“This group is also a bit wolfish,” Peter said. “Especially that one,” he said pointing to Erin. “And her,” he said pointing to Darlene. He grabbed Billy by the shoulders. “I’m glad you like them.” He began to tear up. “I just wished you could have met the guys. You should have seen us back in the day. We were something else.”

Billy smiled. “You’re still something else. So was I back then,” he said wistfully.

“Still I feel like I know them all. I feel their presence. But then, I’ve always had an eerie feeling of a presence. Someone there, but not there, as you know.”

“I know, my little spirit whisperer,” Peter said. “I know.”

“What would psychotherapists do without the gay community?” Billy said.

“They’d be homeless,” Peter said. “Every last one!

“I can’t believe that Erin and I wear the same size,” Gordy said. “I’ve shrunk!

Although I shouldn’t be complaining about wearing anything other than a shroud.”

“Spare us, Lazarus,” Peter said. “You will look divine. And if you decide to die during the ceremony, you will be divine.”

“Bite me, bitch,” Gordy said.

“Just say where and when, darling,” Peter said embracing him. 381

“Oh, you!” Gordy said.

“No, you!” Peter replied.

“Wait until you meet my date,” Gordy said. “He’s wonderful, he really is! You’re going to be so jealous.”

“No,” Peter said. “Happy, dear heart. Happy.”

Uncle Peter was going to be the officiant - Beth had been officiant at Peter and

Billy’s wedding a month earlier. And Auntie Darlene was to be the best person. She, too, would wear a tuxedo.

“Man, I’ll tell you what,” Darlene regaled the kids, “The last time I wore a tuxedo, your mother and I were still flat mates in Cole Valley. We had hit a few bars and then decided to go check out this party at Amelia’s in the Mission when wouldn’t you know these four biker chicks...”

“Darlene!” Beth called out. “Please!”

“Oh, right,” Darlene said. “I keep forgetting how young you kids are, you’re so cool. We’ll pick this story up in a couple of years.”

Lorraine’s parents had flown in from Chicago and were staying with them at the house. Lorraine’s brother and two sisters and their families had also flown in. Lorraine’s parents, Bev and Leo, were 84 and 87 respectively and couldn’t be more thrilled.

“I wish my parents could be more like you,” Beth said. 382

Bev gave Beth a big hug. “They’ll come around,” she said. “Or not! Look at what they’re missing out on - the two of you, your great life, your wonderful children. It’s their loss!”

“Thank you, God, for letting me live long enough to walk my Rainy down the aisle,” Leo exclaimed. “Although she might be walking me. How far do we have to go?”

Bev wiped away a tear.

“What’s up? Are you sad, Ma?” Lorraine asked her.

“No. Oh, it’s nothing,” her mother said.

“What? What? Tell me,” Lorraine said.

“The only thing that could make this better is if Beth were Italian. But she comes with instant grandkids so trust me God, I’m not complaining.”

School that day took an eternity. The weather was spectacular. Erin lolled on her desk top, rolled her head to one side, looked out the window and willed herself to be out there.

“This is bullshit,” she thought.

In school, they were being taught to describe the upcoming holiday as Indigenous

People’s Day. The Parents’ Council was quietly making plans to change it to Fall

Holiday. No one cared: a day off from school was a day off from school. Would three o’clock never come?

During lunch, Erin chawed on an apple while she considered the kids around her.

Her parents had sent her and Patrick to progressive private schools their whole lives. The 383

kids she went to school with came from mom/dad, mom/mom, dad/dad families and it was no big deal. Parents are parents. It dawned on Erin that this is why her mothers had chosen these schools, so that she and Patrick could be around kids who just shrugged about their “families.” It was “no big deal” in their rarified world long before it was anywhere else. But now everywhere else was catching up. Still, her mother would remind her and Patrick that everywhere wasn’t San Francisco. “Some families still have to be very careful. Many parts of the country are still really hateful. Look at Nana Quinn. And same sex marriage has been legal there for four years.”

Is this how change happened? Erin read endlessly about revolutionaries, her school was really big on them. In the end when real change occurs is it just another day?

Many of the kids in high school with her now she had known since forever. She could marry any one of them. Any one of them. Boy, girl - it didn’t matter.

All she had to do was make up her mind and fall in love.

How easy is that?

On Friday, October 10, 2008, during last period study hall, seventeen year old

Erin Flynn-Quinn stood up and leaned across the table in her high school library and planted a kiss on the mouth of Leah Levine-Spinosa with whom she had been in love since they first met over apple juice in preschool when they were both four years old.

Leah Levine-Spinosa kissed her back.