PERSIMMON PARK

A Thesis

Presented to

The Faculty of Graduate Studies

of

The University of Guelph

by

KATHARINA HUSLER

In partial fulfilment of requirements

for the degree of

Master of Fine Arts

July, 2009

© Katharina Hiisler, 2009 Library and Archives Bibliotheque et 1*1 Canada Archives Canada Published Heritage Direction du Branch Patrimoine de I'edition

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1*1 Canada ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Russell Smith for his extensive and constructive feedback that has taught me so much about the novel form. It was fantastic to have an advisor whose judgment I could fully trust. Both San Francisco and Toronto are packed with dedicated writing teachers, and

I was lucky to attend many of their classes. Thank you Nona Caspers, Barbara Tomash, Catherine

Bush, just to mention a few. I'm indebted to my classmates and my friend Melanie Mah for all the nerdy discussions. Thanks guys. Dankeschon to my family in Switzerland. When the deadline came closer, I stopped changing my clothes. One night, I squeezed ketchup on the table next to my plate. I thank Marley for laughing. Every writer should be married to someone with a sense of humor.

l TABLE OF CONTENTS

Departure 1

Chapter 1: Ernesto Pedrini 14

Chapter 2: Taylor M. Amatah 24

Chapter 3: Manuel Santos 36

Chapter 4: Cal O'Connor 45

Chapter 5: Taylor M. Amatah 57

Chapter 6: Ernesto Pedrini 69

Chapter 7: Taylor M. Amatah 81

Chapter 8: Cal O'Connor 92

Chapter 9: Taylor M. Amatah 96

Chapter 10: Manuel Santos 97

Chapter 11: Cal O'Connor 105

Chapter 12: Manuel Santos 106

Chapter 13: Cal O'Connor 109

Chapter 14: Taylor M. Amatah 113

Chapter 15: Ernesto Pedrini 124

Chapter 16: Manuel Santos 140

Chapter 17: Cal O'Connor 154

n Departure

The chariot was dashing forward, flames bursting out from under two train wheels. No, not flames. These were giant angel wings, flapping violently on both sides of the axle and propelling the vehicle towards the overcast sky. A naked man was kneeling on the chariot. Like most Europeans, he was more toned than buff. He had the wiry muscles of labor and not the pumped up kind Americans grow at the gym. His skin was greenish-blue, duller than the clouds.

His eyes were round and his mouth was pulled back in terror. He held up his hand as if the humid air could stop his momentum.

Cal's neck was getting stiff from staring up the archway in the middle of the station plaza. The statue on top was the Zeitgeist. Sculpted by the famous Swiss artist Richard something; his last name starting with K. Cal had read the paragraph in the guidebook to Maria after breakfast. The statue and the archway were the only leftovers of Lucerne's old train station that had burned down in 1971.

Maria had glanced at a picture of the man on the chariot. "I don't get why these statues always have to be naked. I'm getting cold just looking at them."

"You don't want to see it?" Cal had asked.

"We'll go. I know you like your old things."

A silver-encased station clock with a white face and black lines instead of numbers hung up in the arch. Nine past three. Maria was forty minutes late. Cal tried to flatten the cowlick at the back of his head. Why glue a generic timepiece onto massive stone architecture from the nineteenth century? He didn't mind contrast, but in this case, it emphasized the ugliness of the clock.

A brightly veiled mother and her young daughter were strolling along the plaza. At the crosswalk, they were waiting for the lights to turn green even though there was no traffic. Where the hell was Maria? The woman and her daughter crossed the street and disappeared in the new

1 glass and concrete station. Another clock above the sliding doors. It looked like the one up in the arch, except that it had a red second hand that was about to hit the full hour. A raindrop knocked against Cal's temple. The minute hand jumped and wavered for a moment. Eleven past three. It began to rain.

Cal found shelter under the archway. Beside him, a boy in his early teens was sleeping against the stone base. The rain evaporated on the ground and rose with the smell of asphalt. Cal sneezed.

The boy scratched his faded purple mohawk and blinked. "Gesundheit," he said. In his lap, something moved. A dog with floppy ears.

Cal didn't want to talk to the boy. He scrambled for a handkerchief in the pockets of his pants. There was only his grandfather's gold-rimmed watch. He squinted past the rain at the clock above the entrance of the new station. His watch was on time. He hoped to get the broken wristband replaced in Italy. His friend Teddy had said that Italian leather was inexpensive and of good quality. Cal didn't want to disgrace his inheritance with a wristband from Priceless

Discounts. His grandfather had been a respectable man before he'd succumbed to excessive

Catholicism and joined a monastery in Ireland. They had shared a passion for architecture.

"Sind sie ein Tourist?" the boy asked. The dog was licking his thumb.

"Tourist, yes," Cal said.

"You speak English?"

Cal pushed the watch down his pocket. "I'm American."

"Cool." The boy drummed his thumb on the dog's head. His nails were clean. "My father lives in America."

Cal didn't say anything.

"I see always the films and search my father. I want to go to America. My mother says I can't see him. But I will find him. You know somebody in America who looks like me?"

"No."

2 "What you do in the rain?"

"I'm waiting for my wife. She's supposed to meet me here." The drops were violent. Cal

had to move back because they splashed on his shoes.

"Maybe she take the train somewhere."

"No. My wife wouldn't do that."

"How long are you married?"

"One week. This is our honeymoon."

The boy didn't respond. He didn't seem to understand honeymoon.

"We're traveling across Europe. Last week, we were in Prague, Amsterdam, Luxembourg

and some other places. Tomorrow we'll go to Paris. Oh, and we were in Interlaken."

"I went to Prague with my schoolclass." The boy tugged a jean bag from under his back

and took out a beer. GOLDPAUSE, it said on the yellow label.

"You shouldn't drink," Cal said. This kid wasn't older than fourteen.

"You want a beer?"

The pavement looked swept. Cal sat down and pulled at the legs of his trousers.

The kid twisted the beer cap off and put it on the dog's head. He gave the bottle to Cal.

"What you do if you don't find your wife?"

"I don't know," Cal said.

The boy took another GOLDPAUSE out of his bag and opened it. "Cheers."

The beer was lukewarm and bitter.

An hour later, Cal went back to the Lakeview Hotel. A girl with a high ponytail sat at a

computer behind the reception. He asked her for the keys.

The girl jumped up. "The storm surprised you!" Her ponytail was so tight that it slanted her eyes. She sped out from behind the reception and pushed the button for the elevator. "Your wife is upstairs." Cal stepped into the elevator. Fifth floor. He noticed the mirror to his left. In the glaring overhead light, he looked as if an orange paintball had burst on his head. The cowlick stuck off his crown. His suit was ruined.

He entered room 516. The air smelled of the strawberry shower gel that his wife had bought in Luxembourg.

Maria looked up. She was relaxing with a towel around her head in one of the pink plush seats at the window. The hotel bathrobe was drawing attention to her slender and tanned legs. A steaming mug stood on the glass table in front of her. "Love, are you okay?" she asked.

He walked over and dropped into the seat across from her. "I was waiting for you at the train station."

"You did? I'm sorry, I lost track of time. The rainstorm was terrible. What happened to your hair?"

"I have to take a shower."

"Yes, you should. But let me show you what I got for us." She walked over to the bed and snatched some flimsy underwear out of a plastic bag. "Ta-dah." She stretched a G-string with tiger stripes across her cleavage and flicked it towards him. Out of a white cardboard box, she pulled tissue paper and a silver dress. "Silk," she said.

"Nice." Cal got up. "And what did you get for us?"

"You don't like the dress?"

"It's beautiful."

"Okay, come over." She was holding a brown flat box.

Cal took off his suit jacket and walked over to her.

She opened the box. A small version of the clock that he'd seen above the entrance of the train station was inside. The same white face and the same black hands were encased in metal.

But the red second hand took irregular jumps.

4 "It's broken," Cal said. The red hand took a jump backwards and then ticked forward again.

"I know," Maria said. "That's why the clerk made me a deal. I only paid ten Swiss

Francs."

"What do you want with a clock that doesn't work?"

"Oh, come on," Maria said. "We have enough clocks in our house that are counting time.

This one has sentimental value. It ticks with love."

The clock never stopped bothering Cal. He couldn't get used to its unpredictable ticking.

While his wife was recovering from the birth of their daughter in Palo Alto's Children Hospital, he took the timepiece off the living room wall and stored it in the original box in the basement.

Maria and Sandra came home five days later. "What happened to our clock?" Maria asked. She hadn't yet taken her shoes off.

"It's at a repair shop," Cal said.

They spent a pleasant week running around for their bald baby with huge blue eyes. Then

Cal hung the clock back on the wall and the peace was gone.

When Sandra wasn't a baby anymore and they moved to a four-bedroom house in Palo

Alto, Maria insisted the clock had to come with them.

"It goes perfectly with the stainless steel in the kitchen," Cal told her, but she wanted it in the center of the living room, above the shiny marble tiles of the fireplace. The money Cal had spent on the fluffy 80s carpet and the off-white family sofa was wasted. The 50-inch flat screen

TV that looked like it was part of the metallic cabinet was hardly ever on. Cal did almost anything to avoid spending time with the clock.

One day after selling an office building in South San Francisco, he took a fifty-minute detour to drop off his real estate intern Yasmina at her apartment in Oakland. On his way home, he got stuck in traffic on the 101 and decided that avoiding confrontation wasn't going to solve

5 his problem. He made up a story about a visit to a doctor who urged him to get rid of the clock because the ticking interfered with his heart rate. There was no guarantee that this would be enough. If it wasn't, he would promise Maria an original cuckoo clock imported from the Black

Forest.

He hung his jacket on a steel hanger and tiptoed into the living room. His socks left round wet prints on the mahogany floor. Through the window front, he could see his wife on the deck, cutting back one of her seven hundred bonsai trees. She wasn't wearing a bra under her coral tank top. A strand of brown hair had fallen out of the clasp at the back of her head and spiraled like a ribbon down the side of her face. The clock was ticking an erratic rhythm. One of Sandra's My

Little Pony sneakers was on the carpet under the coffee table. Cal grabbed it and slammed it at the noise. No luck. The shoe left a pink mark on the wall beside the clock.

Cal slid the glass door open and stepped onto the cobblestones outside. Maria had lined the potted trees along the edge of the deck as if her family lived on a houseboat and had to be fenced off from the sharks in the grassland. The air was hot and smelled like pine needles. "Hi sweetheart," Cal said. "Looks like you're having a productive day."

The tree that Maria was cutting was almost as tall as their daughter, and snip, snip, the tips of the branches fell off. Something wasn't right. The clock was ticking in Cal's back. He swooshed the door close.

"Maria, are you okay?"

"There's a charge of 895 dollars on your Mastercard."

"What is it?"

Maria closed the scissors and looked at Cal. "Tiffany's."

"That's fine," he said. "Why are you opening my statements?"

"No, it's not fine. A jewelry store, Cal. Since when do you wear jewelry?"

Cal loosened his tie. "Somebody's birthday's coming up."

6 Maria dropped the scissors. They clanged on the bricks. She snatched the bright green

watering can and was drenching the tree. "My birthday's at the end of August."

"I know. August 25. That's in two months," Cal said.

The dish at the bottom of the pot overflowed. "Almost three months."

"What are you saying?"

Maria thumped the watering can on the stones. "You're buying jewelry for someone

else."

"No, I'm not."

"What did you buy?"

It was at least twenty degrees hotter out here than at Cal's office downtown. He didn't

have the strength to hit the button that unrolled the sunshade. "You'll regret this," he said.

Maria stressed each syllable. "What Did You Buy?"

"A necklace."

"What kind of a necklace?"

Cal shook his head. "White gold with an amethyst."

"Oh," Maria said. It was her favorite stone. She picked up the scissors and continued

snipping on the same tree.

Cal cleared his throat. "Where's Sandra?"

"In her room. She was playing with her stuffed dogs."

The scissors were clicking. Cal wiped the sweat off his forehead. An airplane was humming in the distance.

"I know you feel all superior," Maria said. "But I still have my doubts. I know that you're

not always working when you say you are."

"What's going on? You don't trust me?"

"No. No, I don't. Not at the moment."

"That's ridiculous."

7 "Cal, I wouldn't get mixed up in your business if I didn't have this strong sense that something's off. I wanted to ignore it at first, but I was filled with this energy. Even the spider plants at work reacted to it. When I was standing next to them, their leaves began to tremble."

"So you decided to share your superstition with your colleagues." Cal couldn't believe it.

If he subtracted gas cost and the babysitter's wage from what Maria made at Oriental Oasis in downtown Santa Clara, there was almost nothing left. If he calculated the hassle of finding a babysitter for two days a week, he had to pay for his wife to gossip with her coworkers. "And?" he said. "Was it fun badmouthing your husband?"

"I just told Shelby."

"Your boss. The lady who spends her profit on liposuctions."

"If you think that being an asshole will intimidate me, you're wrong. I didn't go to work last Friday. It was Shelby's day off, and we decided to take a trip to San Francisco." Maria was still cutting the tree. It was going to die. "I called you and asked what was going on. You said you were at the office, drafting a contract."

"Last Friday?" Cal asked.

"Shelby and I had a hard time finding a parking spot. At your office, the black intern was watering the orchid I gave you. She said you'd been gone for two hours already."

"Why didn't you give me another call?" Cal asked.

"To warn you? No, that wasn't our intention. Shelby used her detective skills. We found out that you spend hours in Persimmon Park."

Cal was about to boil over. He hit the button and the sunshade unrolled with a squealing sound. "Did Yasmina say that?"

"Who's Yasmina?"

"The intern."

"No, she had no idea where you were. She just said that you went for walks sometimes.

While I talked to her, Shelby found about forty parking tickets in the purple plastic basket on your

8 desk. Persimmon Parking. Sometimes you went in the afternoon, but most days you were there in the early evening."

"I can't believe you did this," Cal said. "Stop snipping at that tree. You're killing it."

Maria stopped. "We were waiting for you at the edge of the parking lot, until you came across the field. You weren't wearing your jacket and your shirt was pulled out of your pants.

You're my husband. I know you're not careless. Except if you dress in a hurry."

"I went for a walk, Maria. My job is really stressful. I need to relax sometimes."

"I found condoms in your wallet last night."

Cal unbuttoned his shirt. "They're Teddy's. He gave them to me on Saturday. Judith was on to something."

"What are you talking about?"

Cal felt a breeze against the back of his wet shirt. He smelled the Brannons' baked dinner. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked. "Teddy's my pal since kindergarten. I don't want anything to get between us."

"You know that I don't like him." Maria wrinkled her nose. "Do you smell that?"

"Yes. Meatloaf again."

"Teddy's a prick," Maria said. "But I would never rat on him or try to destroy your friendship."

Over the laurel hedge at the end of their property, the contrail of an airplane was disintegrating. "Okay," Cal said. "Keep this to yourself, even if it upsets you. Teddy has sex with prostitutes. Judith knows. But she hasn't been able to prove it."

Maria crossed her arms. "Are you serious?"

Cal nodded.

"Ugh. I've always thought Teddy was a grease ball."

"Listen," Cal said. He grabbed her shoulder and looked into her brown eyes. "I am not like Teddy. You and Sandra are my world. I would give my life to protect my family."

9 "You're not seeing anyone?"

"No, Maria." He slid the lose strand of hair behind her ear. "You're the only woman for me. I would never do that you. You have to trust me."

"I'm sorry for Judith," Maria said. "Try to stay out of Teddy's lies. It's bad karma."

Cal grabbed Maria's dirty fingers. "Let's check on our daughter." He shoved the door open. Hand in hand, they stepped into the house and walked down the dim hallway to Sandra's bedroom. The little girl had fallen asleep on the smurf blanket in front of her dollhouse. She was hugging a black dog that was almost as big as her. It was the stuffed Saint Bernhard Cal and

Maria had bought before she'd been born, on their honeymoon in Switzerland. Maria brushed the knotted red hair out of Sandra's face. Cal covered his daughter with her duvet.

"Did you notice that her hair has turned darker?" Cal asked. "It's almost as dark as mine now."

"It's like fire," Maria said. "All these colors you see in a fire."

They went to their bedroom across the hall and closed the door. Maria plunged backwards on the white sheets. Cal pulled the curtains. Red zeros were blinking on the clock radio.

"I hope she won't hear us," Maria said.

"No." Cal rubbed Maria's breasts through her coral tank top. "She's in dreamland."

Maria undressed. Her pants first, and then everything else.

Cal sucked her nipples and massaged her between the legs. He knew that after an argument it didn't take her long to climax, and he was right. It took her less than five minutes.

Of course, one orgasm didn't satisfy her. It's unbelievable how greedy women are in terms of affection. Sex is what they want, from the minute they wake up until they pass out at night. "I want you in me," Maria said. Cal took off his pants. He couldn't stand how yellow her skin looked against the sheets. She was so passive. Her body spilled like a sweet mass across the bed. It reminded him of the expired vanilla pudding that he had eaten at the office earlier.

10 He wasn't hard enough to slide into her. Turning her around wasn't an option. He didn't want to hear her shrill voice nor did he want to raise her suspicions even more. "I'm sorry, I can't," he said. "It was too much seeing you upset like that. Sandra being in the other room doesn't help."

"She's sleeping," Maria said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I'm overworked. I just need to relax. Why don't you play with that purple dolphin

Shelby gave you on Saturday?"

"I'm good." Maria put on her blue silk robe and went to the bathroom. For more than five minutes. Cal was tired of her lies. Women tell you that everything's fine even though it's not. He got up and listened at the bathroom door. Each of Maria's sobs felt like a slap in the face.

The next day was a Tuesday. Cal sold property in Nob Hill and the Marina for more than it was worth. It was almost six when he was done, but he drove home immediately. In the car, he was whistling Vivaldi's Spring Concerto. He parked the black BMW in front of the garage and paced on the crunching pebbles past the willow to the main entrance of the house. Unlike most days, the lock didn't give him any trouble. The bright oak door sprang open without him yanking at it. "Maria! Sandra!"

The air in the living room was stale. He opened the door to the deck, but it didn't make a difference. It was too hot outside. Tick tock, tick. Cal plunged on the cream leather recliner that matched the sofa. Clock from hell. Something stabbed his buttocks. Sandra's Lillian with bright blue doll underpants on her head.

In the corner of the coffee table, the red light of the phone's answering machine was blinking. Cal leaned over and pressed the button.

"Don't worry about us," Maria's voice said. "We're safe. Shelby's playing hide and seek with Sandra, and I'm watching talk shows. We're going to stay here for a while. I just feel weird

11 about you spending so much time in Persimmon Park. I don't think you're telling the truth."

There was laughter. The talk show, hopefully. "It's choking me, Cal. 1 can't live like this."

Everything was quiet except for the clock. The doll on the carpet. Her teased blonde hair sticking out of the panties on her head. One eye was open. It stared at Cal, bright blue like her underpants.

The clock was mocking him. He ripped it off the wall and stomped on the glass cover with his new auburn leather shoes. It didn't break. He tried it again. This time he jumped on the glass. Not even a crack. He reattached the clock to the screw in the wall and checked for his wallet and keys. Before he hurried through the front yard to the garage, he draped his tie and his coat on a hanger. In the car, he remembered something. Summer evenings in San Francisco were different. He sped back into the house, threw on an old leather jacket and grabbed the only umbrella he could find, a burgundy thing with a curved wood handle and a dagger-like golden point. He had no idea if it would leak; it was at least fifty years old. Maria had bought it in an antique store last winter.

Cal didn't have to pay for parking. It was already after eight. He pulled into the spot that was closest to Persimmon Park's restroom building. The walls of the little house had a greenish tint in the daytime, but now they cast off a pale, almost fluorescent shine. Two skinny guys, one of them with long hair, smoked in the yellow light fixed above the entrance of the men's bathroom. The scene reminded Cal of an eighties drug movie. He detoured around the ladies' end of the building and strode into the stadium-sized field. Shreds of fog were heaving across the grass. They slapped his face like washcloths and smelled of the sea.

"Wait!" someone yelled behind him.

Cal had reached a black post with a ball-like lamp on top. Beside it was the first bench of the recreation area. He leaned against the backrest. It was moist. The longhaired guy was stalking with both hands in his pockets towards Cal. He didn't seem to be in a rush.

12 "I can make you a deal," he said when he stepped into the light. The shadow of his long eyelashes moved like a spider over his cheek. "What do you need?"

Cal wanted to laugh, but he didn't. Why would he finance someone's perverted lifestyle?

He turned his back on the prostitute and was pacing farther into the grassland. His socks felt clammy around his ankles. It was a matter of time until the water would penetrate his shoes. In the fog, the hill at the end of the field resembled a frosted cake. The top was covered with tall ashen trees whose crowns were wafting like the smoke of blown out candles. Cal squeezed the umbrella in his hand. The fabric was warm. His Sandra. Maria. They had left him. He had to walk on, all the way up to the most repulsive freaks Persimmon Park had to offer.

13 Chapter 1: Ernesto Pedrini

The shrill voices of the boys playing basketball in the park faded. Ernesto strode up the grass towards the trees on top of the hill. A gust smelling of eucalyptus blew his dark fine braids out of his eyes. The sunlight was glowing on his pasty nose. It was good to be done with work early. He didn't mind that the power outage at the office had cost him two hours of pay. In a blue plastic bag, he carried three balls of mozzarella. He'd bought them at an Italian grocery store: the best in San Francisco. This cheese tasted like buffalo milk and was so tender that it was melting on the tongue.

A golden candy wrapper crinkled under Ernesto's boot. It was somber and cool in the shade of the trees. The ground was spongy. On one trunk, a gray stain ran like sap towards the roots. Ernesto touched the discoloration with his fingertips. It felt sleek. He stepped around the tree and stood still. A sunbeam rose like a pillar towards the sky. Something was screaming, loud and hungry. The noise stopped. Ernesto tiptoed through the light. Another cry ripped into the silence. He froze. Had someone abandoned a child?

A cat with a wild orange mane marched past a tuft of ferns towards Ernesto. It had a moustache of bushy whiskers. Amber-colored eyes. They were neither opaque nor translucent, and reminded Ernesto of a crystal ball. He didn't move while the cat was sliding around his legs.

"What's wrong?" he said. "Do you have fleas?"

The cat whined as if it wanted to tell him something terrible.

Ernesto squatted down. He drove his hand over the tangled fur. It was sticky. The cat climbed onto his narrow thigh and stuck its claws into his pants. That wasn't enough. It clambered up his chest and, above his collarbone, tore a thread of his gray nylon shirt. Balancing on his shoulder, it touched his cheek with a nose like an ice cube. Ernesto smelled the spicy fur and wondered if a cat could have rabies. That's when the beast squealed into his ear. He grabbed the animal with both hands and ripped it off his shoulder. The claws were stuck in his shirt.

14 "Let go!" Ernesto said.

The cat hung limp and heavy in his hands. He had to take both front paws and unhook them from the fabric. The beast began to purr. He set it on the ground. Without looking back, he rushed past the eucalyptus trunks and downhill to Persimmon Avenue.

He turned around on the other side of the street, in front of the dollar store. Everything was quiet up at the trees. A bus was droning towards him. He walked along the sidewalk to the lime-colored house at the next crossroad.

"Por fin, Ernesto." His ancient landlady straightened from her bent-over position. Her knobby fingers cramped around the stems of lavender flowers. The plant grew like a weed in a patch of soil beside the main entrance of the house.

"How are you, Senora Martinez?"

The old woman's wig had fallen over the lines that replaced her eyebrows. "I don't know what your wife is doing," she said. "It has a strange sound in your apartment."

Ernesto was surprised that Senora Martinez had heard Elaine. To save on batteries, she usually turned off her hearing aid inside the house. She was close to deaf without it.

"A sound like chopping wood," the woman said. "I woke up from my siesta. Good that you're home, Ernesto. You hurry and see if something's wrong."

Ernesto thumped into the tin trashcan that looked as if it had been crushed and hammered back into shape. He paced along a path overgrown with weeds to the yard behind the house. The leaves of the old eucalyptus tree beside the fence curled on the rust-colored soil. He was skipping up the steps to his apartment on the second floor. The stairs were creaking, and their white coat was peeling off along the edges. He unlocked the door out of breath. Nobody could tell his age from his looks, but his body was keeping track of the years. The sadistic number forty was terribly close.

It was warmer inside. Ernesto called Elaine's name. She wasn't home.

15 He lay down on the abrasive carpet and stared up at the beam supporting the roof. It was good to be alone. Elaine had moved in two months ago. She had lost her job. A week later, she'd been kicked out of her apartment. It's not that she couldn't pay the rent. Her lesbian roommates said that she was the only one who'd never been homeless before. It would do her good to experience life as it really was, they said. Elaine told Ernesto that the true reason why they kicked her out was because she didn't buy toilet paper and detergent for everyone anymore. How could he have said no to Elaine moving in?

After doing some breathing exercises, he went into the kitchen and peeled potatoes in the small sink. For once, Elaine had washed her oatmeal bowl. He put the large red cutting board on the kitchen table and sliced the potatoes into fine disks. The homemade dough in the fridge still smelled fresh. Between his hands, he rolled it into a ball and threw it on the table.

It was too hot in the kitchen. He opened the window and cut a branch off the gnarly rosemary bush that grew in one of the pots on the sill. Somebody was crying. The sound was faint, but it made Ernesto breathe shallow and fast. He shut the window.

Less than twenty minutes later, he put the pizza in the oven. He was slicing the olives for the Calabrese salad when he heard a muffled cough from the back of the apartment. Quietly, he placed the knife on the cutting board. The noise came back. It sounded like a hog sniffing for truffles. Or one of the grunting sea lions that lived on the rafts at Pier 39.

Ernesto tiptoed out of the kitchen into the living room. The noise was so loud that he had to put his hands over his ears. It came from his bedroom. He sneaked down the hallway and listened. The grunting had turned into squawking. He pushed through the bead strings covering his door. It was somber inside. Vines had overgrown his window last spring. But there was somebody bent over the edge of his bed, somebody with wide shoulders. A low scream was vibrating across the room. It didn't come from that man, but from someone who hovered on all fours on Ernesto's silver sheets.

16 Ernesto didn't move. Strangers were having sex in his apartment. Two gay men. They

were lying on top of each other and recovering from that thundering orgasm.

They started again. Ernesto should have said something, but it was nice to watch. His

brain was clouding. Like the top, he was working towards that final satisfied scream. It took a few

minutes, just long enough. The man on his bed moaned from the bottom of his lungs and Ernesto

sank trembling against the doorframe.

The top wiped the sweat off his forehead and turned. Not much, but Ernesto could make

out a cone-shaped breast. This wasn't a man standing bent over his bed. It was his girlfriend

Elaine. Her wobbly boob made him feel sick to his stomach. It reminded him of his own breasts that he had finally removed two years ago.

"Are you good?" Elaine drove her hand over her shaved head. "Do you need more?"

"You should have dinner with me when you're done," said Ernesto.

Elaine jumped on the bed.

Ernesto could see the white of her eyes. "I'm making potato pizza with tomato and

mozzarella salad," he said.

Elaine's friend pulled at the sheet and disappeared under it.

Elaine hugged her legs. "I didn't know you were home." She wiggled her toes until they

cracked.

"For a while already," Ernesto said. "You didn't hear me?"

She rubbed the bristles on her head. "I must have fallen asleep."

"Anyway, the pizza should be done in about ten, fifteen minutes." Ernesto let go of the

doorframe. "There's enough for all of us."

Elaine pulled a T-shirt over her head. It was inside out and the tag stood off her throat.

"Sure," she said.

"I'm hungry," said a high voice under the covers. The grunter was a girl.

17 Elaine's lover Tynisha was a black dyke from Oakland. She was round and worked as a bus driver. Ernesto liked her face. She had smooth skin, and her moist-looking hair curled like a vine tattoo around her temples. After dinner, she drove them in a red Grand Am to a bowling alley south of San Francisco. Ernesto had a hard time concentrating on the game. Both women had big behinds, and Tynisha had a voice like a late night commercial. How was it possible that he'd thought the two of them were men? He'd prided himself for his intuition when it came to gender.

Elaine bowled one strike after another. She won.

Tynisha wanted to head back after the first round. In the car, she said that the women with the DOG SOCIETY tanks had looked at the three of them as if they were bug-infested monsters.

Ernesto leaned forward between the front seats. "Did you stare back?" he asked.

"You're right." Tynisha banged her palm on the wheel. "I should've."

"I'm getting hungry," said Elaine.

"I'm still full." Tynisha looked over her shoulder at Ernesto. "That pizza was fab. I don't even like potatoes. You're a magician."

"It's a recipe from my grandmother," Ernesto said. "She lived in the mountains above

Genoa."

"The grandiose grandmother," said Elaine.

Ernesto looked past her. The street was deserted. They were approaching a red light.

Tynisha hit the brakes. She drummed with her thumbs on the steering wheel.

"An orange cat attacked me in the park after work," Ernesto said. "It climbed on my shoulder and screamed into my ear."

"Ernesto believes that cats change your life," Elaine said.

"This cat was different," said Ernesto. "It wasn't like the gray one that followed me in

Manhattan."

18 "My brother has an apartment in Queens," Tynisha said. "He's a photographer for the

National Geographic. D'you like New York?"

"It stinks." Ernesto rubbed his nose. "No, I don't like it. 1 lived there for less than a year."

Tynisha glanced at Ernesto. She was frowning. "A black cat followed you in

Manhattan?"

"It was gray. Your typical cat. Until it disappeared in front of this bingo joint where I served coffee on Tuesdays. It walked ahead of me, and then it was gone."

"It ran off," Tynisha said.

"No." Ernesto shook his head. "It evaporated. Like a mirage."

"Here we go," said Elaine.

"We can talk about something else," Ernesto said. "I just realized that I haven't been in a car for at least a year."

"Please Nesto," Tynisha said. "What happened?"

"I was serving coffee. An old lady with no hair won a one-way ticket to San Francisco.

She had no use for it."

"She gave it to you."

"Don't buy this crap," said Elaine.

"Hmm." Tynisha glanced at Ernesto. "So you gonna leave San Francisco?"

"Why?"

"Because of the other cat. The one that attacked you."

"The orange cat. No, it was different," Ernesto said. "That one's scream chilled my bones. It sounded like a warning."

"Of what?" Tynisha asked.

"I don't know."

"You should be careful." Tynisha sped past an orange light. "If it feels like a warning, it is a warning. Trust your instinct."

19 Ernesto nodded. "I'm tired of change."

Tynisha dropped them off outside Ernesto's house. It was getting dark. Elaine and

Ernesto walked up to the apartment in silence. Inside, the air was stale and humid. Ernesto untied his boots and went into the kitchen. He cleaned the dishes under streaming hot water.

Elaine looked out the window. "Say something," she said. "Are you mad? You're acting like we're in an open relationship."

"I don't think it's working out with us."

"I'm sorry. Seriously, Ernesto. I don't know why I did this." Elaine made a pirouette on the linoleum. "I love this floor. It gives in to your toes."

Ernesto had a hard time rubbing the cheese off the pizza knife.

"I guess I missed women." Elaine took a beer out of the fridge. "Being straight isn't easy." She walked out of the kitchen.

Ernesto followed her.

She jumped over the back of the sofa and switched on the TV. A toothpaste commercial.

She began to zap around.

"Do you think you can find a new place to live?" Ernesto asked.

"Fuck man, I love this show. It's about this guy who tattoos goats. It sounds stupid, but he's a damn good artist."

"Elaine," said Ernesto.

"I'll check craigslist. Tomorrow."

Ernesto was hungry again. The pizza was gone. "That Tynisha," he said. "She's nice."

"Ernesto." Elaine turned her face towards him. Her neck looked uncomfortably twisted, like a wine opener.

"What?"

"Do you think she likes me?"

20 "I'll sleep on the sofa," Ernesto said. "You can sleep in my room."

Elaine turned off the TV and got up. She disappeared down the hallway.

Ernesto took a black and white-checkered quilt out of the chest beside the door. He threw it on the sofa.

Elaine screamed.

A spider, Ernesto thought. In Elaine's opinion, all spiders, regardless of their size or color, deserved a scream.

It wasn't a spider. Elaine hadn't turned on the light in his room. She stood in the door and hugged half of the bead curtain. "Glowing eyes," she said, and pointed to his window.

Ernesto walked across the room and opened the window beside his bed. The orange cat sat on the sill. She was so scared that he had to lift her inside.

Ernesto's cheek was vibrating against a plastic wall. Hot air was blowing at his legs. He opened his eyes. The blue seats across from him were empty. He jolted forward and looked out the window. They were pulling into a station. PALO ALTO, it said on the brim of a large beige building. Behind it, the sun was still fighting the morning haze. The cobblestones on the platform glared pinkish-red and cold. Ernesto had woken up in time; California Ave was the next stop. He pulled up the zipper of his black cotton jacket.

Someone slammed open the door behind him. The conductor, maybe? As a rule, only the rear and the head of the first train were occupied. Most people were still asleep when they stumbled on the car closest to the terminal in San Francisco. The rest hurried along the platform to the very front of the train.

The steps coming down the aisle were faint. Who would run towards the front of the train and then walk back? Was it just his own pulse that he was hearing? He could smell something. A warm scent that reminded him of his grandmother's clove-spiked oranges. The man who passed his compartment moved with the litheness of a panther. His jaw was angular and his cheekbone

21 glistened like a black pearl. Tight cornrows led to the back of his head and ended in swaying

braids. He was carrying an army-green bag over his shoulder.

Ernesto wanted to jump on the man and hold him around his muscular neck. But he was

too tense to move. The blood in his veins was thicker than molasses.

The panther slipped out the door. Brushwood raced past the window. Ernesto stuck two

fingers into the front pocket of his jacket and pulled out the white headphones of his iPod. He

turned them into his ears. A glass burst on stone floor, and then it was quiet. A burped melody set

in. It was a hip-hop track that had been popular ten years ago. Ernesto got up and decided to put it

on Tuesday's playlist. He rushed down the aisle to the next car.

Despite the singing and burping in his ears, he could hear somebody shout his name.

Ernesto was in one of the cars at the end of the train. He continued to walk, but reached into his jacket pocket to turn off the player. How did the panther know his name?

"Ernesto. How are you doing old friend?"

Ernesto turned around. A dark bald man stepped into the aisle. His friend Rashid, not the

panther. Huge and handsome as always, in brown pants and a blinding white shirt. That was odd,

actually. Why wasn't he wearing his conductor uniform? Ernesto pressed the man against his

chest. "I'm glad it's you, Rashid. You're working incognito?"

Rashid was chewing cardamom pods. "My shift starts in the afternoon. I'm visiting my

brother in law in San Jose. We're going to buy a crib."

"Your sister-in-law is pregnant?"

"No. My wife."

"Oh," Ernesto said. "Congratulations. How far is she along?"

"Eight months." Rashid grinned and showed off the gap in his mouth. He was lacking an

eyetooth. "She has a belly like Ganesh."

Rashid had at least three or for kids already. "You don't have a crib from the last baby?"

"Yes. But it looks like we're going to have twins this time."

22 "Twins."

"I'm a very happy man, Ernesto."

The speakers made a gurgling sound. "Arriving at...glug glug.. .California Avenue."

"I have to get off," Ernesto said.

"My shift begins at Cal Ave, eleven past four." Rashid grabbed Ernesto's upper arm.

"Will that be your train?"

"If I don't miss it. Amico, I'll see you around." Ernesto dashed away from Rashid, down the aisle and into the steel compartment of the exit. The post in front of the door was cold.

Through the glass, he could see a few bushes and dry bent weeds. The train was slowing down. It almost stopped even though they hadn't reached the station.

The door of the last car opened. The panther entered. He held himself on the same post, above Ernesto. Their hands didn't touch. Ernesto could see the shiny black leg of the panther's suit. Outside, chunks of cement were littering the fragile grass. The train stopped beside a shopping cart that lay on its side. Two wheels were turning. No, they were still.

"Sorry, man," the panther said. "Is this California Ave?"

The smell of cloves made Ernesto woozy. "Coming up," he said. "Yes."

The train drove on.

"Neat," the guy said.

Ernesto reached into the front pocket of his jacket and felt around his iPod until the burping set in. He tapped his fingers against the pole.

"If you're throbbing, get to it," the singer squeaked into his ear.

Ernesto held his breath. The train was rolling along the platform into the station.

23 Chapter 2: Taylor M. Amatah

"Do you believe in life without love?" chanted a women's deep, digitally enhanced voice.

Taylor jerked up and threw the comforter off his neck. The lamp above him was still on. His heart was banging ten times faster than this tinny techno beat. He grabbed the alarm clock on his ^ nightstand. Even though it was old and square and had a beepbeepbeep sound, he would rather have woken up to that than to this underwater noise from the nineties. 2:57am. His cornrows were ripping at his brains. He was patting his chest and sliding on his buttocks to Manu's side of the bed. Finally some air in his lungs.

A ray of light was illuminating the living room floor. The apartment smelled of cold smoke and alcohol. For a moment, he was a boy in his parents' closed restaurant, feeling his way towards the jangle of the radio in the kitchen. He pulled his boxers out of his ass and stumbled over a pair of bright cowboy boots.

The nasal alto was wailing from a portable CD player on the kitchen counter. Manu was sitting at the table beside it, scribbling something on a small piece of paper. A glossy curl was trembling over his eye. Because he was left-handed, it looked as if he was writing a test and didn't want to share his results. His light pink sleeve was collecting breadcrumbs. It was a good thing Manu's mother didn't know that her lost nightgown was her youngest son's favorite piece of clothing.

Taylor snatched Manu's half-full water glass and emptied it in one gulp. The liquid was heavy and burnt his throat. "What is this?" he yelled over the music.

Manu didn't look up. "Vodka."

Taylor jumped around Manu's chair and stopped the CD. A car alarm was blaring somewhere in the neighborhood. He grabbed Manu's long black curls and pulled him away from his writing. "Dear Aunt Celia," he read. "I'm having a fabulous time with my sex God here in

24 America. But now it's three o'clock in the fucking morning and I have to go to bed because my lord hates to be annoyed by crazy little twinkies."

"You're ridiculous." Manu boxed Taylor's abs.

"You stink like an ashtray."

"Give me a break, Taylor. Since when do you go to bed so early? You were snoring at

10:30 already. It's the weekend."

"Maybe for you. Some people have to make a living." Taylor dragged Manu off the chair.

He held him in his arms like a baby and carried him through the kitchen door. "I'm starting my new job in a few hours."

"On a Saturday. You're kidding me."

Inside the bedroom, Taylor stopped. He balanced on one leg. With the foot of his other leg, he switched the light off.

"Oh," Manu said. "That's the office job you mentioned. What time do you have to get up?"

"In two hours."

Manu drove his hand up Taylor's back and pulled at a braid. "And now you want to have sex?"

Taylor tossed Manu on the black comforter. "Can you handle it?"

"Sure. If you let me help you with your office attire."

The streetcar was underground. Across from Taylor, a guy with white paint on his overalls leaned forward on his seat and rested his head against a metal bar. His skin looked gray in the harsh light. An old Asian lady sat at the other end of the bench. She was clasping a straw broom between her knees. Taylor's eyes felt swollen. In the window above the empty seats, he saw himself in Manu's shiny black suit, like a drug dealer in a Quentin Tarantino movie. He touched his cornrows. They were under control.

25 If not for the pay, he wouldn't have been on this ninety minute commute to the boondocks. But in the city, he couldn't expect more than minimum wage. He had taken the streetcar and Caltrain to Palo Alto last Monday. The secretary of Honeyhunter, Inc. had made him translate two paragraphs of online dating lingo into French. An Indian dude in a tight blue shirt interviewed him for less than ten minutes and left without saying good-bye. Taylor thought that he would never hear from Honeyhunter again. He was wrong. The secretary called him in the afternoon and said that they would like to offer him the French customer service job.

Seventeen bucks an hour. His father's torture was worth more than the diplomas Taylor was still paying back. The old man had pushed le Francais on him. "Taylor," he used to say.

"Nobody can take from you what you've got in your head." Taylor couldn't forget that sentence.

He'd outed himself to his parents two years ago. Not a good idea in the aftermath of Katrina drowning their restaurant. Some days, he felt like his childhood was an island that had vanished.

"You listen good, young man," his mother had told him the last time she'd called. "If you quit acting like a fool, daddy and I will forget everything. Life's hard enough as it is. Did you find uncle Don's Baptist church?"

"Mom."

"There are plenty a nice girls. If you hush and dress the part you gone be fine."

"I'll let you know if I'm planning on marrying a vagina," Taylor said.

A crackling in the line.

Mom?"

Click. She hung up on him. That was two months ago. If this new job worked out, he would tell her about it. She might come around.

The streetcar stopped. The painter banged his leg against the bar beside the door and staggered down the stairs. They were out of the tunnel, but it was still dark. In the lit up window front of a condo across the street, two women and a man struggled on bikes. More people on the weight machines in the back. Rich folks were nuts. If Taylor was loaded, he would sleep in until

26 nine at least. He opened the outside pocket of his olive-green backpack and pulled out his alarm

clock. His phone had drowned in the toilet last month. 5:42am. A few more stops and he would

change onto Caltrain.

Taylor was sipping on a coffee from a Mexican place down the street. Even though it was

brisk, sweat was running down the sides of his upper body. He strolled into the courtyard of an U-

shaped office building. The stairs in the back led to the second floor, where he'd had his

interview last Monday. He searched the pockets of his suit and found a crumpled note inside his

jacket. 100 F. The door beside him had a tag saying BREAK ROOM. Taylor was walking around

the stairs to another entrance with a green metal sign attached. The sign was a cutout of a girl

sitting on a potty. Marble-sized pebbles in different shades of gray covered the walls of the

building, as if it had a wart disease. Large bronze characters were glued onto a door across from

the break room. 100 F. Taylor knocked. A white-haired man in a wool sweater opened. He

pushed past Taylor and paced down the courtyard. Taylor was waiting with his foot in the door

until the man stepped onto the sidewalk and disappeared.

The room was as big as a gym and smelled like the inside of Taylor's shoes. Several long

rows of desks were leading to the back wall. More of these tables formed an open square beside

him. A brother was wearing a beige jogging suit that must have been his size many years ago. He

was sitting with his back to Taylor and shutting down his computer. A white teenage girl with

protruding teeth was typing across from the brother. She was also sporting some kind of a gym jacket, made from terrycloth. People were getting up. The nightshirt was over. There was a girl in

a blue spandex dress. She looked like a zombie with her smeared eyeliner and the dirty-brown

hair in her face. Her cheeks were sagging. Taylor shouldn't have listened to Manu. Even in a T-

shirt and baggy pants, he would've been overdressed. He sat down on the edge of the brother's

table and stared at the carpeted wall across the entryway. It was movable and seemed to fence off

27 another workspace. Through the gap at the end of the partition, he could see more desks. "There are no cubicles," he said to the brother.

"You new? Only the second floors get cubicles. Down here we breathe each other's germs. You better find disinfectant wipes for your keyboard."

"Where are they?"

"Open soma those." The brother pointed to a chest of drawers beside the door. "In the green and yellow plastic containers." He got up and shuffled around Taylor to the white teenage girl with the protruding teeth. She took a tissue out of her handbag and dabbed some make-up off her forehead. The brother bent down to her. Taylor managed to look away before the two of them kissed. He had goose bumps on his arms. Something was wrong with the ventilation in this place.

There was a wooden wedge by the entrance. He stood up, opened the door and shoved the wedge under it.

"What are you doing?"

Taylor jerked around. He banged his knuckles against the door handle.

The Indian guy who'd interviewed him. He was wearing a too small striped suit.

"Human resources sent me," Taylor said. "It's my first day."

"Hmm. You sure?" The guy rubbed the scar on his chin. "Oh, I remember. You're the

Frenchman."

"French customer service."

"Come." They walked to the back of the room. Several long rows of desks were facing each other. "Tracy, which spot is empty today?"

Moonfaced Tracy raised her hand in one of the middle rows. A headset held her hair back. She was on the phone.

The Indian guy scratched his suit where his nipple was. "Tell her to explain to you how to log into the customer service tutorial."

28 Taylor sat in a fenced-off square. His desk was at the only window, between two women

who were looking at these abrasive gray walls beside him. The middle-aged white lady with a

double chin introduced herself as Vivienne. "And this is Kristina," she said. Her younger friend

had straight shiny hair, like a star of a shampoo commercial. "Kristina is from the former

Yugoslavia. Bosnia, I think. Is that right, sweetie?"

Kristina glanced at Taylor. He smiled and she focused on her screen again. This kind of

arrogance pissed him off. Good-looking women always thought he wanted to pick them up.

The tutorial explained which content was allowed on Honeyhunter's dating and social networking sites. Taylor and his coworkers would have to review every word and picture users wanted to post. He would also have to read mail sent via the company's email clients and make

sure it conformed to the websites' different terms of use. The lessons were easy, but it was almost

impossible to get through the quizzes before his time was up. Moonface had told him that he

would lose his job if he failed a test twice. He decided to relax between the quizzes and took

forever studying the lessons. To improve his score, he was jotting down some notes.

AA = animal/pet

Honeyhunter, Gayhunter, Reunion and other PG-sites: no nudity + sex, AA ok

Kinkhunter, Humphunter and other XXX: suspend profile if reference to AA

Never allowed: body waste, pedophilia, bestiality, contact info (revenue loss)

Torture on Kink ok if it doesn't look real; check in with supervisor

Halfway through the morning, Moonface entered their corner. "How are you, ladies?"

She handed Kristina a red bouquet and left. Taylor thought that the papery white flowers between the roses made it look cheap. But he shouldn't have glanced at the damn bouquet. Now Kristina would think he was trying to learn from her lovers.

"Stunning," Vivienne said. "They're absolutely gorgeous. Can I smell them, sweetie?"

Taylor could see the bouquet brush Vivienne's face. He tried to focus on his screen.

29 "I can't quite smell them. It must be my allergies. Oh Kristina, he must love you so

much. What's his name again?"

"Chester. The one with the dandruff issue. We've been serious for a while."

"Why didn't you tell me? I'm so happy for you. Did you give him that shampoo that I—"

"You want to know why he gave me flowers? Because he's guilty. He has to make up for

Valentine's Day."

Vivienne's nose made a weird sound. Taylor couldn't tell if she was snorting or sniffing.

"You were already dating him on Valentine's Day?" she asked.

"I thought we were," Kristina said. "You know, I tell all my boyfriends that I love that

day. They better not forget it. Chester invited me for the mandatory dinner, and I prayed after

every course that somebody would bring me his flowers. It didn't happen. He dropped me off

outside my neighbor's garage. 'You don't bring me to my house?' I asked, but he said he was in a hurry. I assumed he had put flowers in front of my door. Nothing. You should have seen me. I

was bawling my eyes out, and then I made Sheila, my best friend at the time, visit me, and I

didn't let her go until it was past midnight and this horrendous day was over. I mean how could he be so cruel when he knew that Valentine's Day meant so much to me."

"Oh Kristina...," Vivienne said.

Taylor wondered how many bouquets the guy had to send Kristina to make up for his

crime. Multiply that by $20, assuming the guy had been smart enough to find a cheap flower

shop. Taylor had run out of time for his quiz. One question left.

On Gayhunter.com: A customer email has a picture of a topless woman attached. Do you delete

it?

o Yes. Gay men don't care about women's breasts.

o Yes. The picture is objectifying if the nipples are not covered.

o Yes. Nudity is not allowed on PG-sites.

30 o No. Customers have a right to privacy.

Taylor leaned back into his chair. From the window, he had a view of the courtyard. It was paved except for one circle in the middle where—encased by a bench—a palm tree was dying. Half the tree's crown had turned gray. Taylor wanted to quit and go back to bed. His eyes burned. The more he focused on the tree, the shabbier it looked.

At 2:15 pm, the customer service manager in the tight suit walk across the courtyard towards the office. Taylor jumped up from his chair and rushed out of the carpeted corner. He got a hold off the boss at the door.

"Excuse-me," he said. "Can I take a lunch break?"

"You haven't logged out yet?" A pen was clicking in Mr. Tight Suit's fist. "That's illegal.

You can't work more than five and a half hours without a break. If it happens again, I'll have to terminate your employment."

Taylor went back to his desk. He opened his employee profile and signed off. The square that represented his morning shift appeared dark red. He left the office and walked along Main

Street to a sub joint he'd passed on his way to work. There were no other customers. A Latina overfilled his six-inch loaf with meatballs. She wore lip liner without lipstick and had a fountain­ like ponytail on top of her head. Sitting at the window front, Taylor was drowning crumbs from his sandwich in a pink soda lake that hadn't been cleaned off the table. Heat waves were rising on the street outside. His shirt was glued to the skin between his shoulder blades. He wished he was

Manu, hanging out in the shade of Persimmon Park's eucalyptus trees. Not even the ridiculous yoga exercises would've bothered him.

31 It was cooler back in the office, but it stank worse than on the drug streets downtown.

Kristina and Vivienne had lowered their voices to an eerie whisper. If only Taylor could shut his ears. He was longing for a cubicle.

"I'm sure he's intersexed," Vivienne said. "Did you look at him during lunch? Did you notice his fine-boned arms?"

Kristina wrapped her hair around her hand. "What do you mean, intersexed?" Her roses were propped against the wall, in a Starcoins coffee thermos.

"You know, when you're neither a man nor a woman. Sort of both."

"A hermaphrodite," said Kristina.

"You shouldn't say that anymore, sweetie. It's considered rude. Like Eskimo. Nowadays you say Inuit." Vivienne glanced at Taylor.

He would fail his quiz again if these stinking cunts continued with their bullshit.

"His braids are greasy," said Kristina. "I can't look at his stubble. Something about it makes me think of a naked person."

"I know what you mean," Vivienne said. "He's not a normal guy. Did you see how skinny his hands are?"

"Men don't have fingers like that."

"But then, his nose," Vivienne said. "It's masculine. Crooked."

"I think he's ugly." Kristina shivered. "That's all there is to it."

They were quiet. Taylor had time to answer a question on his screen.

"Do you think he has a..." Kristina pointed with the long purple nail of her index finger at her crotch.

"Hard to say. He might have something in-between."

"Oh my God." Kristina snickered. "Who wants to be with people like that."

"I'm sure some folks on our websites wouldn't say no."

They were both laughing.

32 "Sorry to interrupt," Taylor said. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Who are you talking about?"

Vivienne's neck flushed. "Oh Gosh. You must think we're awful gossips."

"It's none of his business," Kristina said.

"I didn't mean to be rude," Taylor said. "But I think I know the guy. I reviewed his profile on Kink.com."

"He wouldn't be on there," said Vivienne. "We're talking about a coworker."

Taylor tried to keep a straight face. "Are you kidding me? Someone like that is working here?"

"You'll get used to it," Vivienne said. "It took me a while too. Anyone could have one of these weird profiles. That's why I don't like taking the bus anymore. For all I know, the person beside me could be into watersports. Or have sex with chickens. It's terrifying."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Taylor said. "It's hard to know who you're talking to. If these profiles are real, the world must be full of perverts."

"Trust me," Vivienne said. "They are real."

It was almost 4:00pm when Taylor had to assist the Italian translator Ernesto Pedrini with some French in an English text. Taylor was following his boss to the long rows of tables, and noticed that the guy's suit was too tight even around his ass. They passed Moonface and some other women. Ernesto was sitting at the end of the aisle beside the wall. His long black braids hung like a curtain down his face. Taylor felt like he'd seen the guy before, but he couldn't remember where or when. He wasn't usually a supporter of white people with braids; they didn't have enough hair and you could see their pale scalp. But Ernesto looked so creepy it was stylish.

The skin on his head was bluish and almost translucent, which made Taylor think he could recognize the contours of the Italian's brain.

33 "Ernesto," said the boss. "This is the new French rep. He's going to help you with the translation." Tight Suit was squeezing past Taylor down the aisle.

Ernesto's long fingers were still typing. His wrists were small.

The pervert. Taylor grinned. Ernesto had to be the guy Vivienne and Kristina had been talking about.

"You're the new one," Ernesto said with a sore voice.

He could be trans, Taylor thought. His trans friend Eric had a voice like that. But Eric looked like a bulldyke without boobs. This guy had more facial hair than Eric and was scary rather than hardcore, probably because of his fine build. "What'd you need help with?" Taylor asked.

"I don't need help" said Ernesto. "It doesn't matter what I translate. I'm the only one in this company who speaks Italian, and I'm the one responsible for Italian complaints."

"All right," Taylor said. Ernesto had an attitude like a flamer. Or maybe it was an Italian thing. "I'll see you around, I guess."

"Well, since you're here you might as well help me. I have to translate this newsletter for the Italian customers. The writers decided to be fancy and added a bunch of French this week."

He pointed to a passage on the screen. "I don't do French."

Taylor wanted to touch Ernesto's fingers. They were white and shiny. The guy held his hand like a ballet dancer.

Ernesto cleared his throat. "Do you understand it?"

"Hey Goddess," Taylor translated. "These beautiful flowers are for you. Do you think we could get together sometime?"

"Are you serious?"

"That's what it says."

"Hmm." Ernesto continued to type. He didn't say thank you.

34 Taylor went back to his desk. He put the papers with the notes into his backpack and logged himself off.

When he opened the door to the courtyard, he saw Ernesto again. Mr. Italian Goth was rushing with long steps past the dying palm tree. Taylor was following him to the sidewalk and along Main Street, but the distance between them was getting bigger. Taylor fell into a trot. The sky was blue like the paint of a swimming pool. His lungs filled with heat. If not for the people, life in the boondocks would be bearable. There was no traffic. He was almost running into a chubby white boy who was sitting in a stroller. "Sorry, ma'am," he said to the dark woman who was pushing the child. He pulled his shoulders back and with every breath, he felt like he was growing. Where was Ernesto? A guy wearing a red cap was relaxing at a table outside the place where he'd bought a coffee in the morning. They were playing a Mexican pop song. A woman with a bicycle was walking up the pedestrian underpass beside the train station. Big yellow flowers were quivering in the basket attached to the front of her bike. Ernesto had vanished.

Taylor was sure that the guy was trans, and gay too. He tried to remember what Ernesto had looked like, but there was only this image of a tall slender shadow racing in the sun.

35 Chapter 3: Manuel Santos

Manu lay down on his pink mat at the end of the semicircle around yoga instructor Paul.

He pulled a dried-up stalk of a weed out of the dirt road and threw it into the grassland beside him. The other students seemed comfortable in the lotus position. If Manu squinted, they sat on colorful flying carpets that were hovering above the ground.

"Stop dreaming." His friend Raquel Hernandez pushed her glasses up her nose. "Look at that."

Paul's glistening spandex butt was in the air. With stretched legs, the teacher hopped along the purple mat towards the elbows beside his face. He lifted his long dark feet off the ground and slowly stretched them skywards. Fabulous. His buttocks like overripe grapes in the sun. They almost burst from tension. Manu put his chin on his fist and the berry bubble of his gum popped. "Talk to me," he said to Raquel. "I'm about to get a hard-on."

She looked at him over the rim of her glasses. "When will you grow up, Manu?"

"Come on, honey. Don't be uptight. You like his bum?"

"I'm in a bad mood." Raquel let her head drop backwards. "I wish we could do this in the shade, under a tree or something."

"Take your jacket off. Dark blue isn't your color anyway. It makes you pale."

"Do you want to know what's up?" she asked. "I might as well tell you instead of bitching about the heat. Jean-Luc said last night that my thighs were fat."

"He didn't."

"Yes." Raquel was rubbing her jogging pants with concern. "He said they were womanly."

"Even Madonna has womanly legs." Raquel the superstar. People had told her she resembled Madonna. Stuff like that exhausted Manu. Were they blind or what? The truth was that

36 Raquel looked like Madonna's insomniac sister. Her glasses brought out the purple rings under her eyes.

"Taylor would never insult your body," she said, and pursed her lips. "I wish I was a gay man."

Manu didn't want to encourage Raquel's sulking. "Are you kidding?" he said. "Taylor's totally mean. 'Manu, your love handles are turning into fucking beer barrels.' Or his favorite:

'Hey fatso, the grease is dripping down your curls.' Trust me, you don't want to be a gay man."

Raquel peeled strands of hair off her sweaty forehead. "That's pretty bad," she said. "Are you thinking about leaving him? You know you can always—"

"Raquel! Manuel!" That was the teacher. "We all trying to get in a headstand."

The other students had lifted their legs off the mats and stretched them in different angles in the air. They looked like lime green and fuchsia desert plants species. "My mat's too tiny,

Paul," Manu said. "I'll fall off and stain my new tights."

"That would hurt," Raquel said.

Teacher Paul rubbed his biceps. "If you press your weight away from the ground and relax your shoulders and neck, like I explained it, you'll be fine."

"I didn't sign up for military camp," Manu said, and got up. "Raquel and I will move over to the grass."

"It's okay, Manu," Raquel said. "I won't kick my legs all the way up."

"No, it's not. You'll smash your glasses." Manu grabbed her hand and walked around her in a circle.

Raquel dropped on her back. "Manu!" She had a hard time untangling her legs.

"Having a boyfriend shouldn't turn you into a nun, Raquel." Manu pulled his mat off the ground. A pebble stuck to it.

37 Raquel's mat was of a lighter pink shade than his. She rolled it up and followed him off the road into the grass. "You're cheating on Taylor?" She unrolled her mat on top of some delicate blue flowers.

"Watch your language, hon." Manu lowered his head onto his mat and cupped his hands against his hair. The cool wind and the gel made the curls feel clammy. "Who said we were monogamous?"

"Monogamous, polypogamous," Raquel said. "I don't even want to discuss your bohemian nonsense. Tell me if you're cheating on Taylor or not."

In Raquel's world, everything was straightforward. She didn't understand anything complex or queer. What's the point of being gay and not obsessing about sex? If you're choosy in terms of dick or vagina, you can just as well be picky about pain-levels, costumes, and number of partners. "Are you sure Jean-Luc isn't cheating?" Manu said to Raquel. Then he yelled at Paul:

"You're a tyrant! This is totally messing up my hair."

Raquel's head was on the mat and her ass in the air. Her glasses had fallen down to her hairline. She tried to stretch her legs. With her mouth open in concentration, the gap between her front teeth made her look like Madonna's lunatic clone.

Manu went into the same position as Raquel. His shirt slipped towards his chest and exposed three rolls of fat with a golden tan.

"I never said that," Raquel said.

"What? You think I look older than thirty?"

"Jean-Luc might be cheating on me. I don't know and I don't care."

"Why would you think that, hon?" Manu lifted his legs off the mat. With his toes, he tried to touch a blue jay that was flashing by. No chance. But this was it: a perfect headstand.

"I'm not making this up," Raquel said. "He didn't think he could be faithful, so I said if you cheat don't tell me. I can't promise to stay with you if I find out."

Manu almost lost his balance.

38 "Look, I did it!" Raquel said.

Before Manu had time to squint at her, something knocked into his ribs. The blow tore his head off the mat and slammed him on his side.

"Ouch," said Raquel. Her thigh pinned Manu into the grass.

"So long," Manu said. "I loved my new outfit."

"Do you smell this?" Raquel asked.

"Can you please move yourself off me?"

She didn't even stir. "Dog shit."

Manu sighed. It smelled like grass. Lush dark green grass. Up in the sky was Paul's glittery spandex leg. "That was a good headstand," he said to Manu.

The yoga students lined up and gave Paul a hug, one after another. Manu was the last.

"You doing fine, Manuel Santos." Paul drove his fingers through his super short curls. "If you paid attention, you could become my best student."

"Manu, are you walking to the bus stop with me?" Raquel asked.

"Not today. I'm going for a stroll."

"Well then, ditch me grandfather." She blew him a kiss and stomped across the field towards the trees. Behind them was Persimmon Lake.

"Did you just say I'm your most handsome student?" Manu asked Paul.

"My most obnoxious student."

"Do you want to go for a walk with me? I can show you this overgrown bridge at the lake. It's totally quiet and romantic there, even on Saturdays."

"I should go home." The teacher looked as if he wanted to grab Manu's shoulder, but instead he crossed his arms. "Don't take it the wrong way. You're really cute. My type, actually, if you care to know. But my lover wants me to be committed."

"That's a shame," Manu said.

39 "Naw, it's fine. On New Years, I told myself that this was it, that I was too old to fuck around. It's not easy to find someone as smart and charming as him. I've been good. It's like when you stop smoking. You gotta be strict about it or all your sacrifices are worthless."

Manu wasn't used to this. True, it could've been worse. Paul was a decent guy. The problem was that Manu had been super successful with older men. For a long time, he hadn't had a rejection. His last unsuccessful advance had been at least three years back, when he'd hit on a

German insurance salesman. The guy turned out to be straight. Paul was missing out, but Manu couldn't make fun of him. The teacher was so serious about it, so little boy with big eyes. "I totally respect that, Paul," Manu said. "If you change your mind, do it while I'm your student."

They hugged once more.

"Are you taking the bus?" Manu asked.

"I'm driving." Paul wiped his forehead. "Practice the headstand."

Manu juggled three pinecones and one of them fell into Persimmon Lake. Over by the island, something slipped into the water. A couple of turtles pressed themselves against a wide root that reached out into the turquoise. It was a bit of a challenge to feel rejected here. This part of the park was like the beach postcards his aunt Celia sent him from Mindanao.

He could have gone to the back of the lake on his own, to masturbate, but the idea depressed him. Taylor couldn't help out either. He was at his new office job. Before five pm, only the usual straight alcoholics were at the Confidant. Manu might have been able to pick up a tourist at this new gay bar in the Castro. He was excited for a moment, but then he remembered that the tourists were always partnered up and scared of the things they would have done without thinking at home. Manu hated not to get laid. It made him feel lost in his skin. The world around him was alive, but he was empty like some stupid plastic bag caught on a shrub.

Between the tall lake grasses less than ten feet away, a blue heron stood on one leg.

Neither Manu nor the bird moved. God, what excess. A cloak so feathery and fine. What was it

40 good for? What was this splendor good for if nobody appreciated it? Manu often stared in the mirror stunned by his own portrait, as if he were that guy Dorian Gray from his favorite novel. In these moments, he knew that he had only two choices. Either he could kill himself in this state of perfection, or he could go out and sleep with as many men as possible. The second choice was more thrilling. The wing of the heron fluttered like the extravagant handkerchief of a queen.

Manu was about to cry. The bird pulled out of the water and glided over to the island. Yes, Manu had been sleeping with more penises than he could store names in his memory. But he wasn't ready to be old and settled down like Paul. He hadn't reached that point yet where he could commit to such ordinary existence.

Manu was meandering along a narrow gravel path between the arboretum and a large field on which people walked their dogs or their children or both. Since his thirtieth birthday, everything had been about mortgage payments and commitment. Not even the park was fun anymore. Ahead of him, a woman was passing a tree with white leaves. It was his girlfriend

Raquel, or should he say fiancee? Manu's mother couldn't wait for them to get married. If breasts and other squishy women parts hadn't disgusted Manu, he would have proposed to Raquel. She was a good person: a proper straight girl who couldn't do harm to anyone. Until she'd brought it up in yoga class, Manu hadn't even considered that Taylor could be hurt by his affairs.

Manu wasn't the monogamous kind. He remembered telling Taylor, on the blue futon after they had carried the last cardboard box into their new apartment. The sun was shining into the living room and he was still trying to catch his breath. "Everything feels so serious," he said.

"But one man isn't enough for me. It never has been."

Taylor sat down next to him and shrugged. "We're using protection anyway," he said.

"Whatever you want, man. Just because we're living together doesn't mean we're fucking husband and wife."

41 Taylor was the most grounded person Manu knew. He wasn't afraid to face life as it really was: death and lies and unsanitary wounds. He even seemed to have forgiven his parents who couldn't accept that he was gay.

Manu caught up with Raquel.

"Oh, you're done with your stroll," she said. "I thought you were too ancient to hang out with girls."

"Don't be mean. Paul just turned me down."

Raquel was staring at Manu, her glasses halfway down her nose. "You wanted to get into

Paul's pants."

"Like you didn't know."

"I didn't," Raquel said. "Wow. That's so... immature."

Raquel was a prude, just like her parents. Manu thought it was funny that she called herself an atheist, but she wouldn't have understood his humor.

"What about Taylor?" she asked.

"Didn't you listen? I said Paul wasn't interested."

"So what. You're sleeping with other guys. I know it."

They walked up the hill to the eucalyptus trees in silence. On their way down to

Persimmon Avenue, Raquel held herself on Manu's arm. Mist was coming in from the sea.

"It's not true," Manu said. "I shouldn't have joked about it, I'm sorry. I didn't want to sleep with Paul. He's too old."

"Can you stick to one story?"

"I went for a short walk," Manu said. "At the windmill, I remembered what you had said in class. It freaked me out so much that I ran after you."

"You went all the way to the windmill?"

"Yes," Manu said. Raquel believed almost every lie. He just had to make it about her and throw in that weather-beaten windmill she loved.

42 They stepped on the sidewalk. A biker was wheezing past them.

"Manu, you're so dramatic sometimes," Raquel said. "What did I say? Something crass?"

"You said that you didn't want Jean-Luc to tell you if he was cheating on you. Do you know how easily you could contract an STD and not even know about it?" It really was stupid.

The more Manu thought about it, the more convinced he was that Raquel had her head in the fog.

Some people think they're invincible.

Raquel let go of his arm. "Manu, straight people know about condoms too. Jean-Luc is very responsible. That's why I love him. He knows how to protect himself."

"I didn't say anything. I just want you to be careful."

The bus drove down the street.

"Can I come with you?" Manu asked. "I don't want to be home alone."

"If you don't mind that I'm doing laundry."

"We can make it," Manu said. They were crossing the street behind the bus. Manu was waving his arms. His ribs hurt where Raquel had slammed her leg against them. Why did she have this blind trust in people? She knew nothing about human nature.

The bus stopped beside the dollar store.

Raquel got on first. "Thank you," she said to the chubby black dyke behind the wheel.

A bronze-colored SUV pulled in right in front of the bus. Someone opened the passenger door. "Manuel!"

Manu still stood on the stairs of the bus. The door was open. "Oops," he said to the lesbian driver and Raquel. "I think it's a friend."

Raquel held herself on a metal post and squinted at him. Her mouth was open, and there was the gap between her teeth. Madonna with a concussion. It was unlikely that she had recognized Paul's voice.

"Make a decision," the bus driver said. "Come up or get off."

43 "Bye, hon." Manu waved at Raquel and jumped onto the sidewalk. He didn't run to the car. Sometimes it's important to take your time.

When he got into the SUV, the bus driver honked. Manu slammed the door and Paul revved up the engine. They drove out into the street.

Paul had the full and smooth lips that Manu loved to kiss. The kind that were yielding like raspberries. "Can you be discreet?" Paul asked, his eyes straight ahead.

"I'm discretion personified." Manu put on his seatbelt. The car smelled like peppermint candy. "I hope you're okay if tell my boyfriend about it."

Paul looked at Manu. "Sure. No problem." He pinched Manu's cheek. "You damn gorgeous, you know."

Manu let his back sink into the leather of his first class seat. The trees were racing by outside the window, and he felt as if he was giving the world the finger.

44 Chapter 4: Cal O'Connor

"Don't let me down, bro. Every time I call you have another excuse."

"Ouch." Cal was laughing through his nose. His daughter Sandra let go of his index finger. "That one was louder than a firecracker."

"Hey, you're talking to your best friend. Tell your pussy to stop spanking you."

"Teddy." Cal dropped against the backrest of his leather recliner. "I'm playing with

Sandra. She's pulling at my fingers until my joints crack."

"That's sick, man. Tell her to stop it."

Cal clamped the phone between his shoulder and jawbone. He leaned towards Sandra and tried to untangle the knot on top of her head. Her fine red hairs were glued together like a spider nest.

"The other hand," Sandra said. "These fingers don't work anymore."

"You still here?" Teddy asked.

Cal let the knot of hair go. "Daddy's on the phone. Come to the other side of the recliner if you want to crack more fingers."

"Man. You're spoiling that kid."

"What do you want, Teddy?"

"I want my friend back. This is a deciding game. You would have never missed a game like that."

"You said Jan was going. I don't see why I have to be there."

Teddy lowered his voice. "I told Judith this was an afternoon with the guys," he said.

"Your twin isn't man enough?"

"Judith thinks Jan's up to no good. If she doesn't trust me, she doesn't trust my twin. You have to help me out. You know how Judith thinks you're like God's gift to gentlemen. If you show up she won't be suspicious."

45 Sandra climbed on Cal's lap. She put her head on his chest as if it was a pillow.

"Since when do you care what Judith thinks?" Cal said.

"She befriended a divorce lawyer in the neighborhood."

"What did I tell you last night?" Cal rubbed the Minnie Mouse heads on Sandra's back.

He had bought her that dress. "I said it was time to go home. That woman was not worth it,

Teddy. You were thinking with your little brain. Judith's upset, huh?"

"That lawyer chick's after my money. She's freaking the wife out."

"Take Judith to the game if you have—"

"You're kidding me, Cal. I'm going through real shit here."

"Teddy. I've had a hard week. All I want to do is relax with the fam—"

"You're a big pussywhipped asshole. For fuck's sake, Cal. What's wrong with you? We used to throw burning toilet rolls around the stadium. Remember that? Remember when the feather on that lady's hairdo caught fire? I've never seen you laugh harder."

"Another time," Cal said. "I'm not up for it."

"I miss my old bro," Teddy said. "Jan misses him too. Give me a call when you change your mind."

Cal hung up. He'd gone for a beer with both twins yesterday, at the new strip joint. What did Teddy want? Cal picked a strand of hair from the knot on Sandra's head. She was drooling on his shirt. Her white eyelashes were trembling.

Cal balanced Sandra's puddle print bowl on top of two plates. Maria bent over the countertop in the middle of the kitchen. She was humming a monotonous melody. Something hymn-like you hear in church. Her flimsy yellow wipe was sliding back and forth across the marble. One of the built-in sinks beside her was filling with water. Hopefully her don't-use-the- dishwasher-and-save-water fad would be over soon. The breakfast mugs still stood on the other

46 side of the counter. Cal set the plates and the bowl into the empty sink. "You bought new wipes?" he asked.

"I got them at the 99 cents store in Santa Clara. Shelby said these were the best. They sell similar ones at the supermarket, but they're more expensive and not as solid."

Cal took the oatmeal pan off the stove behind Maria. "What about the micro fiber ones that I bought a while back?"

"The ones with the cartoon characters?"

"Yes."

Maria turned off the water. She took the pan out of Cal's hand and drowned it in the steam. "They're not worth the money," she said. "Did you ever smell one of those?"

"They smell?"

"Ugh. Sour like vomit. I had to throw them in the laundry every second day."

Cal pressed his thumbs against the rounded edge of the counter. "The avocado salad was excellent. You put cashews in it?"

"Pine nuts." Maria lifted Sandra's bowl with her fingertips and dropped it into the water.

It clanged against the pan at the bottom.

"Do you want me to do the dishes?"

"No, I'm fine. Make sure Sandra doesn't torture the bonsais, please."

Cal went to the parlor and looked out the window front. The sun was shining on the white cobblestones. The bonsais lined up like soldiers along the edge of the deck. Behind Cal, the clock was ticking. But there was another noise in the house. Sandra was talking to herself. Cal was crossing the living room and stopped in the somber hallway, at the entrance of his daughter's room. She sat in front of her dollhouse and banged the head of Mr. Hopkins on the red roof. He was the father of the doll family: a bald fellow in a tight brown suit.

"No, Mr. Hopkins," she said. "Don't clap your hands yet. You have to wait until I'm done."

47 She was singing If You 're Happy and You Know It. Her voice was airy and innocent until

Mr. Hopkins messed up. He got another lecture about proper clapping. Cal tiptoed out the door and to the living room. He plunged into his recliner and switched on the TV. The sports commentator with his fluorescent pink tie sat alone on a barstool in front of a pig with an umbrella. The pig was a bank advertisement. "Tonight the Giants are going to play against the

Detroit Ti—"

Cal switched to a home renovation show. His friend Teddy could nag like a woman.

Worse, actually. Whenever Teddy had one of his cheating crises, Cal had to drop everything and cheer this idiot up. The home renovation host with her bouncy tits was unbearable. She didn't even address interior design. All she wanted to talk about was why this fragile black foster kid wouldn't break his bones anymore in the new house. Accessibility was her favorite word.

Sandra pushed her red plastic wheelbarrow with yellow handles past the screen. Mr.

Hopkins lay face down in the cart. Cal turned off the TV.

"You want to go for a ride?" he asked.

"Yes." Sandra sat on top of Mr. Hopkins. "Get up, daddy."

"Shouldn't Mr. Hopkins sit on your lap?"

"No. He's behaving badly." Sandra ripped Mr. Hopkins out from under her Minnie

Mouse skirt and threw him on the floor.

Cal had no idea why she was so unforgiving. He or Maria never punished her. If she went overboard, they explained to her what she did wrong. What if Maria would finally become pregnant again? Sandra was going to abuse her baby brother. Cal had to talk to his wife about that.

"Vroom, vroom. Daddy!"

Cal pushed Sandra around the recliner. They passed the sharp glass corners of the coffee table.

"Faster, daddy."

48 Cal sped down the dark hallway. Sandra was squeaking. Her hands were holding on to the sides of the wheelbarrow. She dropped her head backwards and stretched her pale legs in the air. Cal stopped in front of the open bathroom door. Light was streaming through the milky window onto his daughter's face. Sandra squinted at him. He turned the wheelbarrow. Threads of gold flashed up in the knot on top of her head.

"Don't let your head drop backward," Cal said. "Your hair will get caught in the wheels."

Sandra pulled her knees to her chest and let her tangled hair drop into her eyes. The soles of her slippers tapped against the plastic.

"Are you ready?" Cal asked.

"Yes. As fast as possible, daddy."

Despite the sideboard next to Sandra's room, the hallway was a perfect mahogany racetrack. To slow down, Cal planned on turning into the living room. He ran with full speed.

Sandra was silent. When he had almost reached the end of the track, he saw Mr. Hopkins on the floor in front of the fireplace. He swung the other way and pushed his daughter into the dining room. Maria stepped out of the kitchen. He took a sharp turn towards the table. Sandra got slammed onto the floor. Cal let go of the wheelbarrow and it shot into a chair. His daughter was sliding on the hardwood past Maria's house slippers. Her elbow banged into the frame of the kitchen door. She lifted her head and made a gurgling sound. Maria pulled her up.

Sandra was laughing.

"Do you want to kill her?" Maria hissed. She pressed Sandra's head against her shoulder.

"We had a little accident," Cal said.

Maria stretched Sandra's arm. "Her elbow's scraped. She could have hit her head on the frame."

Sandra was whimpering.

"You're scaring her," Cal said. "Nothing happened. We had fun."

49 Maria patted the Minnie Mouse heads on Sandra's back. "It's okay, baby. Daddy was

irresponsible."

Cal angled the wheelbarrow out from under the table. He pushed it into the living room

and parked it next to the recliner. Mr. Hopkins stared up at the ceiling. Tick, tock tick. Watching

TV wasn't going to improve Cal's mood. He went out the front door and was tiptoeing in his

socks along the winding trail past the willow. The pebbles felt like glass shards under his feet. It

smelled of gasoline. The Brannons had gone for a ride in their Hummer.

"Daddy!" Sandra stretched her head out of the door.

"Come, sweetie. I have something for you."

Sandra slipped outside and scurried towards him. He picked her up and was walking in

the spongy grass to the garage. His socks were wet.

Cal was clasping a cardboard box under his arm. With his free hand, he slid open the

door to the deck. "Close the screen behind you, sweetie." He hit the button that unrolled the

sunshade. The light retreated from the gray cobblestones. He lowered the box on the ground.

Something spicy tickled inside his nostrils. It was the smell of pine resin. He rubbed his knuckle

under his nose so that he didn't have to sneeze.

Sandra exhaled noisily. "Daddy. The door is stuck."

Cal got up. "I'll close it."

Maria balanced a full pitcher and three tall glasses on a tray across the living room. There

was also Sandra's pink plastic cup beside a bowl with pistachios. He moved aside. "Who are you

expecting?" he asked.

"Shelby's coming over."

"Right." Cal closed the screen door. It screeched along the metal groove. "I forgot about that."

50 "She's going to be here any minute." Maria placed the tray on the table. "Leave the bonsais alone!" she said to Sandra.

Cal rushed to the corner of the deck. His daughter pressed a small tree with two entangled stems against her chest. "Let go." Cal took the bonsai and planted it back in the dry soil. "Listen."

He kneeled down in front of his daughter. "This is the last plant you pulled out of a pot. You're old enough to know that they don't like that."

"I don't like it either," Maria said.

Sandra looked at the floor and nudged her slipper against Cal's dusty sock.

The doorbell rang. Maria went inside the house.

"Get the watering can and give the tree something to drink," Cal said to Sandra. He ripped the tape off the cardboard box.

Sandra hauled the can along the stones. Water slopped on her blue slippers. She tilted the can and watered the little tree.

"It's fine," Cal said when she stood in a puddle. "Thank you, Sandra."

She dropped the can and ran to him. He took her slippers and white socks off and rubbed her feet dry. They were cool. She bent over the box. "What's that?"

"Train tracks and a train," Cal said. "Where are your flip-flops?"

"I don't know." Sandra reached with both hands into the carton and fished out a curved and a straight piece of flat wood. "Can I have them?"

"They're the tracks," Cal said. "They fit together like a puzzle." He took the tracks out of

Sandra's fingers and interlocked them on the floor.

Maria slid the screen door open. "Cal. Shelby's here."

Sandra picked a green locomotive out of the box.

"My grandfather carved this train for me when I was little," Cal said. "It's made from oak."

Sandra pushed the locomotive back and forth on the cobblestones.

51 Cal rose. The muscles in his shoulders felt balled up.

"Hello darling." A woman with eyes hidden under the rim of a mauve straw hat stood

beside the table. Her bloated lips were covered with a color thick like strawberry icing. She hugged Cal and pressed her cheek against his Ralph Lauren shirt. Make-up stains were the worst.

He would have to stop at the Chinese dry cleaner beside his office.

Shelby smelled like rose-scented soap. He patted her on her shoulder blade. Her blouse was silk.

She let go of him at last. "I'm delighted to meet you, Cal. Maria has told me much about you. I didn't think you were that tall. You remind me a lot of my second husband."

"I hope that's a good thing," Cal said.

"It is, indeed. Santiago was a man of pleasure. He knew how to appreciate a woman.

More than one, to my dismay." Shelby chuckled into her hand. She swung her body over to the table that Maria had covered with a white-laced cloth.

"Sit down with us, Cal," Maria said.

Shelby lifted a gift bag off her chair. It was golden and the handles were tied together with a royal blue ribbon. "That's for you, dear," she said.

Maria leaned over the table and took it from her. "You shouldn't have, Shelby. I'm honored to have my boss over."

"Please, Maria. Oriental Oasis has a creative advisor, not a boss." She tapped the tablecloth beside her. "Sit down, Cal."

Cal filled Sandra's pink plastic cup with lemonade. His daughter had connected a red car to the hook at the rear of the locomotive. She was driving the train around the box. "Here,

sweetie." He handed her the lemonade. "You have to drink something in this heat."

"Your daughter's tiny," Shelby said to Maria. "Do you have her on a diet?"

"God no," Maria said. "She's eating a lot. Her favorite foods are ice cream and spinach.

Would you like some lemonade or can I bring you a coffee? An espresso, perhaps?"

52 "You wouldn't have a spritzer?"

"With soda or 7 Up?" Cal asked.

"Soda, please. And a lemon wedge."

Cal went into the kitchen and banged the fridge door against the cabinet. The Zinfandel had been open for a while. He took a sip from the bottle. Good enough for a spritzer. He fetched a white wine glass from under the counter and mixed the drink. They didn't have lemons. He cut a slice out of an unwashed lime. To his surprise, the drink looked pretty with the green wheel sticking to the rim of the glass.

On his way to the bathroom, he grabbed the phone off the coffee table. Teddy wasn't home. He finished peeing, and called a second time. "Hey Ted, this is urgent," he said on the answering machine. "Give me a ring back." Sandra's yellow flip-flops were on the metal scale under the sink.

With the slippers in one hand and the drink in the other, he stepped onto the deck. Maria had gotten up. She bent over Shelby and hugged her. Cal placed the drink on the table in front of them. He took a sip from his lemonade.

Maria held a purple plastic dolphin in her hand. It was smiling.

"I hope you like it," Shelby said. "You can never have enough of them. They break too easily. Just last mo— My spritzer!" She looked up at Cal. "Thank you, darling."

"It's embarrassing," Maria said. "But I've never had one."

"Maria, dear. You're kidding."

Cal's lips were sticking together. The lemonade was too sweet.

"No," Maria said.

Shelby frowned at Cal. "He never gave you one?"

"What?" said Cal.

"A vibrator." Maria giggled and waved the dolphin above her head. "I have one now."

Cal walked away from the table.

53 "Vroom, vroom." Sandra was crawling beside the winding tracks. She pushed the train from the cardboard box to the bonsai that she had tortured earlier.

Cal kneeled down and slipped the flip-flops on her feet. "You did a great job with the tracks," he said. "Do you want me to show you something?"

Sandra bit her lower lip and nodded slowly. She drove the train up Cal's arm. A bonsai branch stuck out of the car's last window.

Cal began to collect the tracks.

"It's easy to love them when they're little," said Shelby. "Your husband's a great father."

"You have kids?" Maria asked.

"My son's your age. We have nothing in common. I haven't talked to him in ten years, since the India debacle. He's irresponsible like his father."

"You never mentioned him."

"Here, daddy." Sandra gave Cal an armful of tracks that she had taken out of the cardboard box.

"Thank you, sweetie. Now let's connect all the round pieces into a circle."

"He got married and opened a resort in Kerala," Shelby said. "With my money. South

India is not fit for mass tourism. I was naive enough to accept an invitation."

"Kerala," Maria said. "I've never heard of it."

"Of course not. The road leading to the hotel wasn't even paved. I had to drag my suitcase along the beach. His wife had shaggy black hair, like a gypsy. I don't know why

Benjamin picked her. India is full of beautiful women."

"That's true," Maria said. "I had an Indian friend in college. She looked like a gazelle.

Her cheekbones were so pronounced you thought she had silicon implanted."

"She said they were real? I wouldn't trust it. Lying is part of that culture. When I visited

Benjamin, I bought sun lotion in one of the stores. It was filled with coconut Vaseline. The

54 writing on the back was in German. I went back to the store and took the owner to task. They had filled up empty bottles that the tourists had left behind."

"I've heard a similar story," Maria said.

"You can't buy sun lotion in Benjamin's resort. And there were no tampons in the whole state of Kerala."

The phone was ringing.

"Do you mind?" Maria asked.

"Go ahead, darling."

Maria rushed inside.

"So you're in the real estate business," Shelby said.

"Yes." Cal crawled into the ring that he and Sandra had formed with the curved tracks.

He broke it into two semi-circles. "Now we connect the two parts with the straight pieces," he said to Sandra.

"The spritzer is exceptional," said Shelby.

Maria slid the screen door open. "It's for you, Cal." She brought him the phone.

"Hello?" Cal connected a straight piece to the semi-circle.

"What's going on, bro?" It was his friend Teddy.

"Are you serious?" Cal said. "Is Jan hurt?"

Maria looked at Cal. She didn't sit down.

"Jan's fine," Teddy said. "He's eating chips on the couch."

"That sounds serious," Cal said. "Which hospital?"

"No hospital," Teddy said. "Oh, I get it. Come over here asap. We're leaving shortly after four."

"Teddy. Don't freak out. He's going to be okay. What?"

"I didn't say anything, you asshole."

55 "No, it's not a problem," Cal said. "I'm at home. A friend of Maria's visiting. Keep calm.

I'll be at your place in twenty minutes." He hung up.

"What happened?" Maria asked.

"Jan was in a car accident. Teddy still doesn't have his license back. You know, the drunken driving thing. I'm going to give him a ride to the hospital."

"What's wrong with Jan?" Maria asked.

"His leg," Cal said. "Some kind of a bone splintering thing. Teddy didn't know exactly."

The train tracks were missing one straight piece. Cal got up. It was in the corner of the cardboard box, beside a faded yellow car. He completed the oval and kissed Sandra's cheek. "Bye, sweetie.

Daddy will be home soon."

Sandra grimaced. Her eyes filled with water.

"Don't cry. Mommy and Shelby are staying here with you."

Sandra pressed her lips together and looked at him. Snot ran out of her nose.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

"Is Jan dying?"

"Come here." Cal got up. He pulled Sandra off the ground and cleaned her nose with his shirt. "Jan's going to be fine. The doctors are healing his leg at the hospital."

"What a sensitive little girl," Shelby said.

Maria stepped forward and took Sandra out of Cal's arms. "I wish you would be more careful with your word choices around her."

56 Chapter 5: Taylor M. Amatah

The train was flashing in the distance like a brilliant steel worm. With that speed, it would take forever to reach the station. Taylor bought a transfer from one of the machines under the limestone shelter and stepped out into the sun. The air was 90 degrees and filled with voices of young nerdy men with unbuttoned shirts. Did every dot-com start a new shift at four o'clock?

A petite woman beside Taylor looked up and smiled. She was wearing a blue and white dress. He wanted to tell her that she should go for the scrawny hetero boys, but instead he grinned at her and walked away.

There was Ernesto, less than ten feet from him. The guy's shoulder bones were poking through flimsy black polyester. Taylor swallowed. He hid behind a rusty post and thought about what it would feel like to put his hands on those shoulders. Ernesto was chatting with a South

Asian dude in a stiff vest. The conductor. He had a polished head like these Buddhas they sell in

Chinatown. Taylor felt nauseated. The conductor wasn't just big. He was an armoire on legs.

Ernesto had to lean into him, of course, and almost disappear. What about talking like normal people, with an appropriate distance?

Ernesto's hawk eyes narrowed as if he was about to attack Taylor. He covered with his long fingers a tattoo on the side of his neck and grabbed the conductor's arm. What was his problem? They were two handsome queers amongst a bunch of retards. Why did Ernesto have to be so arrogant? Seventeen bucks an hour made up for a lot, but not for this rejection. Taylor decided not to return to Palo Alto on Monday. He kicked the useless post in front of him. The sound reminded him of jumping on plywood. It had been one of his favorite hobbies in his early teens, when he'd lived next to a building site. Now this fucking conductor had made him sprain his toe.

Ernesto was gone. No, there he was, speeding along the platform with his arms stiff at his sides. Taylor ran after him. The sting in his toe was bearable.

57 "Get on, everybody," yelled the conductor.

Taylor pulled himself up the stairs of the train. The connecting door to the next car was

open. In the drafty in-between space, the metal shifted under his feet. Through holes in the floor,

he could see the gravel and dry grass pulling away. Not good for his stomach. He pushed against

the door and stopped it before it slammed back in his face. He felt like he had opened the fridge

of his first apartment. What a smell. It was a good thing he'd given up the bachelor life. He

limped down the aisle until he saw the back of Ernesto's shoulder jutting out between braids. The

two of them were alone in the car. Taylor chose the group of seats behind his coworker, on the

other side of the aisle.

For the first time since Taylor had bought his leather shoes, he untied the laces. They

were stiff like cardboard. He slipped his sock off his foot. His big toe was large and plum-shaped

as always. It was a matter of time until it would swell. He stretched his leg on the opposite seat.

To stop his hands from shaking, he pressed his palms together. Sweat was tickling down his

temple and swirled into his earlobe. The train's air-conditioning was out of order. He looked up

and for a second caught Ernesto's gaze. Of course that didn't last. The snob turned away and

acted as if they hadn't seen each other.

In Redwood City, three white jocks got on. Two of them with pimple-scarred cheeks and

Giants caps. They both wore long-sleeved gray shirts with SF written in orange on their chests.

Taylor had never seen identical twins in their thirties who dressed the same. Fucking ridiculous.

The third one was a redhead who carried a case of Miller and had a hand in his pocket, probably

to play with his dick. Apart from the red sideburns, he was handsome. Taylor was sorry that the jocks sat down in front of him, across the aisle from Ernesto. All he could see between the seats

was the twins' broad shoulders pressing against each other.

He recognized the short, hissing noises. The guys were flipping open beer caps. Taylor

could have used a drink, but didn't want to ask them in front of Ernesto.

"They were artificial," one of the jocks said.

58 "Cupcakes are artificial too," said another one with the same nasal voice. "What's wrong with man-made stuff that's tasty?"

Taylor couldn't believe it. The twins sounded exactly like each other.

"Nothing tasty about plastic," the first twin said.

"How absurd to say you're a stripper, but not a prostitute," the redhead said. His voice was deeper and softer than the twins'. "It's as if she wanted to introduce different stages of being a whore."

One of the twins was laughing. Taylor could hear the mucus in his throat. "Yeah, bro," the twin said. "Some special slut. Should have appreciated her."

"Yeah, Cal," said the other twin. "Jan's right on that one. You gotta relax sometimes.

Take a vacation from the old pussy."

"I'm happy with what I have at home," said the redhead whose name apparently was Cal.

"Watch out what you say about my wife."

A twin was coughing or laughing. "Preach on, Cal. Doesn't make you a saint. You know what your problem is? You can't get it up for a silicon—"

"Is that a chick or what?" Cal asked. "Have you ever seen something like it? A chick with facial hair like a guy."

"That's one hairy broad," a twin said. "I don't see no tits. I swear it has tits under that shirt."

Two beer bottles were clanking. Taylor wondered how loud Ernesto's iPod was. Could

Ernesto hear these assholes? It was hard to tell. He sat there absent-mindedly and stiff; not even his braids moved. Taylor thought of a corpse in a log cabin on Mount McKinley. He'd seen the picture in a magazine in the waiting room of his optometrist. The dead man had been sitting against the planks, his skin waxen and his coat olive-green. The icicles on his beard had reached his chest.

"Revolting," Cal said. "If it has tits, they must be small. Or bound."

59 "You know how we'd find out," a twin said. "See what's under the shirt."

"Let go, Teddy," said the other twin.

"No way," said the twin called Teddy. "I don't want things like that to walk around in this country."

"An abomination of nature," Cal said. "It should go where it belongs. To the circus sideshow."

"I have half a medical degree," a twin said. "I can examine this freak."

"Ted," said the other twin.

"Hey," Cal said. "You guys have been calling me a fag all afternoon. I'll show you fag."

He got up and stepped across the aisle to Ernesto.

"That's my bro," a twin said.

Cal's face was red in blotches. A vein was beating at his temple. "It's not volunteering to strip."

Taylor didn't see much past Cal. He took his naked foot off the cushion and bent forward.

Ernesto hadn't moved.

"What are you staring at?" A fleshy hand on top of the seat in front of Taylor. One of the twins had gotten up. "The nigger isn't happy with being a nigger," the guy said to his brother.

"He wants to be a fag too."

His twin brother stood up. "Let's go to a different car, Teddy. All I want to see is the game."

"Don't shit your pants," said the twin called Teddy. He scratched the SF label on his chest. "You can't be scared of two fags."

"The nigger might have a weapon," the other twin said. He walked over to Cal and clutched his forearm. "Please—"

Cal ripped his arm out of the twin's grip. "Don't touch me, Jan. If you're into that you can make out with the negro."

60 Taylor tried to control the rushing blood in his head. He clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt.

The twin they called Jan pushed Cal. Cal let himself drop on top of Ernesto. He clenched

Ernesto's neck under his armpit.

Taylor jumped up. "Get off him, fuckbag." The twins caught him before he could get a hold of Cal. Each brother was clinging to one of his arms. Taylor felt his biceps flexing under their fingers.

"I can't breathe," Ernesto said in a calm voice.

"Ha." Cal rubbed his knuckles on Ernesto's head. "It can talk."

"Let him go," Jan said. His fingertips sank below Taylor's tendons.

"Fuck off, you goddamn cocksucker." Taylor tried to kick Jan. He hit his toe for the second time, on the hard iron leg of the seat.

Cal had pulled up Ernesto's black shirt. There were no breasts. Ernesto's nipples were small and his ribs showed through his almost translucent skin. The train was slowing down.

Taylor couldn't do anything with the twins like pit bulls on his arms. "Leave him alone, you fucking carrothead."

"What's going on here?" A voice from behind Taylor.

"Shit," Teddy said. The twins dragged Taylor down the aisle, away from the voice. At the end of the car they let go of his arms and bolted out the door. Before Taylor had time to turn, an elbow smashed into his side. He got a hold of Cal's red hair and regained balance. Cal banged through the door and Taylor had just his hair in his hand. It looked coarse, but felt soft like rabbit fur. White dots stuck to the roots. Taylor opened his hand and shook off the hairs. Some stuck to his palm. He wiped them on his jeans and limped over to Ernesto.

"Thank you," Ernesto said.

Taylor dropped into the seat across from him. "Are you hurt?"

61 Ernesto tilted his head from one side to the other. Something clicked. "My spine feels rusty," he said.

"This is not acceptable." The bald South Asian conductor stood beside their compartment. He pulled a phone out of his pocket. "I'm calling the transit police."

"Don't worry, Rashid," Ernesto said. "You were here on time. They weren't able to do anything. The one with the red hair spat, but he missed me."

Taylor and the conductor tried to find a wet stain on the two seats on Ernesto's side.

Ernesto's body covered less than one fourth of the covers. Like a young bird, he sat with his legs pulled up in the corner. "I cleaned up the saliva," he said.

"I'm Rashid," the conductor said to Taylor. "Are you hurt? I don't mind calling the police."

"I think my toe's broken," Taylor said. "One of these badass twins stomped on my foot."

"Twins." The conductor wiggled his head. "Of course they were twins."

"Can I see your foot?" Ernesto said.

Taylor stretched it on the seat beside Ernesto. It was hard to tell if the toe was swollen.

"It looks fine," said the conductor.

"You should cut your toenails," Ernesto said.

They were already in Hillsdale when Ernesto had finally convinced the conductor not to call the police. "I'm sure they got off the train. Don't go into the first car if you want to be safe."

Ernesto stood up.

"I'm not worried," Rashid said. "Twins don't scare me."

Ernesto was hugging the conductor and making a face over his beefy shoulder.

Rashid walked off to the first car.

"Be careful!" Taylor said. He had a rotten feeling about this. Who knew if Cal and the twins had gotten off. They sure didn't want to miss the Giants game. And what was wrong with

62 Ernesto? Why was he lying about what had happened? True, he'd been assaulted, but that Cal frat boy sure as hell hadn't spat. Taylor tried to push his thoughts away, but that made things worse.

Now he wanted to pull little bird Ernesto on his lap and lick the upside down cross on his neck.

What the fuck. Why wasn't his foot swelling or red or something?

The door banged close behind Rashid. Taylor and Ernesto were looking out the window.

A parking lot. The red sign of a PHARMAFIRST store. A hairdresser for dogs.

"Mussolini was a saint compared to these freaks," Ernesto said.

"What are you talking about?"

Ernesto rubbed his tattoo with two long fingers. "People like that redhead. People at

Honeyhunter."

Taylor pulled his wet shirt off his chest. He still craved a beer. "You had problems at work?"

"Nope. No problems," Ernesto said. "I keep my mouth shut. As long as they don't know anything about me, there's nothing they can accuse me of."

Taylor thought that that would' ve been true if Ernesto didn't have his Italian sense of fashion. Americans had a hard time recognizing elegant men as masculine. Neither a crooked nose nor a five o'clock shadow could change that. Hmm. Suddenly Taylor wasn't sure if Ernesto was trans. What if he was just a feminine gay man?

"You're staring at me," Ernesto said.

"Sorry. I got confused. You said people would leave you alone if you kept your mouth shut."

Ernesto's eyes narrowed. "That's right."

"But you're trans?"

"So?"

Taylor looked out the window. A small red car was parked in the grass beside the road.

The hood was propped up and smoke was rising from the engine. "People gossip if someone isn't

63 your typical man or woman," Taylor said. "They're like that, even if you don't talk to them. If you're trans and they can tell, they go bonkers. Isn't that why these fuckers just attacked you?"

"I don't think it had anything to do with me," Ernesto said. "Guys like that always find somebody to harass. If I don't talk to people at work, most of them don't feel comfortable asking me personal questions. I like it that way."

"I'm sorry." Taylor felt his cheeks. They were hot. "Fuck. I'm usually not like that. Work was too much."

"What are you talking about?"

"The whole trans ramble. It's really none of my business. I mean I'm gay and I care about trans and gender stuff. But I didn't mean to be so um... personal."

"Don't worry about it," said Ernesto. "You were right. People gossip, but like I said, I try to stay out of their bigotry."

There was an odd rumbling noise in Taylor's stomach. He wanted to jump out of the window.

"I thought you were gay," Ernesto said.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I was pretty sure."

"Most people think I'm straight," said Taylor.

"Not if you wear that shiny suit jacket."

The suit jacket had been in Taylor's backpack all afternoon. Ernesto must have noticed him early. "I wanted to make a good impression," Taylor said. "How long you've been working at Honeyhunter?"

"A couple years."

"Two years of this commute? You get up at five o'clock every morning?"

"4:30.1 walk to the station."

Taylor dropped back into his seat. "No fucking way."

64 "You get used to it."

"I don't think I would," Taylor said. "My boyfriend wants us to move to the boondocks if this job works out." Shit. He shouldn't have said boyfriend. "Not all the way to Palo Alto. Just out of the fog."

"Don't do it," Ernesto said. Again that intense Pll-peck-your-eyes-out frown. "The redhead and the twins were no exception. People in the suburbs can't handle us."

Ernesto had said us. Taylor avoided everything with the words queer community in it, but for some reason he liked to be part of Ernesto's club.

"Last week, I bought lunch in a supermarket in Palo Alto," Ernesto said. "People stopped what they were doing and gaped at me. At the checkout, a mother shivered when she saw me. She picked up her baby daughter and walked out of the store. Abandoned her cart full of groceries."

Taylor believed him. Manu got often harassed, particularly when he was wearing his pink spandex skirt. "There's not much I can do about my boyfriend, roommate... whatever," Taylor said. "Manu's still hunting the California dream of his childhood. He grew up in Chicago, and now fog city. He complains about the weather every day. I told him that he would get his ass kicked in the boondocks, but that kid doesn't listen."

"City queers get too cocky," Ernesto said. "If I didn't have to make money, I'd never leave San Francisco. I have no loyalty to Honeyhunt—"

Taylor followed Ernesto's gaze. Chewing gum in the middle of the aisle, stomped into the ribbed plastic mat.

Ernesto grabbed Taylor's hand with his cold fingers. "Don't tell anyone what I just said."

"About the company? Don't worry. I don't even talk to these people."

"Don't trust anyone," Ernesto said. "There are too many brown noses. Don't even trust me."

Taylor looked past the back of his seat. "Your friend Rashid didn't return."

65 Ernesto and Taylor were walking along the platform to the glass front of the red station building. Taylor's toe seemed fine.

"Do you want to go for a beer somewhere?" Ernesto asked.

Did Taylor want to go for a beer? No, he didn't. He was sure that a single sip of the bitter liquid would make his stomach somersault. What was wrong with him? His new office job had damaged him. He was a delicate flower. Yuk. He hadn't even had the strength to free himself from two pathetic twins. A bright blue plastic bag sailed across the platform and plopped on the ground in front of Taylor. He jumped over it. Fucking cleaning staff.

"Crap," Ernesto said. "I do have plans for tonight. Elaine wanted me to see Glamladies."

"The chick flick with the black cast?"

"I guess. Elaine said it was a true story about four black singers."

"I'm surprised they're still playing it," Taylor said. "It came out at Christmas."

"It's probably a private screening. Elaine's obsessed with that movie. She's seen it a bunch of times."

"The storyline's predictable," Taylor said. "But one of the girls is a good singer. Not the famous skinny chick. The fat one with the crazy fro."

"I know which one you mean. Elaine has the hots for her."

"Who's Elaine?"

"My ex," Ernesto said.

The glass door to the station was open. This stupid job had destroyed Taylor's gaydar. It made sense that Ernesto was dating women. Most trans men went out with girls. Beside the ladies' bathroom, a pretty guy in a faded tweed jacket was sleeping. He reminded Taylor of Kurt

Cobain. A business dude was sitting on a red high chair and watching the tall brother who was shining his shoes. Taylor and Ernesto were walking out of the building and across the station plaza. It was foggy and about twenty degrees colder than in the boondocks. Typical San

Francisco bullshit. "I didn't know you were into women," said Taylor.

66 "Yes, it's odd," Ernesto said.

"What do you mean?"

"Ernesto, wait!" The bald conductor was running towards them. It took him some seconds to be able to talk. "A taxi," he finally said.

Ernesto pointed across the busy street to the corner where cabs were sometimes waiting.

A yellow one just arrived.

"My wife is having the babies," Rashid said, and took off. He ran across the street, waving his arms like windshield wipers. Two cars and a truck had to stop.

Taylor and Ernesto took the detour to the traffic lights. Taylor trembled in his now cold sweat.

"Do you have plans Tuesday night?" Ernesto asked.

"Why?"

"I'm the DJ at Latex. Boar Night, every first Tuesday of the month. You should check it out."

"Is that the club where they have the lesbian burlesque?"

"Not anymore," Ernesto said. "They used to, when I started out. Lately the boys have taken over. It's a lot of fun."

They crossed the street and walked down to the bus stop.

"The weather's nice enough to walk home," Ernesto said.

Taylor didn't think that he would go to that Bore Night. He wasn't even sure if he would go back to work on Monday.

"The party's eight dollars," Ernesto said. "But I can put you and your boyfriend on the guest list. What's your name again?"

"Taylor Amatah."

"I won't be able to remember that," Ernesto said. They were at the bus stop. "Send me an

IM at work on Monday. I'll write it down."

67 Taylor nodded, but Ernesto didn't see it. Already he was speeding down the street. Taylor leaned against the schedule post. He thought it odd that someone could walk faster than most people run. Maybe he should go to that party. Ernesto leapt onto the street to get around a VW

Beetle that was parked on the sidewalk. Taylor was tapping his heel against the post until he could feel a sting in his toe.

68 Chapter 6: Ernesto Pedrini

The sun gave the soil a red shine, but the evening wind was cold and smelled of ocean.

Ernesto shivered. With his faded black jeans hanging over his shoulder and a spray can being

clasped under his arm, he was raking the eucalyptus leaves toward the wooden fence at the back

of the yard. This was the second year that he was responsible for the music on Boar Night. He

leaned the rake against the tree and spread his jeans on the ground. When he rose, he knocked his

head on a branch above him. It didn't hurt. He shook the silver can. A bell was ringing across the

yard.

"Fireball!" The orange cat was racing past him. He had bought it a flea collar with a bell.

The beast was climbing up the tree and running along the branch. Beside his face, it stopped. The

fur rose and the long cat body flexed into a hunchback. "What's wrong with you?" Ernesto asked.

Fireball was scratching the branch until it began to rock. Eucalyptus bark dropped on Ernesto's jeans. The cat meowed. Dumb kitty. It didn't dare to jump down. Before Ernesto could rescue it,

his landlady Signora Martinez turned around the corner of the house and shuffled in her fluffy

royal blue slippers across the yard. Ernesto made himself as tall as he could so that Fireball

disappeared behind his shoulders. Pets weren't allowed in his apartment.

"Ernesto, did you see the cat with rabies?" Signora Martinez's black wig was pulled back

into a bun. It sat lopsided on her head. She stopped next to the jeans and stared at them. "The cat must be back here."

"I didn't see anything," Ernesto said. "I was raking the garden."

"I'm going to poison this animal." Signora Martinez flattened her blue-gray checkered

dress over her round stomach. "The cat was scratching my sideboard," she said. "It woke me

from my telenovela nap. It must have come in through the window. I said go out! But it jumped

on the furniture and killed my orchid. It bit off the stem. I'm not happy Ernesto. The flower was a

present from my granddaughter."

69 "The orchid's energy might have been bad," Ernesto said. "A cat doesn't bite off a plant without a reason."

Signora Martinez was bending over and grabbed one leg of his jeans. "No, Ernesto. Don't try to talk me out of this."

Ernesto almost screamed. Fireball had jumped on his shoulder.

"The cat's bad," the landlady said. She pulled the jeans off the ground. "It's sick with something."

Ernesto flung the cat away. It ran up the stairs to his apartment and scratched the door.

"I chased it with a broom outside." Signora Martinez was wiping the bark off the pants.

She handed them to Ernesto. "Tell your wife to be careful. The cat might bite."

"My wife moved to L.A.," Ernesto said. He folded the pants and hugged them against his chest. "Hollywood offered her a job. She's working as an assistant producer for a TV show about goats."

"That's good. I don't think she was happy being at home. I knocked on your door around noon one day and she was still in her pajamas. No smell of food. I didn't think she was cooking anything."

"She's making good money now." Ernesto was shaking the spray bottle so that Signora

Martinez wouldn't hear the meowing cat up at the door.

"Are you going to be okay, Ernesto?" the landlady asked. "You can have dinner with me tonight."

"Thank you, Signora Martinez. But I'm going out."

"You'll come tomorrow then." She shuffled across the yard. When she had reached the house, she looked back. "Don't drink too much. It makes everything worse."

Ernesto laid the pants on the ground once more. He shook the bottle and sprayed silver on the fabric. When the jeans were evenly painted, he picked them up and threw them over the tree branch. On the soil, the contours of two legs, like a police mark indicating where the victim had

70 been slain. He was spraying the backside of the jeans. If he was lucky, the sun would dry them

before he had to go. He closed the spray bottle and pulled the rake across the yard. Fireball was

waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. The cat was sliding around his jogging pants, which

made it almost impossible to climb the steps.

At 7:43, Ernesto microwaved ricotta cannelloni. He was wearing tight black shorts and a

transparent shirt with Warhol's Silver Marilyn printed on the front. His laptop was packed and his

eyes were darkened with kohl. While the food was getting hot, he went outside and took his jeans

off the branch. They were still moist, but he put them on anyway. Silver on his fingertips. The

panther had asked him in the morning if he could be on the guest list. What was his name again?

Taylor Amatah. And his partner's name was Miguel or something. Ernesto would just write

Taylor and friend on the list.

Ten minutes later, he put on a long black coat. He grabbed his backpack and locked the

apartment. When he hurried across the street to Persimmon Park, the streetlights switched on. The

fog was thickening. He didn't like it here at night. The hill with the trees rose like a castle from the ground. It looked haunted with wafts of mist gliding up the towers. Ernesto had slept badly

for the last three days. On Sunday, he'd had a nightmare about a big guy who'd been chasing him through hallways and up and down staircases. The man carried Ernesto's own Pronto Cut bread

knife. Ernesto knew that he had to find a door or some kind of a secret passage that would lead

outside. The thick glass of the windows reduced daylight to a pale green shine. After an

exhausting chase, he got stuck in a ventilation shaft. The man pulled him out at his legs and threw

him against the wall. Ernesto woke up with a flashing knife beside his face. A sunray had cut through the vines outside his window. It was painting a blinding silver blade on his sheets.

The wind was waving over the grassland and twisting the fog into little vortexes. Crickets were whistling an eerie sound. Ernesto jumped over a hole in the sidewalk. The shadow of a fire

hydrant. When he looked up, someone came floating across the park. Ernesto walked faster. It

71 was a child, carrying an oil lamp. Not older than kindergarten age. His blue pajamas were sprinkled with silver dots or moons. The boy stepped onto the sidewalk and fell into a trot to keep up with Ernesto's rhythm. He carried a flashlight, not an oil lamp. Ernesto smelled something that reminded him of childhood and Italy. Bazooka bubble gum. "You shouldn't be out in your jammies," he said.

The child hacked into his fist.

Ernesto didn't buy it. The sound was shallow and didn't come from the child's lungs.

Would an apparition fake a cough? He took a hand out of his warm coat pocket and squeezed his earlobe.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" the boy asked. They were following his trembling disk of light.

"It's not a question of belief," Ernesto said. He slowed down for the kid. "I saw many ghosts growing up in Italy. A headless lady stopped me in Milano one night. She came out of an apartment building and grabbed my arm. I wasn't older than you. A fuchsia silk scarf was draped over the top of her. She pulled at it and uncovered a stub like you see on people who have lost an arm or a leg. The wound at the end of her neck had healed. She wrapped the scarf around my shoulders and walked down the street."

"You're lying," the boy said. "I don't believe in ghosts."

"If I didn't belief in ghosts, I would have to sign up for a loony bin," said Ernesto.

"What's a loony bin?"

"A trashcan for people."

"Do you still have the scarf?" the boy asked.

"No," Ernesto said. "I threw it away the next morning. It had a blood stain on it."

"Ew," the boy said.

The wind was howling somewhere in Persimmon Park.

72 "Do you want to know something?" the boy asked. He was out of breath. "I made a rope

with blankets and climbed down from the second floor."

"Don't trust me with your secrets," said Ernesto. "I'm a stranger. You shouldn't trust

anyone you don't know."

"But a bad man was in my room. He carried two dead squirrels on their tails." The boy

was barefooted. Once in a while, he skipped on one leg.

"See how the pebbles hurt you without shoes," Ernesto said. "Go back home."

"But the man has a Kalashnikov. He'll shoot me. He can't stand little boys."

"Why?"

"Because he's a terrorist."

"I don't believe in terrorists." Ernesto stopped, and the boy looked at him surprised. They

had reached the end of the park. "Listen," Ernesto said. "I have to go somewhere. I can't take you

with me. Where do you live?"

The boy was pointing across the park. "Behind the hill."

Ernesto told the boy that he should go home and ring the bell at his parents' house.

"Don't go across the park," he said. "Walk around it, on the sidewalk. Is your mom home?"

"Yes. But she'll be angry."

"Tell her about the bad man. There's nothing I can do." Ernesto took a hold of the boy's

bony arm and turned him around. "Now walk. Or you'll get sick."

"I'm scared," the boy said. "There are raccoons in the park."

"Walk along the street."

"But they go to the sidewalk because of the garbage bins. My dad says they eat little boys."

"No, they don't. Your dad was joking."

The boy's teeth were chattering.

"Okay, I'll bring you home. But we have to hurry. I'll be late for my DJ gig."

73 "I want to be a DJ when I grow up," the boy said. He grabbed Ernesto's hand and they were speeding back along the field.

When they turned at the end of the park, Ernesto asked the boy where he lived.

"There." The kid pointed across the street, to the large Victorian building two houses over from Ernesto's home.

"The house with the white van in front of the garage?"

"No, the one next to it."

"Where the woman is?" A woman with a dark bob walked up and down in front of the dollar store. She was wrapped in a bathrobe-like coat.

The boy's grip tightened. "It's my mom."

The woman stopped. She stared at them. "Kyle?" She was walking out into the street. Her heels were clicking on the pavement. The boy didn't move.

"Go to your mom." Ernesto freed his fingers from the boy's grasp. The boy stepped off the sidewalk and began to run. He hurled into his mother's legs. Ernesto was hurrying back to the street corner.

"Thank you, ma'am," the mother yelled.

Ernesto didn't acknowledge her. This had been a waste of time.

While he was racing back along the park, the fog took on an almost rain-like quality. He wasn't scared of darkness. No, on the contrary. He identified more with it than with headachy sunshine. But something was different tonight. It wouldn't have surprised him if a crowd of zombies had tottered across the grassland. The wet wind slap-attacked him from changing directions. He had to be careful. The assault in the train last Saturday had felt more like an appetizer than the main course.

He crossed the street and turned into a darker road that was leading away from the park.

The business buildings on both sides were deserted at this time of day. The long-lasting repair of

74 pipelines underneath the road was done, but there were still puddles of dirt water on the sidewalk.

They smelled of gasoline and interfered with Ernesto's walking rhythm. He got a stitch in his side. A white van passed and stopped a block ahead of Ernesto. His boot hit something hard. A

Corona bottle clanged against the wall of a building and the neck broke off. A short man with a hat got out of the car's passenger door. He jogged around the vehicle and ran towards Ernesto.

What was the guy doing in this dead part of town? Ernesto considered changing sidewalks, but the man was already so close that he could see him holding on to the rim of his hat. Ernesto pulled his chin to his chest and stiffened. The man had almost reached him. The dull noise of his shoes on the pavement. He was panting. What if he made Ernesto bend over? Warm air brushed against Ernesto's forehead. The bottle on the sidewalk. Ernesto made a sound like these rubber mice for pets make when they're stepped on. He could feel the pain between his legs already. The ground below him was black and he felt himself sink into it. There was breathing. His own breath. Otherwise it was quiet.

Ernesto looked up. The guy was running away. Like a drunken clown, he was holding on to his hat and swaying into the yellow streetlight. It swallowed him. Ernesto put his hand on his chest. He stumbled into the entrance of the next building. Was he losing it? He almost leaned against the two rows of doorbells. It wouldn't have mattered because there was probably nobody to answer them. He wanted to sit down and die. Did he have to go back to therapy because of the incident last Saturday? Grandmother would have cursed these hicks. Were they threatened? Is that why they had to destroy him?

There was a noise. It was approaching from the same direction the clown had come from.

Tick, taptap. Ernesto was holding his breath and squeezing into the dark corner beside the door.

The noise stopped. The wall was hurting his shoulder blades, but he didn't dare to move. Tick, taptap. Here it was again. A hunched over shadow of a woman with a cane was wobbling along the entrance. When she disappeared behind the building, Ernesto thought that she was his dead grandmother. He pushed himself off the concrete and followed her. They walked side by side

75 until she stood still and faced Ernesto. She was older than his grandmother would've been, and

her nose was much smaller than nonna's. A crocheted cap covered the top of her fine silver curls.

"I wish I'd brought my umbrella," she said. "This duck weather's getting to me."

"The wind is too strong." Ernesto put up the collar of his coat. "I don't think an umbrella would help you."

The woman clicked her cane on the ground and shuffled on. "No, I don't have an

umbrella," she said. "Don't worry, I'm almost home. You're a nice young man."

It was 8:48pm on Ernesto's cell phone when he got to Latex. Heather, the security dyke, was already there.

"Ernesto," she said. "Good that you're here. The ladies are going mental. Especially your ex."

"Thanks, Heather. They have to learn to relax." He put his phone back into his coat pocket. Elaine had to leave him alone. Didn't she have anyone else to obsess about? He wished she really were training goats in Hollywood. "I'm only half an hour late," he said to Heather.

"And that for a good reason."

She was opening the door for him and shaking her head. "Yeah, I know what you're talking about."

She didn't know what he was talking about, but Ernesto liked her anyway. He climbed the steps to the first floor. Heather never got involved in any of the petty drama. That was a serious achievement in their circles. At the top of the stairs, the lights were already dimmed even though he hadn't set up his equipment yet. He turned the knob on the wall and brightness flooded the long space under the sturdy wooden bar holding up the roof. He loved the stable-like feel of the club. To his left, Maurice the bear was wiping the yellow plastic surface of the bar. It reached half across the room.

76 "Ernesto. Out of my way." It was Persephone, a trans sister, carrying two cases of Corona up the stairs.

Ernesto didn't have the nerves for her craziness. He walked over to Maurice and asked him for a Mojito. Persephone banged her beer cases on the bar next to Ernesto. He complimented her short red latex skirt and the matching bra.

"Don't even get me started," she said, and rushed back to the stairs.

"What's going on?" Ernesto asked Maurice over the noise of the ice crusher.

Maurice shook his balding head. "Estrogen. They can't help themselves. Best thing is to dream yourself away, to a beautiful island." He mixed the drink without saying another word and gave it to Ernesto.

With his straw, Ernesto stabbed the mint leaves on the bottom of his glass. He took a sip.

"Excellent."

Maurice had already left. He was filling the fridge with Coronas.

Ernesto was strolling along the bar and across the room to the DJ desk in his corner. Only now did he see his ex Elaine. Her shaved head was bent over his drum machine. She was wearing one of her too big tank tops. In her hand, she held a red cable.

"At the back, on the right side," Ernesto said. He noticed the dark skinny tie around her neck. "Behind the other cable."

"I know," she said.

"You shouldn't set up my nine-oh-nine with the lights dimmed. It's expensive."

Elaine dropped the cable on the machine. "Don't you dare to bitch. You arrive ten minutes before the door opens and get yourself a drink first. I shouldn't have defended you before

Persephone and Nuriah. Unbelievable. I even set up this fucking machine for you."

Ernesto stepped around the desk and pulled his laptop out of his backpack. He opened it beside the drum machine. "I'm never late," he said. "Considerate people would ask why I'm late."

77 "You know what your problem is? You're taking everything for granted. Persephone and

Nuriah could tell you that they don't want to lock away your drum machine anymore. But you're not aware of this, of course. I don't know why I even bother. After how you treated—"

"Okay. I have to set this up."

"Yeah, that's what I mean. Fuck you, Ernesto. It's clear to me that you can't get over our relationship. You're unable to—"

"Stop it." Ernesto took a breath and exhaled audibly. "I can't handle stress right now."

"Oh yeah? You can't handle stress? What about me? What about Persephone and Nuriah?

Do you think we're enjoying this?"

"Something's up, Elaine. Strange stuffs been happening. I don't even know if it's safe for me to be here."

She loosened her tie with one hand. "Your superstitions won't help you get away with shit."

"This is real." Ernesto's voice dropped into a whisper. "It hasn't just been the cat. A redhead assaulted me on the train yesterday. Getting to the club was almost impossible. Three people were trying to hold me back."

"Oh, I get it." Elaine crossed her arms. "You're playing the trans card. Impressive. I'm supposed to forgive your shit because you're suffering from some kind of a trauma."

Ernesto double-clicked the music tab on his screen. "Go away," he said. "Insult someone else with your stupidity."

"You know who's stupid? People like you are stupid. You drag your own movement into the dirt. If you were the only trans person in my life, I'd think that being trans is a mental health issue. You're fucked up, Ernesto."

She was marching across the dance floor towards the bar. Her corduroys were too tight around her ass. Ernesto wondered if it had worked out with Tynisha. He hoped not, for Tynisha's sake. As he plugged his computer into the power strip under the desk, he noticed that his hand

78 was shaking. Sprinkles were glittering on his fingertips. They reminded him of his nonna's sparkly socks that he used to get for his birthday in July. As a kid, he had spent every summer with his grandmother in the mountains above Genoa. He'd loved these vacations. But one morning, he woke up on nonna's hard guest bed and couldn't stop crying. It was his eight birthday. In his pajamas, he went out to the rocking chair on the porch, where his nonna was knitting and putting off her first cigarette. She hauled him onto her lap. He sobbed and buried his nose into her thick black braid that smelled like rosemary.

"Now what's wrong with my unhappy bird?" nonna said.

That made him cry again. After some more rocking, he said: "I'm the boy of the chimney sweeper. I read it in the newspaper. It's all a mistake. Mamma took the wrong baby home from the hospital. She thought she had Paola, but instead she took me."

Nonna stopped the chair. "What did it say in that paper?"

"It said that the chimney sweeper killed himself because he lost his boy in the hospital."

"What does that have to do with mamma talking the wrong baby home?"

"The chimney sweeper was my babbo."

"You think you got mixed up in the hospital?"

"Yes."

"Why would you think that, Paola?"

"I'm not Paula. I'm Ernesto."

"Is that what the boy's name was?"

Ernesto nodded.

"So this is about the boy thing again." Nonna lit her first sin of the day. They were silent until she pressed the cigarette butt into the saucer beside her. With her large hand, she patted his chest. "Do you know in here that you're a boy?"

"Yes, nonna. I'm Ernesto."

She patted harder. "Is that where Ernesto is?"

79 "Yes."

"Good. I believe you, Ernesto." Nonna lit another cigarette and began to rock again.

"There are two voices inside of us." She put her hand on Ernesto's forehead. "One is up here. It helps you with your homework." She took a deep drag and blew circles off the porch. They floated through the air like growing jellyfish and dissolved over the dark green mint patch. "The other voice is in your heart," she said. "That one's a tricky one because it sometimes seems foolish. But you should listen to it. It's the one that makes people want to get up in the morning."

Sirens were howling across the attic of Latex. They were scratchy, but on purpose.

Ernesto's grandmother had been the first and for a long time the only person who'd accepted him.

He lowered the volume with trembling fingers. The sound quality was good. Maurice the bartender dimmed the light over by the stairs. The beat set in. Yellow and blue rays bounced off the rotating disco ball and illuminated the smoke that twirled in small vortexes off the floor.

Ernesto slipped out of his coat. The deep voice of the singer relaxed him. It was booming out of the speakers and rising past the roof: "A drunken soul in the moonshine.. .drifts like a cloud out of sight... if it's been casting a shadow...it let it go for tonight..."

80 Chapter 7: Taylor M. Amatah

Taylor wasn't sure if he wanted to go to the party later. He stepped down the bus stairs and the door opened. Outside in Persimmon Park, the sprinklers were waving back and forth.

They were watering the sidewalk too. It was fucking cold even though the sky was clear. Three days in the boondocks had made him hate San Francisco weather. The stupid fog and the winter­ like summer brought him down. This city was a gay ghetto. It was impossible to live in it, but leaving it was only an option if you went far away. To Boston, for example, where gay marriage was legal. The bus pulled out and was clanking down the street.

Not that Taylor was fighting for holy matrimony, but he wasn't going to throw stones at rich gay people's projects. When it came to love, wedding vows were the only language straight people understood. Most gays in this city saw it as a compromise that wasn't worth fighting for.

They wanted their polygamous-and-what-not relationships to be accepted. Fucking unrealistic bullshit. Idealism had paralyzed this city. All people did was bitch and drink too much Fair Trade coffee. Taylor wasn't going to stick around until the government deported these stupid asses to

Guantanamo. For some reason, he believed that Ernesto would agree with him. Tonight was the party, and he had expectations. If Ernesto ended up being a nutcase like the rest of them San

Franciscans, Taylor would leave for good. He could go to the Netherlands. Amsterdam. With his

French passport, he was allowed to work anywhere in the European Union. The old man would get furious if Taylor used the passport to save his gay—

Water splashed into Taylor's face. What the fuck? It wasn't the sprinklers in the park.

The squirts came from across the street. In front of the dollar store, the little Korean boy was screaming and aiming his orange-yellow water gun at Taylor.

"Kyle," Taylor said. "You want to get in trouble." He skipped off the sidewalk, but had to wait for a cab to pass.

The boy ran to the entrance of the dollar store. His screams turned supersonic.

81 Taylor crossed the street. He stopped on the sidewalk and folded his arms so that his

biceps looked bigger. "I'll get you back, little devil."

"No, you won't!" Kyle pushed his back against the glass door of the shop. It opened a bit

and the store bell rang.

Taylor was rummaging through the pockets of his baggy jeans. When he found what he

was looking for, he took it out and was holding it in his cupped hands. "Don't be scared," he said

to the thing in his palms. "It was little shithead Kyle who attacked us."

"You don't have anything!" Kyle said. "I'm not stupid."

"Have a good one, Mr. Gunman. Charley and I have to go home." Taylor was strolling

along the sidewalk. He had almost reached his house at the end of the block when he heard the

scurry of Kyle's plastic soles on the pavement.

"Wait!"

Taylor was turning with his hands still cupped.

Kyle stopped in his tracks, about ten feet behind him. He wasn't carrying the water gun.

"Why are you wearing a green and a white shoe?" he asked.

"Charley's squatting in my other green sneaker," said Taylor. "He's using it as a nest."

"Who's Charley?"

"A brown mouse."

Kyle came closer. "Can I see it?"

Taylor bent over his hands. "Charley, do you want to meet Kyle?"

"A mouse can't talk!"

When Kyle was close enough, Taylor lowered his hands and grabbed the boy around his waist. He threw him over his shoulder

Kyle's fists were hammering on Taylor's back. "Liaaaaaaar."

Taylor ran across the street to the park. He was holding Kyle at his legs over a sprinkler.

The little guy was reaching for the grass, but he couldn't get to it. Instead he clutched Taylor's

82 legs. Taylor lost his balance and dropped to his side. They landed on the soaked ground. The sprinkler's water jet was tilting and beating down on them. It felt refreshing after a day in the stuffy office. Kyle fled into the sun. Taylor stood up and followed him.

The kid was squeaking. He was waiting and launched himself into Taylor's belly.

Taylor got a hold of the boy's wrists. "Your sweater's wet. You've got to change."

"You change. Your clothes are ugly."

Taylor looked down at himself. His jeans had a grass stain on one knee. He let go of Kyle and wiped soil of his sleeve. Kyle ran ahead of him towards the street. On the sidewalk, Taylor caught up with him and grabbed the back of his skinny neck. "Wait," Taylor said. "Watch out for traffic."

"Do you want to play soccer?"

"Not today. But drop by on the weekend, if the weather's nice."

Manu was sitting at the kitchen table and typing on his small white laptop. Behind it stood a vase with yellow roses. Their lemony smell was dizzying Taylor. He skipped around

Manu's chair and opened the fridge. It was almost empty, so he had to pour himself a glass of

Manu's lactose-free milk. "You bought roses?" he said.

"Nope." Manu was still typing. He had a chat window open. "I got them from an admirer."

Taylor choked on the milk. He ran over to the sink, and the liquid spattered on the blue tiles above the faucet. He turned on the water and splashed the wall clean. When he looked up,

Manu was sitting backwards on his chair and observing him.

"Don't worry, hon," Manu said. "I like the bouquet, but it doesn't mean anything."

"We're out of fucking paper towels," Taylor said.

83 "You know who gave me the roses? You don't want to be jealous of that guy. His dick's

the size of a dill pickle." Manu rested his chin on the back of his chair. His eyes were unfocused

and wide open. "What's the point? Two inches, Taylor. That's like a trans man's clit."

"You had sex with him?" Taylor lifted the glass to his lips, but decided to put it back on

the counter.

Manu sighed. "I don't call that sex."

"Who are you chatting with?"

Manu closed the chat window. "My yoga teacher."

"Is he the pickle?"

"Oh God, no. He's well-hung."

"He fucked you too?"

"You don't have to scream. Yes, I had sex with my yoga teacher."

Taylor took a sip of milk. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just told you."

"Because I asked."

"Taylor, you're dirty and you stink. Go take a shower. I never said we were exclusive."

"I know. But do you remember what I said? I said it was okay as long as we

communicated."

"Didn't I just talk to you?"

"Oh, by the way," Taylor said in his highest voice. "I had sex with a bunch of pickles."

In his normal voice he said: "This isn't communication."

Manu was shutting down his laptop. "Only one dill pickle. Everybody else was

acceptable to satisfying."

Taylor put his glass in the sink and filled it with water. If he didn't want to freak, he had to leave the kitchen right now.

84 The hot water massaged Taylor's upper back and neck. He scrubbed his face with shower gel that turned out to be vanilla-scented. Goddamn. Everything Manu had or did was fucking gayer than gay. A bright pink shower curtain. A matching sponge. Sleeps with every man in this city and doesn't tell Taylor a fucking thing. Oh, you didn 7 know I was a slut? Taylor should've known. Why was he so goddamn oblivious to everything? Just because you really like someone doesn't mean they're going to be faithful. Didn't he satisfy Manu? Yes, he did. Manu's orgasms were so intense they fucked up his sense of equilibrium. Taylor couldn't even count the times

Manu would've dropped to the floor if he hadn't held him. He ripped the shower curtain back and wrapped a blue towel around his waist. Without opening the window, he left the bathroom and rushed across the living room into the kitchen.

Manu looked up from his laptop. "You're dripping wet," he said.

"Are you chatting with your yoga teacher?" Taylor asked.

"No, I'm trying to find a club where something's going on."

"You come with me to Latex." Taylor was shaking his head and water was splashing off the dancing braids at his neck. "We're on the guest list."

"Are you serious? Latex is so over. It's full of trannies."

"You'll enjoy yourself," Taylor said. "You can put on the make-up that you got from that fag hag friend of yours."

Manu banged his computer close. He got up and went over to Taylor. "Are you done in the bathroom?"

Taylor nodded.

Manu was pulling at the curls on Taylor's chest. "Fag hag is called Raquel. You better be nice to her. She gave me the most awesome BLUSH giftbox." He let go of Taylor's hair and rushed to the bathroom.

85 Taylor's dick undid his towel. He stood naked in the kitchen and rubbed the burning skin on his chest. His fucking twinkie boyfriend got away with too much. Taylor stuck his nose into the roses. They smelled expensive and sweet.

The queue outside Latex was so long it disappeared in the fog. Taylor wore his everyday beige sweater, but everyone else seemed to be covering some kind of extravagant outfit with a long black coat. A trans lady in a short pink nightgown with duster-like material along the fringe was hopping from one foot to the other in front of Taylor. She had goose bumps on her scrawny upper arms. "I don't know," Taylor said to Manu. "I don't think I'm in the mood for—"

Manu glared at him with his geisha face. "Relax," he hissed. His make-up was chalky and frightening. The heart-shaped purple mouth looked like its only purpose was to give blowjobs. He grabbed the sleeve of Taylor's sweater and was pulling him along the queue. "Excuse-me ladies, we're on the guest list. Let the VIPs pass."

In no time, they reached the big security dyke who was checking the ID of a woman in a white fur coat.

"Heather, love," Manu said to the security. "Can we go inside?"

She glanced at him. "No shitdisturbers allowed."

"I'll suck your nipples." Manu snuggled against Taylor's arm.

The security gave the ID back to the woman in the fur coat and let her pass. "Go ahead, dingdong," she said to Manu. "I'll see you later."

A bumpy beat was shaking the dim ground floor of the club. Taylor could feel it in his chest. Light was coming down the staircase along the wall. It illuminated a black-haired woman with dark lips. She sat at a camping table and was flattening dollar bills.

"We're on the guest list," Manu said to her. "Taylor Amatah and his boyfriend, please."

The woman skimmed a piece of paper.

"You know the bouncer?" Taylor said to Manu.

86 "I met her when I was working at Limelight. She's a sweetie. I'll introduce you."

"Here you are," the woman behind the table said. She marked them on the list. "Enjoy yourselves."

They walked up the stairs to the second floor. Taylor felt his tonsils swell. He had a hard time breathing in the peppermint-scented smoke. Past people's heads, he could see something moving back and forth on the stage at the end of the room. A techno-mix of Schreiner's Der dreibeinige Tanzer played. It had a faster beat than the original. The place wasn't crowded yet. A young guy was dancing as if his elbows were attached to his hips. He was swinging his hands from side to side and always missed the odd in-between beat of the song.

Manu pulled Taylor over to the bar. "What do you want?" he asked.

"A beer."

"Is there a special drink for people on the guest list?" Manu yelled at the husky bartender.

The guy turned his bearded face towards them. "No."

"Maurice," Manu said. "I didn't know you were working here. Can you give me a strawberry daiquiri and a Corona for my husband?"

"Give me a Modelo," Taylor said.

Maurice didn't say anything. He poured the lime juice and the rum into a blender. Did he hate Manu or was he the quiet type? Probably both, Taylor thought.

They were sitting down on a table close to the rocking thing on stage. It was a hairy mechanical boar with fluorescent tusks. A lady in a red latex bikini had her slender legs wrapped around the beast's body and was flying back and forth. Her long black hair was swinging around her face. "It's always men who have the most perfect women's legs," Taylor yelled at Manu.

"They don't have these tree-like thighs."

Manu was sipping his drink with cherry-colored lips painted into this constant pucker, like an alien who wasn't male or female or even androgynous. "It's like every group of people

87 has their own beauty standards," he said into Taylor's ear. "Most trans women go for this dominatrix Barbie look. Straight women go for something a bit dumber and more helpless."

"And what's the beauty ideal of your kind?" Taylor asked.

"Masculinity emphasized with classic feminine clothing."

Taylor snorted. "You're wearing a tight glitter top and jeans."

"I don't expect you to understand my sense of fashion."

Taylor had already finished his beer. He got himself another one. This was the nice thing about his new job. He didn't have to worry about money.

When he came back, Manu was still sitting at their table and watching the action on stage. An old drag queen with a blonde perm was holding a Latino by his tie and patting his curls as if he was a dog. The Hispanic dude was muscular and wore only leather shorts. A remix of the eighties hit Boy in the Mail was playing. Taylor liked the lofty keyboard melody. "Do you know where the DJ is?" he asked Manu.

"I love his sound," Manu yelled. He pointed to the dark corner to his left. "Ernesto's over there. He's fabulous."

"You know Ernesto?"

"Everybody knows Ernesto."

"He's the guy who put us on the guest list," Taylor said.

"You work with him?" Manu put his arm around Taylor's neck and pulled him close.

"Now I'm definitely jealous."

"Yeah, apropos," Taylor said. "Are you still seeing your yoga teacher?"

Manu let go of Taylor. "We're not seeing each other. We're just having sex."

"Is he black?" Taylor asked. Manu ignored him. He was waving at the red latex lady who was looking out into the crowd from the edge of the stage. Taylor knew the goddamn answer already. Manu was cheating on him with a black dude. Of course. And he, Taylor, was nothing

88 but a stupid betrayed housewife. Why had he been so oblivious? "I don't get why you didn't tell me," he yelled.

"You were right, Persephone looks gorgeous!" said Manu. "I told her not spend all that money on another surgery, but that surgeon did a fabulous job. Her chin's perfect!"

"An open relationship doesn't work like that." Taylor took the last sip of his beer. "It's pulling us apart, I can tell. I said I was okay with other guys, I know, but I thought we would talk about it. I thought we would always be number one in each others' lives."

Manu was clapping his hands in front of his face. "This party's going to be a blast!"

"Are you listening? I don't want things to be like that. I don't want you to cheat on me without saying a fucking word."

"I wasn't cheating." With his straw, Manu flipped sugar from his empty drink across the table. "I told you."

"After the fact. And you were wishy-washy about it. I have no fucking clue what's going on."

"I'm over it." Manu got up. "Do you hear this? Oh My God. Ladylover's Mustang Ride."

He was moving his hips to the sleazy beat. "I haven't heard that in like forever." He kissed

Taylor's cheek. "I've got to go on stage, honey."

Taylor fetched another beer. They were out of Negra Modelo, so he bought a Corona instead. He was strolling towards the dark corner. It was time to say hi to Ernesto. There he was, skinnier and taller than Taylor had remembered. He was fiddling with his drum machine and holding his earphones between his shoulder and his tilted head. Through his shirt, Taylor could see his pale, almost fluorescent chest. Next to him stood the red latex lady who had ridden the boar.

"Taylor," he yelled. "Have you met my muse Persephone?"

Taylor said hello. The latex lady kissed his cheeks without touching them.

89 "This club would be nothing without Persephone," Ernesto said. "She is Latex."

"Darling," Persephone said to Ernesto. "Don't make me blush."

There was no way to tell if she was blushing under all that make-up.

"All right, boys," she said. "I have to socialize, or we'll be empty next month. Behave yourselves."

"You saved my life," Ernesto said when she was gone. "This woman doesn't know post- punk from drum n bass, but gives me tips how I could 'turn it up.' Somebody should poison her."

"Wack sound." Taylor's voice was already getting sore. "People are loving it."

Ernesto didn't say anything. He was introducing the house beat of Protrusion's Atlantis to the slow burped rhythm of Mustang Ride.

Taylor wasn't an expert, but the transition sounded smooth. He didn't mind it.

Ernesto was staring at the bottle in Taylor's hand. He looked terrified for an instant. Then his face relaxed.

Taylor noticed Ernesto's black eyeliner. The watercolor-gray of his eyes. "Do you want a beer?" he asked.

"No, better not," Ernesto said. "I'm allergic. My throat swells up."

Taylor took the folded coat off the chair in the corner behind Ernesto and sat down. They didn't talk. Ernesto moved the levers on his drum computer and turned on knobs. It looked unhealthy, robot-like. Did Taylor freak Ernesto out or was the guy always like that? On the dance floor, people were squirming in the smoke. Limbs were sweeping through the air as if separated from their bodies. A disco ball was flashing on a long string hanging from the main beam. Silver balloons were hovering underneath the roof. Taylor didn't feel like dancing. Manu was somewhere out there, making a fool of himself. Did it really make a difference that his boyfriend fucked other men in between the good times the two of them had? Yes, it did. Taylor had a sour taste in his mouth when he thought of the birthday cheesecake Manu had baked for him. Or the heart he had drawn into the fogged up window of Manu's Hyundai Accent. It felt like a

90 Hollywood script. Taylor thought of his coworker Kristina with the shampoo commercial hair.

Was he being just like her? Was he terrorizing his boyfriend to have his romantic cravings fulfilled? He needed another beer to neutralize the acidic taste in his mouth.

Taylor was drinking his fourth in the dark corner. "Thanks for putting me on the guest list!" he said. He didn't know if Ernesto had heard him. This awkward straight man was twitching his shoulders to a drum n bass rhythm. He probably thought that Taylor had zero social skills.

Taylor felt fucked up. He remembered the day when he'd climbed on a toilet and caught his high school sweetheart giving their math teacher a blowjob. He walked out of the bathroom, but it was as if he had left himself behind in the stall. He hadn't felt like that in a long time. Foolish and insignificant. "I should try to find my roommate," he said to Ernesto.

"What was his name again?" Ernesto yelled.

"Two Face."

Ernesto swung his braids behind his shoulder. He nodded his beak-like nose. "I'll see you around."

On stage, the old drag queen was sitting in the spotlight and spanking a young man who was bent over her lap. It was Manu, of course, with his naked buttocks up there for everyone to stare at. The drag hag's skin hung down his cheeks, and his flowered costume was so hideous not even Taylor's grandmother would've worn it. Manu was laughing, moaning and wiggling his ass.

The goddamn horndog got off exactly because the drag queen was so ugly. Taylor emptied his beer. He was ready to go home.

91 Chapter 8: Cal O'Connor

Cal strode out of the fog. His socks were drenched and his ankles cold in the breeze, but he didn't have a hard time lifting his legs. Maria had taken his daughter away. He deserved it.

And still, he had turned down the prostitute. There was a difference between him and a longhaired hussy with no self-respect. Cal hadn't even talked to this ruined, arrogant creature who'd offered him sex for pay. If only he could redeem himself. The ground sucked on his shoes and the clouds above him ripped open. Nearly shrunken in half, the moon sailed stomach first across the hole in the sky. When it vanished, it was as if someone switched off the light in the park. Cal's family was gone. The pale trees were waving and wailing like sirens. He filled his lungs with moisture. A rain jacket would have been more useful than the umbrella in his hand.

After dusk, a handful of freaks liked to linger between the eucalyptuses on top of the hill.

The weather was too disgusting for most of them tonight. Not all. The man beside the tree was big. He had a cap on backwards and his cheeks were dark with facial hair. Cal slowed down. The light reflected from the clouds gave the grass a bluish glint.

"Let's go to the back," the guy said. The air filled with stale cigar smoke.

Cal followed the bright sneakers of the man to a clearing surrounded by particularly thick trunks. He walked into the center and dropped to his knees.

The man's breath was labored. "You don't have to do this," he said.

Cal snorted. "Do you want to punish me or not?"

The guy disappeared in the dark. "Don't get nasty," he said behind Cal. His voice wasn't loud.

Cal's fingers were stiff. He dug them into the moist fabric of his umbrella.

The man clasped Cal's neck with a dry rough hand. "Do you want me to use a rubber?" he asked.

92 "No." Cal opened his belt and ripped his pants down. The skin on his buttocks tensed into goose bumps.

The man was pressing him forward. Cal fell on his forearms and dropped into the grass.

Something gooey squished against his temple. A slug or wet soil. He shivered and listened to the gentle clanging of the guy's belt buckle.

The man was heavy. He slammed into Cal as if he wanted him to drown in the mud. The pain split Cal apart, shot through his guts into his stomach. Over and over. He was burning. Heat flared into his arms and legs.

Faint laughter was buzzing between the trees. Cal felt weightless. His tonsils were swollen. He lifted his head and spat dirt towards one of the trunks. The laughter was chirping.

The crickets were mocking the man in the sludge. He pushed himself up and sat on his feet.

He was thirsty. It was the middle of summer and these insects were whistling Vivaldi's

Spring Concerto. La la la, lalaLa!

He got up. His pants were soggy and stuck against his knees.

The grass was slippery. The field below him was deserted, but he was convinced that the prostitutes still hung around the bathroom house. He was gliding downhill, towards the sidewalk along the edge of the park.

Under the first streetlight, he realized that he was filthy. He brushed crumbs of soil from his leather jacket and cleaned his face with a handkerchief. Even though the fabric turned brown, his stubble held on to the dirt. He rubbed his cheeks until they felt sore.

At the end of the park, he crossed the road and turned into a back street. The windows of the business buildings on both sides were dark. A puddle was sparkling in the middle of the sidewalk. He stepped into it. His shoes and pants had already been ruined.

93 Where was this club? The buildings were less high now. An American flag hung from the second-floor balcony of a house. He didn't think he'd been in this neighborhood before, but then he recognized the flashing blue VIDEOS sign in a shop window. He passed it and turned around the corner. The brick building was the second house across the road. Someone was smoking beside the black iron door. It was the bouncer.

"ID please," she said. Her eyes were tiny. She studied Cal's driver license for a moment and blinded him with her flashlight. "Go ahead."

Cal slid his ID back between his other cards. He hauled the door open and stepped into the darkness. Light came down a stairway along the wall. There was a table, but nobody was sitting behind it. He could hear a drum computer mixed with a waterfall of high voices. Too bad the ground floor bar was closed. He climbed the narrow stairs. The metallic strokes gave him an earache. This song had been in the charts at least fifteen years ago, when some people walked around in overalls or held up their pants with suspenders.

A ray of disco light was blinding him. He grabbed the wooden rail. The beam zipped on and he could see that the place was crammed. A topless skinny boy with a silver balloon on a string was bouncing from one foot to the other. Two old guys were kissing. A tall woman in a red latex bra was talking to a man in a pinstriped suit beside the stairs. She clutched the man's upper arm and threw her head back. Her dark hair swept across Cal's mouth. Cal wiped his lips with his knuckles. He turned and skipped down the steps.

Another set of stairs led to a dimly lit basement. Cal was hoping they would have a bar down there. He overlooked the last step and stumbled into a dank hallway. The ladies' bathroom was closed. He stopped in front of an entrance without a door. A soft yellow light hung from the arched ceiling and illuminated the vault. In the center was a stripper pole. The humming space heater stood in the corner beside him. Behind the curtain at the end of the room, somebody was sighing. Cal leaned his umbrella against the wall.

94 The drapes were heavy and smelled of Bloomcense. They closed behind him, locked him into darkness. Three different pitches of groaning in the corner. A flash of light shot along the floor and vanished. Someone else had come in.

95 Chapter 9: Taylor M. Amatah

Taylor went to the bathroom in the basement. On his way back along the cold hallway to the stairs, he passed a poorly lit vault. There was a noise. He stood still. Someone was moaning.

Taylor turned around and slid into the heated room. In the center of it was a shiny new pole. Who would strip down here? He pulled his sweater over his head and put it on the space heater. An

antique dark red umbrella stood propped against the wall. The back of the room was closed off with a brown curtain that parted in the middle. Taylor squeezed past it into the darkness. Judging from the groaning and panting, three or four guys were doing it in a corner. Their earthy smell filled the room. A tall guy clutched Taylor's wrist. His hand wasn't as soft as Manu's. But Taylor

didn't mind it. He grabbed the guy by his thick hair and pushed him down on his knees. With his other hand, he undid his belt. He fucking needed this blowjob. This kid knew what he had to do.

He was greedy and good. Really good, actually. Taylor pulled at the soft hair, and the guy's tongue flicked even more swiftly. Not a bad decision, this random sex. Taylor's thoughts narrowed on the sensation in his dick. He felt like a bubble getting ready to float to the top of a glass of soda water. While he was struggling to stay at the bottom, he was aware that being alive was worth it alone for this tension.

96 Chapter 10: Manuel Santos

The boar swung backwards and it was as if it pulled Manu rear first into a lukewarm pond. Up in the sky, lightening and silver helium moons. "Dip, di dip... Tonight I'm king of the mountain." The singer's baritone voice shivered through Manu's body. The music was something eighties, something dark and electronic. Nowadays nobody wanted Manu to get wasted, and at this club, they never put enough liquor in his drinks. That's why he had prepared himself with half a bottle of Cocosphere, at home. The boar was about to launch him forward and he tightened his black latex pants around the beast's torso. Yeehaw! Horny laughter from one of the faces below the stage. The boar was shaking and Manu held on to the handle hidden in the prickly mane. Back it went. How stupid to tell Taylor about the other dicks he'd been seeing. But why worry about drama. If Manu half-closed his eyes, stars were swooshing around his head. Here we go, rodeo cowboy Jack Twist. With one hand, he was swinging a lasso above his head. Taylor should see this. The beast reared up and a tusk slashed across Manu's forehead. He clung to the boar's neck. The camphor fur chafed the side of his face. His geisha make-up! He got a hold of the handle and was riding the brute upright like a cowboy in charge.

"He's bleeding!" someone yelled in the audience.

Doesn't bother Jack Twist none. He and his boar are riding until one of them drops dead.

But the beast was tamer now. It came to a stop. An almost naked red siren was posing with the boar's plug at the edge of the stage. It was Persephone, in her short skirt and push-up bra. The king of the mountain was roaring and the echo bounced back from the walls. Manu really was bleeding. From the corner of his eye, he saw a crimson blur trailing down the side of his nose.

"Hold on!" Persephone dropped the cable and scurried up the three steps to the stage. She seized Manu's biceps like a police officer. It was difficult getting off the boar with only one hand.

She tugged a tissue out of her polished bra and dabbed the blood off Manu's forehead. Some of it had reached his upper lip. It tasted creamy and then bitter.

97 "I need something to drink," he said.

"Come." Persephone clutched his hand and pulled him past perfume and sweaty backs to the bar. A simple keyboard melody was playing. "Would you mind getting off this stool, please," she said to a teenager with dilated pupils. He got up and bounced like a video game character into the crowd. "What's your name?" Persephone asked Manu.

Manu had introduced himself about a dozen times to her. "Jack Twist," he said, and climbed onto the stool.

"Maurice," she said to the bartender. "Mix Jack here a drink, whatever he likes." To

Manu she said: "Stay at the bar. I'll fetch something in the medicine cabinet downstairs."

Maurice was leaning over the yellow surface. His beard almost touched Manu's face.

"What do you want, Twisted Jack."

"You should shave," Manu said. "Give me the usual."

"You're the guy who rode the boar," said a lesbian next to him. She had light super short hair and wore a loose black tie around her neck. Under her shirt, pointy breasts were vibrating with the drum machine. "I love your make-up," she said. "Your lips look like a cherry."

"I would have ridden that beast until dawn," Manu said. "The blood wasn't pretty, but it didn't bother Jack Twist."

"Elaine, this is Manu." Maurice banged a bottle of pumpkin beer in front of the girl.

"Don't believe a word he says."

"God no, Maurice," Elaine cried. "Ernesto's playing Slut Central." She swayed her upper body to the hip-hop beat. "That's how Tynisha and I met. She was doing the hottest drag king show to that song. Danced just like IC Tune. I still get turned on when I see his music video."

"Black men are hot," Manu said. "But IC Tune looks like a dyke."

"I know!" said Elaine.

Maurice gave Manu his strawberry daiquiri. "I saw you with that tough black dude," he said. "I think I have to talk to him. The whole world knows that you fetishize big and black."

98 "Ha. You're jealous!" Manu said.

"I'm just concerned for him. If I was black, I would date everyone but you."

"Maurice is hitting on me," Manu yelled at Elaine. "Let's go dance!"

"Not to this song," she said. "I broke up with Tynisha two hours ago."

"Now that's a reason to dance." Manu pulled her off her stool. "Shake it left, take it right, next stop Slut Central!"

"You don't understand," she said. "I still love her."

"Hook up with her again tomorrow."

"She told me she had children. A two and a three-year-old."

"You did the right thing." Manu tried to dance like IC Tune. To the offbeat, he pulled one shoulder back and then the other.

Elaine stared at him and didn't move.

"Do you want to hang out at a playground all day?" Manu yelled. "If you say yes to children, you say no to parties, no to money, no to sex!"

"Bullshit."

"Girl, you better listen to a hot young man." Manu flapped his elbows and pushed Elaine with the side of his ass. His chicken dance went well with IC Tune's song.

Elaine grinned. "You don't like children because you're a child yourself. Go on stage and let the drag queen spank you. You deserve it!"

"Why not," Manu said. Maybe there was a talent scout in the audience. Or a companion for tonight. Taylor seemed to have vanished.

Elaine pushed him through the crowd in front of the stage and up the three steps. Manu made himself as stiff and heavy as he could. "I've got one for you," Elaine yelled at the drag queen on the chair. "He's been very naughty!"

The drag queen was an insult to her people. In her dress with a pansy print, she looked like a straw-stuffed scarecrow. Her boobs were bumpy and the pink fedora around her neck

99 seemed to choke her. A five o'clock shadow covered the lower part of her face. "You have blood above your eyebrow," she said, and grabbed Manu's wrist. She pulled him across her lap. To

Elaine she said: "If you wouldn't mind, dear, please open his belt and free his buttocks."

Elaine did as she was told. She was careful not to pull down the pants too much. Over the white stockings of the drag queen, Manu saw Elaine jump off the stage.

The DJ was mixing an aggressive violin solo with a hollow beat.

"So tell me, sweetheart," the drag queen yelled. "Why are you bleeding?"

Manu's curls almost touched the stage floor and his head filled with blood. "It's part of the make-up," he said. His scalp was tingling.

"You're a creepy one, aren't you?"

"I'm innocent," Manu yelled. "People take advantage of me."

"Nobody's innocent!" The drag queen slapped her leather flogger across Manu's buttocks. "I don't punish boys who don't deserve it."

"You're punishing me?" Manu touched the floor with his fingertips and smiled at the audience. "I don't feel a thing!"

She was hitting him harder. "How about this!"

The suede stung Manu's skin and he moaned. People were looking at him, but their faces were blurred. This was more relaxing than sleep. An electric guitar sent a ripple down his legs all the way into his toes. "You're doing a good job. Despite your flabby arms!"

The drag queen finally whipped him with force. Manu was a burning succession of whams. He didn't have to think anymore.

"No!" That was someone in the audience. The drag queen ignored it and lashed the leather across Manu's buttocks. Slim feet in black plastic heels approached them. Dark red toenails. "Didn't you see his injured forehead?" Persephone hissed at the drag queen. "Whatever happened to common sense?"

100 "Trust me, dear," said the drag queen. "This bony ass deserved every stroke I gave it."

She pulled Manu's pants up his tender bum.

Manu wanted to get on his feet, but Persephone told him to stay where he was. She hustled around the chair and kneeled down in front of him. He lifted his head. A camcorder was on a stand right next to the stage, less than three feet from him. Thank God his lipstick was long lasting. It was about time he got famous. Persephone cleaned his forehead with a disinfectant and put a Band-Aid on the cut. He endured the procedure, holding his geisha face as relaxed as possible. The drag queen helped him up. Manu threw his head back and walked off the stage. The camera lens was following him.

"Manu!" Elaine was pushing past some obliviously dancing idiots, holding two drinks above her head. Her breasts were swaying. "Here. From Maurice." She gave him another strawberry daiquiri. "He said I should tell you that this was the most stunned performance he'd ever seen."

Maurice the bartender had been generous with the rum. A black-dressed butch with a double chin packed the camera into her roll suitcase. She collapsed the tripod. With the suitcase in one hand and the stand in the other, she limped over to Manu and Elaine. "Sorry to bother," she said, and shook Manu's hand. She was catching her breath. "I'm a filmmaker. Lynn Watercress."

Manu had a fabulous time talking to Lynn about her queer fetish documentary. She wanted his contact information, and the DJ was playing this slow hot song he could never remember the name of, the one in which the euphoric gay singer is missing his lover and describing the body parts he can't live without. For some reason, the filmmaker mentioned the dungeon she had at home. Elaine forgot about her heartbreak and was suddenly dominating the conversation with this woman who was at least twenty years older than her. Their awkward flirting embarrassed Manu. They were discussing a violet wand that was apparently the latest technological asset in the lesbian bedroom. That's when Elaine lost control. She grabbed Lynn's tripod and marched off. With her rolling suitcase, the filmmaker was limping after her.

101 "Freaks!" Manu yelled, loud enough that Lynn could hear it. His drink was finished and the attic was crammed. The pressure in his bladder almost surpassed the limit of what he could handle. A young man was stomping and twirling with the house beat. Then the guy was tumbling to the ground, his sweaty cheek sliding along Manu's arm. Manu didn't see anyone he wanted to know other than the bartender Maurice who was racing back and forth between the blenders and the fridge. At the top of the stairs, Persephone bent over a man in a golden suit who stood with his back against the wall. When Manu was squeezing past her tight skirt, he noticed that they were kissing. She shouldn't have gotten so drunk.

The basement smelled of moist stone. Manu could hear the muffled beat from upstairs.

He closed his eyes and imagined walking along a cage, around merged orange and blue stalagmites and stalactites. He bumped into someone.

"I'm Orlando. From Guatemala." The boy was tall and skinny like a girl. "Nice to meet you." The ladies' bathroom was next to Manu, with the door open. Four trans women stood squeezed in front of an oval mirror.

"Are you having fun?" Manu asked Orlando.

"I'm having lots of fun," Orlando said. "Did you see me dance on stage? I was hot. My sisters and I are going to the Confidant. Do you want to come?"

"I'd love to, but not tonight. Where's the men's bathroom?"

It was down the hall, past the dark room and around the corner. Manu pissed in the last of the three urinals. The tiles on the wall had been white once, but now they were speckled with stains of all colors. Behind Manu, somebody flushed. The stall door opened and the faucet was turned on. When Manu zipped up, the blow dryer was whizzing. A dyke with a mullet was drying her hands. She had a green tattoo of a mermaid on her biceps.

"Sorry," she said. "The women's bathroom was crammed."

102 "I'm sorry for you," Manu said. "But it looks like you survived in there." He knocked against the yellow-painted wood of the stall.

"Yeah," she said. "I didn't sit down."

A short black man stumbled through the bathroom door. He noticed the dyke. "Ooh la la."

"Gone already," she said, and banged into Manu's yoga teacher Paul, who was coming in behind the short dude. "Jesus," she said. "You guys go to the bathroom like women."

"Manuel," Paul said. He was hiding his body under a blue woolen sweater. "What are you doing here?"

Manu turned the faucet off and shook the water from his hands. "I'm washing my ass."

"Who is he?" the short guy said. He had an annoying patch of hair on his chin. Under his tight brown shirt, he was ripped.

"One of my yoga students," said Paul. "Manuel, this is my partner Anthony."

"Nice to meet you, Anthony." Manu gave him his wet hand. "You're the lucky one who gets the private lessons."

"I'm a yoga instructor myself," Anthony said. "But I'm teaching Hatha yoga."

"How exciting. I didn't even know you had a partner, Paul. I'm going to tell everyone in class."

"You watch your mouth," Paul said. He walked over to the urinals and was pissing into the last one. Anthony was using the one beside him. He didn't even reach Paul's shoulder. When they were done, Anthony nodded at Manu, and they left without washing their hands.

Manu looked in the mirror and was horrified. On the Band-Aid, five Daisy Ducks were dawdling across his forehead. The make-up around this catastrophe was rubbed away. His lips were chapped but still cherry-colored. He yanked the Band-Aid off. The cut wasn't very deep and had the shape of a smile. What an accident. Taylor would crack up once he heard about it. Maybe.

Manu hit the tarnished silver button of the hand dryer. Cold air was blowing on his wrists. Where

103 was Taylor anyway? The man who called Manu a fucking drama queen. Did Manu have to live a

lie, act as if one dick was enough? This was making him feel persecuted. He didn't go through his sexual identity fiasco in high school to come out the other end and find more of this compulsive need to mix up love and sex. Manu picked hairs from the make-up on his cheek and cleaned them. He hadn't expected this from Taylor. The way they fucked. How could Taylor even pretend that Manu wasn't a slut? Didn't he trust that Manu loved him? Was that it? Couldn't he believe that he was loved if Manu didn't dedicate his orifices to him?

104 Chapter 11: Cal O'Connor

Cal wiped his lips with a clean corner of his handkerchief. The tall woman in the latex bra still stood at the top of the stairs, but this time she had her hand in the pants of a shorty in a golden suit. Cal squeezed past her red plastic ass towards the bar. There was a gap beside a guy with a fluffy sweater. Cal propped up his elbow and waved his wallet. The bartender stretched his bearded face toward him.

"Miller," Cal said. Angora or cashmere rubbed against his pinky. He jerked away from the arm of his neighbor. The stocky bartender pulled open the fridge and snatched Cal's beer. Cal paid without looking at the guy beside him. He left a one-dollar bill on the yellow surface of the bar and rushed to the staircase.

On the ground floor, Cal felt his way towards the back. He sat down on a chair in the darkness, at a cold round table. A muffled thumping was all he could hear of the music. The first sip of beer made his throat burn. He took another one and gargled, but the liquid was powerless against the rank taste in his mouth.

105 Chapter 12: Manuel Santos

Manu walked past the dark room and saw a sand-colored hoodie on top of the heater. He knew it was Taylor's. He'd given it to him for Christmas. The ladies' bathroom was empty. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated. Was Taylor behind the curtain in the vault, having sex with some twinkie? Manu had to know.

The dark room was too hot and smelled like a men's sauna. Sweat with a hint of essential oil. Manu grabbed Taylor's sweater. Somebody moaned behind the curtain.

"Taylor?" Manu said.

Nothing.

"Taylor? Say something if you're in there. I'm taking your sweater home."

"Mmmmmh," a guy said. Not Taylor. Manu waited for a moment, but the moaning guy bothered him. The sound reminded him of his grandfather slurping ice coffee. He left the room before this pig had an orgasm.

Thank God for dykes. Especially the ones wearing uniforms. Despite the fog, Heather the security guard was still outside, making sure that only harmless idiots got into the club. Manu knew her from back when he'd first come to San Francisco and worked as a bartender at

Limelight. She'd been a bouncer already then. People were afraid of her, probably because she had scary boobs.

"Here's the little shithead," said Heather. The collar of her uniform cut into the spongy skin on her neck. "I've heard you made an ass of yourself."

"I wouldn't know. Who said that?"

"This pretentious filmmaker." Heather furrowed her big round nose. "Lynn Watersport or something. She said she filmed you."

"Don't listen to that one. She's jealous of my dick."

106 Heather sighed. "And you wanted to touch her boobs."

"Are you kidding me? You know I'm only devoted to your breasts. Did you see Taylor?"

Heather pulled up her black jersey and took a pack of cigarettes out of her tight shirt pocket. "The black guy you came with?"

"Yeah," Manu said. "He's my boyfriend."

"He left a few minutes before you came outside."

"Perfect timing," Manu said. It was cold. He put on Taylor's sweater and almost got lost in it. The hood warmed his ears. "Do you got a smoke?"

Heather had already lit him a cigarette. "Don't tell anybody," she said. "I don't want to share with the mob."

Four trans women and the skinny guy Manu had met in the basement left the club.

Orlando was the boy's name. He'd said they'd go to the Confidant. Manu walked away from

Heather, to the dark corner at the end of the building. Orlando and Co. pranced giggling in the other direction. The fog was weird, like wet sea spray. The wind blew it under Manu's hood. He turned and sheltered the cigarette with his body. Taylor should be home by now. If he hadn't gone somewhere else. A handsome redhead came out of the club. The guy was tall and wearing a pricey leather jacket. He looked around, and when he saw Manu, he walked towards him. "Do you have a cigarette?" he asked. His cheeks were covered with freckles.

Manu blew a cloud into the air. "I only have this one."

"Want to go to Persimmon Park?" With the fists in his pockets, the guy pulled at his linen pants and stepped from one foot to the other.

Manu had condoms in his wallet. "Sure," he said.

"Oops," said the guy. "Can you wait a second? I left something downstairs." He was running to the door of the club.

Manu went over to Heather. They were smoking, and it was like back in the Limelight days.

107 "We'll have to catch up," she said. "You never met Tessy."

"Your new girlfriend?"

"No, dingdong. My Lab."

Manu thought it was weird that he hadn't introduced Taylor to her. "We'll hang out soon."

The redhead opened the door. He hadn't forgotten a hat or his scarf, but a ridiculous wine-colored 1950s umbrella. Manu boxed Heather's shoulder good-bye and left with the man.

An umbrella can't win against summer in San Francisco. Most likely, the gusts rip it apart, and if not, the fog sneaks up under it and sprinkles you anyway. Manu's new acquaintance hadn't realized this yet. The guy pushed his umbrella against the wind down the street. It was a blessing that neither of them talked. All Manu wanted was a good-sized dick and then a hot chocolate at home.

108 Chapter 13: Cal O'Connor

The bouncer's wide back was turned towards Cal. Over by the trashcan, a guy was smoking hidden in the hood of a thick sweater. Cal went over and asked him for a cigarette.

"I only have this one," the guy said. His voice was loud and had a clean sound.

"You like the party?"

The young man shrugged. "I'm over it. Isn't the fog weird? It's like sea spray."

"Do you want to go to the park?"

"Which park?" The guy was sucking on his cigarette as if it was a candy stick.

"Persimmon. Are there other parks around here?"

"You don't have a car."

"Of course I do," Cal said. "What's wrong with Persimmon Park?"

"Nothing. Yeah, let's go."

"Can you wait for a moment? I won't be long." Cal dashed back to the club and ripped

open the door. The stairs to the basement were badly lit, but he ran down anyway.

It was quiet behind the brown curtains at the end of the room. The heater was still buzzing. The umbrella stood propped against the cement wall where he'd left it. He grabbed the wooden handle and rushed back along the hallway and upstairs.

He pushed open the door and almost bumped into the young man in his too big sweater.

"That's an ugly beast of an umbrella." The guy threw his cigarette butt on the pavement.

He didn't step on it. "Are you ready now?"

They walked fast. The guy was holding on to the hood of his sweater. He hadn't offered

Cal a drag from his cigarette. Why should Cal share his umbrella?

"I don't want to have sex in that dirty bathroom," the young man said. They were hurrying across the street to the light green building.

109 "Let's go up the hill." Cal was pointing across the field to the eucalyptus trees that

reached out of the fog.

"I don't know," the guy said. "A bunch of closeted fags like to fuck up there. I don't like the crowd. Truck drivers and such."

"Not tonight," Cal said. "The weather's disgusting."

They walked along the sidewalk to the other end of the park. When they were climbing

up the slope, the young man lost footing and fell on his hands. "Yuck!" he said, and wiped the

dirt onto the sides of his sweater.

Cal had been right. Nobody was on top of the hill. The muddy ground between the trees

pulled on his shoes. He closed his umbrella and push-buttoned the ribbon around the soggy

fabric.

They reached the clearing. "Can I suck you off?" The young man's breath was hot. His

fingers were already working on Cal's belt.

Cal had never topped another man. He stabbed the soil with the metal point of his

umbrella. This was more punishment. He would get through it.

Something was rustling like a plastic wrapper. The young guy was opening a condom.

His hand felt good. What was that? His mouth. Uh-huh. Cal liked the guy's mouth even more.

The tongue, how it circled. This young man needed him, like a puppy. Cal was suckling him. Cal

was a dirty old dog who was suckling this puppy. A Saint Bernard. His daughter liked pulling her stuffed Saint Bernard across the floor in the living room. Through the window front, Maria with large red scissors. Snip, snip, the bonsai branches dropped. There was a guy between Cal's legs.

This wasn't what Cal wanted. This wasn't happening to him.

But it was. Cal stood in the breeze, in total control of the situation. This guy had Cal's penis in his mouth and Cal had the guy's ear in his hand.

110 The first hit knocked the guy's hood off. The impact shot up Cal's arm, into his shoulder.

The guy had gleaming dark curls. He dropped on the ground, or tumbled. A bag of lemons, that's what he looked like. His sweater moved up and exposed the dull shine of his back.

The second hit. The third, forth. Clang, clong clang. The flashing gold of the umbrella beating the vertebrae. Vibration, metallic. Impossible to follow the rhythm. A spine is a xylophone. This pervert deserved it. The umbrella swished through the air. Every stroke a different sound. What was this bastard thinking? He was fucking with somebody's life. He was, cling clang, poisonous. He was poisoning somebody's mind.

Cal stopped. It was quiet. The small white hand on the ground didn't move. The guy was dead. Or knocked out.

Cal held on to his pants and stumbled down the slope. Running across the field, he thought about calling 911. But they would have been able to track his cell phone. A raccoon was wobbling away from him, towards the trees at the edge of the grassland. He still had his handkerchief. He could call from a payphone, with that dirty handkerchief. But there was no payphone. Not by the bathrooms. Not anywhere along the parking lot.

The next day, Cal woke up clean, in his plaid gray pajamas. All he recalled of his trip home was yellow light and concrete. His clothes and the umbrella were in the bathroom, in the trashcan beside the toilet. He took the garbage bag and carried it into the kitchen where he filled it up with sweet-smelling compost. In the living room, he took the clock off the wall and dropped it on top of the broken eggshells. It ticked as randomly as on the day Maria had bought it. Cal walked in his socks along the gravel path to the garage. He tied up the bag and threw it into the black plastic container beside his BMW.

After breakfast, the sports channel was playing last Saturday's Giants game. Cal was looking for a beer opener in the silver cabinet drawers beside the TV. There was a noise.

Someone had unlocked the door.

Ill Sandra was running towards him. She didn't see the blonde doll and stumbled over it.

Her forehead hit the corner of the coffee table.

"Come here, sweetie." Cal picked her up and sat down on his leather recliner. She smelled different. Sour. "Where does it hurt?"

Sandra pressed her hand against the fine red hairs above her temple. Snot was running out of her nose.

"What happened?" Maria came into the living room.

"Let go, sweetie." Cal pulled Sandra's hand off her head. He felt a small bump forming under her skin and blew on it.

Maria unzipped her light pink leather purse. She kneeled down beside the recliner. With a used tissue, she wiped the snot off Sandra's lips.

Sandra stopped whimpering.

"I'm sorry, Cal," Maria said. "I overreacted."

"I'm glad you're home." Cal clutched her hand. "Don't worry about it."

"No." Maria shook her head. "It wasn't right." She switched off the TV. "I have to trust you more."

Cal wondered why she had changed her mind.

Sandra jumped up and knocked against his chin. She pulled his head against her shoulder and cramped her fingers into his hair. It hurt. Nobody said anything. Cal felt warmth rising into his ears. If he hadn't removed the clock, it would have ticked a frantic beat. His daughter's grip was torturous. He longed for that Stella in the freezer.

Sandra let go.

Maria kissed his cheek. "You look like a ruby," she said. "I've never seen you blush so dark."

112 Chapter 14: Taylor M. Amatah

Taylor pushed against the glass door leading to the platform. It was closed. The cold- brown railway tracks led out of the station where they met more of their kind and trailed together into the distance. In here, it smelled of bleach and hazelnut coffee. He wanted to smash through the glass and run along the tracks until he caught up with dawn. For the first time, he felt awake on his morning commute, even though he'd had only three hours of sleep. He'd woken up twice.

Both times, he could have sworn that Manu had turned the key in the door, but there was only the buzzing of the fridge. Manu hadn't come home.

Taylor was early. The lamps up on the flat station ceiling were weak in the harsh daylight. A draft came through the door, so he moved over to the glass wall beside it. There was no point in bringing a jacket and then carrying it around all day in the suburban heat. Two businessmen had a discussion in front of the closed ticket counter across the hall. He was too far away to hear them. The shorter one was pounding his fist against his chest a lot. A guy in a khaki flight jacket strode past the men and checked the red ticket machine for leftover change. No luck.

Taylor felt like he'd seen this dirty-blonde Kurt Cobain before, but he wasn't sure. Half the white homeless population had this shoulder-length messy hair. Taylor thought of them as the remains of the grunge era.

The guy came over to Taylor. He unzipped his jacket. "Sorry, man," he said. "You mind if I put my lady next to you for a moment?" He grasped for something in the side of his coat and pulled out a white-yellow fur thing. It was a big lab rat. She sat on the guy's hand and sniffed the coffee air. Her pink tail curled around his wrist. "Gotta teach her survival skills."

Taylor said it wasn't a problem. The guy put the rat on the checkered marble floor, next to Taylor's sneaker, and turned her towards the glass wall. Then he ran to the red ticket machine and sat down in front of it. The rat was sniffing the gray rubber sealing at the bottom of the window. Her eyes were orange.

113 A loud whistle. The guy was blowing through two or three fingers; it was impossible to tell from the distance. The rat put a paw on Taylor's sneaker and spread her delicate claws apart.

She was wiggling her nose in the air. Her front teeth were yellow and long. You better have had your fucking tetanus shot if this pet bit you. She scrambled across Taylor's shoe and scurried half across the hall. She stopped, changed direction, and ran to Kurt. Taylor was applauding. The guy held up his hand. The rat was climbing up his chest to his shoulder.

A conductor opened the door to the platform. Taylor was hurrying along the silver train that would bring him to the boondocks. It was windy out here. The first car was for the bikes.

Some people were sitting in the second one, but Taylor entered it anyway to save time in Palo

Alto. He wanted a coffee before work and also had to buy a microwave lunch in the supermarket.

Fuck, man. He hugged the soft inside of his sweater against his stomach. The homeless dude could do whatever he wanted. He could go to Persimmon Park and play with his lady friend. Cute little rat. Taylor dropped onto a blue seat at the window. The cushions were cold.

Customer service supervisor Moonface assigned Taylor to sit in Vivienne and Kristina's corner. He hadn't been there since his first day on the job. It was more tolerable to work at the long rows of desks where at least twenty reps were breathing into each other's faces. They were afraid of talking to each other. The boss in his too tight suit had a habit of sneaking up behind employees and hiss "shh" into their ear. It hadn't happened to Taylor because he'd been sticking to himself.

Vivienne's unshapely body was hidden in washed-out jeans and a light yellow cotton sweater that matched her hair. She was writing on her AllFriends profile page. Taylor was sitting down with his back to her, leaving the desk facing the window for Kristina. He wasn't going to endure another day between the two gossips.

Taylor opened his work email. There was a message from the company address, with

URGENT!!! in the subject heading. Somebody had pasted the clock regulations into the mail.

114 Every employee of Honeyhunter, Inc. had to clock in and out within a ten-minute span of the official start and end times. Lunch break had to be taken before the legal 5.5 hours had passed.

Taylor knew this already. The last part of the email was personal.

It has come to our attention that you have violated these rules two times. As you are a

new employee, we would like to remind you that your employment will be terminated if

you accumulate three violations in two weeks.

Do not reply to this message

Taylor knew that he'd received the first violation because he hadn't been aware of the lunch-break-after-five-point-five-hours rule. But since then he'd made sure to clock in and out within their timeframe. How was it possible that he'd fucked up a second time? There were also two messages from Mr. Tight Suit telling him that French Kinkhunter.com had the longest queues of emails and pictures to be reviewed.

Kristina rushed into the corner. She wore one of these short black dresses people in the movies show off at cocktail parties. Her dark silk mane fell down to her waist. "I clocked in just in time," she said to Vivienne. Her fake purse was pink and had DG printed all over. It was the kind of garbage Manu bought in Chinatown in L.A.

"You look gorgeous, sweetie," Vivienne said. "I love this dress."

Taylor considered going to the bathroom and pushing toilet paper into his ears. But he didn't want the boss to approach him about the Kinkhunter queues. He opened them. 10,983 emails in limbo because the company hadn't hired a French customer service rep for the nightshirt. Assholes. Or maybe this was good. Maybe this meant they couldn't afford to fire him.

He scrolled down the page. There were three messages in a row with Etiennejegrand mail chaud at the bottom. Taylor knew all the tricks of coding an email address. He marked the messages

115 illegal: contact information. He caught another one, saying Mon berger allemand a deux ans.

Sick fuck. Taylor checked the box illegal: bestiality and highlighted the berger allemand. This guy's account was suspended. But Taylor had to scroll faster if he wanted to make production at the end of the day. According to his calculations, he had to review fifty mails in three minutes. He couldn't waste his time; he wasn't a goddamn cop. It was too easy to believe you were protecting children and pets. So what if he hadn't noticed the German shepherd. The dog was getting fucked anyway.

Taylor raced through the next couple of hundred mails and all he found were some violations of the no-contact-information rule. He wouldn't want to pay for a profile either. The few decent looking people on the sites were fakes or prostitutes. He stopped and examined a picture attached to the message of a bondage expert. Four women were hanging from silver pipes in a basement. They were strung up on what looked like eggplants, but it was their stretched-out, purple breasts. One of the women smiled. Taylor would have let the mail pass if he hadn't seen the faint dollar sign photoshopped into the corner of the picture. He marked the message illegal: solicitation.

"Do you know what BDSM means?" Kristina asked Vivienne. She was probably working on Kinkhunter too.

"Sweetie, you look at that every day. Leather and masks and people whipping each—"

"I know. The creepy stuff on Kink. But what do the letters stand for?"

"Hmm. I guess the D stands for domination. Let me IM Tracy."

Taylor cleared his throat. "BDSM is short for bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism," he said.

"That's too many words," said Kristina. "There are only four letters."

"Yeah," Taylor said. "But you can use the letters—"

116 Moonface entered their corner. Her black bra pushed up her breasts so much that it looked as if she was smuggling cabbage under her blouse. "Hi girls," she said. "You wanted to ask me something, Vivienne?"

"We weren't sure what BDSM stands for."

"Good question," said Moonface. "I think it has something to do with sadism. Let me ask

Anesh. I'll get back to you on that."

"Thank you, Tracy," Vivienne said. "I love your blouse."

Taylor wanted to choke Vivienne. He was scrolling even faster.

"I was worried about the see-through fabric," Moonface said. "That it wasn't professional enough."

"It's very professional," Vivienne said. "And cute."

Taylor stopped scrolling. There was a picture of a blue-eyed guy who looked just like the homeless dude with the rat that he had met in the station this morning. Except that this guy was younger and his hair was washed. He had a scar on his cheek. Not bad. Do you want to play with me? said the guy's message. Many French speakers communicated in English on Kinkhunter.

There was another picture attached. Taylor was scrolling down. Four hands in mud. No, that's not what it was. Four hands were rubbing shit on someone. It was the same guy, you could tell by the bright blue eyes. The rest of him was caked with feces. Taylor's mouth filled with spit.

His stomach lifted. He checked the box illegal: body waste, and scrolled the mess off the screen.

Mr. Shitplay had sent at least twenty identical emails from his apartment somewhere in

France. It took Taylor a while to learn that he had to look away from the screen whenever the dirty-blonde boy with blue eyes smiled at him.

At 10:25, he needed a triple latte. He had taken a gulp of the so-called coffee in the break room last week. Stale warm water with a burnt flavor. He wasn't about to repeat that mistake.

Instead, he was jogging to the closest coffee place, which, of course, was Starcoins on Main

Street. When he came back, nobody was in the office. The computers were still buzzing, but the

117 chairs stood lost somewhere between the rows of tables. He wasn't alone. Ernesto was sitting hunched forward on his usual spot at the wall. He glanced at Taylor and greeted him with a slight tilt of the head. The white cable of his earphone spiraled around one of his braids.

There was clapping and cheering behind Taylor. He turned and saw that a crowd had

gathered in the corner where he had to work today. Not everyone was fitting into the space behind the movable wall. The Filipina translator was bouncing up and down to catch a glance of what

was happening.

"Kristina, the team and I wish you all the best to your promotion," a loud voice said. It sounded like Moonface, the customer service manager. "We're all very proud that you'll be working with the programmers. Everyone listen. Kristina will be part of the company's new bug reduction body. Anesh and I will meet with her on a weekly basis and discuss which bugs are most destructive. Her new job is to work on a priority system that allows the programmers to target the most pressing issues on our sites."

"Bug 8941 should be the first priority," a man's voice said. "It's been open for more than two years."

"Is that the one where your pictures disappear from your profile?" a woman asked. "I get that one a lot."

"No," the guy said. "That's 8981."

"Listen," Moonface said. "Anesh and I know which bugs cause the biggest problems.

You continue to do your job as always. Give Kristina a cheer and go back to your desks. Yay,

Kristina."

The clapping and cheering was less enthusiastic than in the beginning. Someone in the back of the group was whistling. Taylor's coworkers were pushing out of the corner and pressing him against the portable wall. It was vibrating. Like blind fucking moles, they were scurrying to their desks. A girl with burgundy hair took refuge next to him. When the hallway cleared, she

118 skipped forward and slipped into the pearl-embroidered flip-flop that was lying trampled on the

carpet.

Taylor went back into his corner. Moonface was cutting a white and a black cake on his

desk. He sat down on his chair. She glanced at him and frowned. This was his table. He had to

catch up the five minutes he'd lost because of her fucking spectacle.

"Kristina," Moonface said. "Would you prefer strawberry or chocolate cake?"

"Strawberry."

"I knew it." Moonface put a big piece of cake on a paper plate. Half of it was greasy

frosting and the other half looked like a baby-pink sponge. "Here darling." She stuck a fork into it

and gave it to Kristina. "Vivienne, would you mind talking over for me and bringing everybody a

slice?"

Taylor tried to review emails while Vivienne was rushing in and out of the corner to

distribute the cake.

When almost all the cake was gone, Vivienne pushed a plate with a mangled piece

against Taylor's keyboard. "For you. There's only chocolate left."

He took a forkful. It was hard to get the frosting off the plastic. Too fucking sweet, but

maybe this would help him survive until lunch.

Kristina got up and grabbed her pink DG purse from under her desk.

"Are you going upstairs, sweetie?" Vivienne asked. "I'll miss you so much."

"They want to show me my personal office."

The two women hugged, and Kristina left. Finally Taylor could work in peace. His eyes were burning and he was woozy because he was scrolling down the page so fast. The quiet lasted

for almost five minutes. Then Vivienne began to mutter behind him.

"It's not fair," she said. "My production is better than hers. I work here two months

longer."

Taylor turned around in his chair. "What did you expect?" he said to her back.

119 "I'm really good at my job," she said. "I get along with everybody."

"You're not twenty anymore. Nobody in the management wants to fuck you."

Vivienne looked at him. Her face was pink. "That's not what it's about."

"No offense. I didn't mean to be insulting. It's how these guys tick."

"I know that I'm old." Vivienne studied her hands. Then she pointed at the ceiling. "Do you think she's sleeping with someone?"

Taylor shrugged.

Vivienne's eyelids were twitching. She was avoiding his gaze. "Do you find her attractive?"

The last thing Taylor wanted was that this woman would start to cry. He shook his head.

"She doesn't do anything for me."

Taylor was ready to microwave his Chicken Biryani. About thirty people were standing in the heat of the courtyard, lined up in front of the break room. Most of them were men with pasty or light blue shirts; some with ties. There were a few women. One was wearing a beige top and a blazer; another one was dressed like a flight attendant, but with stiletto heels. The door behind Taylor opened. Ernesto left the office. He had a hard time getting past people. The queue was winding around the encased palm tree and leading along the office building to the street.

Nobody moved. Ernesto had to walk beside the wall, in the pebble-filled strip with the wild cactuses.

Most people in the line-up were Asian or white. There was one black guy with square rimless glasses whose shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He was talking to the flight attendant. "The newsletter is a challenge," he said. "It has to be informative and sexy. At the same time, you want it to advertise our new features."

The woman was throwing her hair behind her shoulder. "I'm sure you're doing a great job."

120 "Excuse me." Taylor dabbed the guy's shoulder with his index finger.

The brother twitched into the flight attendant. She grabbed his arm.

"Sorry man," Taylor said. "What's going on in our break room?"

"It's Wednesday," the flight attendant said. "The writers and programmers from upstairs

get a free lunch."

"What do you want?" the brother said.

"Microwave my dinner."

"You'll have to wait," said the guy. "They won't let you in there now."

"Why don't you go to human resources in the second floor," the flight attendant said.

"Maybe Janis will let you use the microwave in our break room."

"Uh-huh," Taylor said. "That'd be exciting." He walked away. Balancing on the pebbles,

he was careful not to step on a cactus. The Chicken Biryani was for tomorrow; today it would be

another sandwich. The white sleeve of his T-shirt was sliding along the wall.

Taylor was leaving the fast food joint, twirling the long plastic bag of his meatball sub

around his arm. Ernesto was reading a newspaper on a bench facing Main Street. A van was

driving by. Hardy's Hardware. The street wasn't busy. Taylor sat down. The slats were burning

hot through his jeans. Why would you select black-lacquered iron benches for a town with such temperatures?

"Daily special?" Ernesto asked from behind his newspaper.

"No," Taylor said. "The special was tuna. Did you eat already?"

"Yes," Ernesto said. "Homemade pasta salad with shrimp."

"You knew that the second floor snobs would take over our break room."

Ernesto lowered the paper and saw the box with the Chicken Biryani next to Taylor's

legs. He grinned. "Welcome to Honeyhunter."

"It's disgusting," Taylor said. "They believe they're a superior species."

121 "Maybe one day you'll be one of them."

"That's depressing."

"Did you hear about the gay bashing in Persimmon Park?" Ernesto put his hand on the paper. "The victim's name sounds familiar. I swear he came straight from Latex."

Taylor took a three-inch bite from his sub. "When was that?"

"Last night. The guy's severely injured." Ernesto closed the paper and read the back page. "How did you like the party?"

Taylor was chewing. He licked tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth.

"I came home at 4:35," Ernesto said. "Barely had time to take a shower."

"I didn't sleep well," Taylor said with his mouth still full. "Manu decided to spend the night with someone else. Fucking drama queen."

"Who's Manu?"

"My boyfriend." Taylor leaned forward and took another bite. Red sauce dropped on the pavement.

"I thought his name was Miguel."

"No. Manuel."

Ernesto looked up. "Not Manuel Santos?"

"You know him?"

"No, I don't think so. Read this." Ernesto turned the paper and pointed to an article at the bottom of the front page.

Taylor wiped his lips with a napkin. He read the sentence above Ernesto's index finger:

The victim, identified as Manuel Santos, arrived at the hospital with severe injuries to his

spinal cord, a City Hospital spokesperson said.

Ernesto put the paper on Taylor's lap. "Take it."

122 Taylor didn't move. He stared at the headline. ASSAULT IN PERSIMMON PARK.

Ernesto grabbed his shoulder. "Hey. He's going to be all right."

"Who did this?"

"They don't know."

Taylor stood up. "City Hospital."

"That's what it says in the article."

Taylor rolled up the paper and dropped the sandwich in the garbage can beside the bench.

The air was still. His feet were moving. The sky was blue, with an airplane drawing a line. Two business suits were talking on the sidewalk. One of them looked at him. "...Depending on the options..." A little blonde boy stood up on a chair in front of the Mexican coffee place. He held himself on the plastic backrest. In his other hand was a popsicle, pink and upside down. The older

Latina jumped up from her chair and reached over the table. "Benjamin, no. This is..." Mexican pop on the speakers. The tapping of his shoes on the pavement. Buy a transfer. His throat was dry. Check the schedule. If he had to wait for the train, he would get a bottle of water.

123 Chapter 15: Ernesto Pedrini

Ernesto put the cardboard box with Taylor's Chicken Biryani on his desk next to the keyboard. He moved the mouse. The computer grumbled and his work email popped up. 12:37 at the bottom of the screen. Five more minutes until he had to clock in. There was a new message from human resources, titled ENJOY!!!

CS Staff,

Help yourselves to the Indian leftovers in the break room. They're delicious!

Ernesto logged out of his account and clicked the window away. He folded his black cotton jacket over his arm. A light sweatshirt was enough. He squeezed past the empty chairs between the two rows of desks. The Brazilian translator was yakking on her cell phone in the corner of the room, and there was the new girl, the fake redhead, typing at a desk close to the entrance. Everybody else was still on lunch break.

He passed the movable wall with the evacuation procedures taped on it. Assist people with disabilities or injuries. Nobody would help anyone. They were going to have an emergency, he was sure of that. Somebody who'd got fired would come back with a semi-automatic and shoot whoever wasn't hidden well enough. That's why he was sitting close to the wall. Targets in front of him meant that he had more time to dodge.

A chubby woman with dyed yellow hair sat in the corner where Taylor had worked this morning. Her name was Vivienne. Ernesto asked her if Taylor had brought a jacket.

"Taylor? Who's that again?"

"Big black guy."

124 "Oh. Taylor," she said. "I don't know if he was wearing a jacket. But he always brings his knapsack." She pointed to the desk behind her. The army-green backpack was on the office chair. "He shouldn't leave it unattended after last month's thieving."

Ernesto opened the zipper of the backpack and pushed the Chicken Biryani between the beige cardboard folders stuffed with paper. Why bring all this to work? He closed the backpack and threw it over one shoulder. "I'll give it to him," he said.

"I didn't know you were friends."

"We're not friends," Ernesto said. "I just don't want him to get mugged." He rushed out of the corner.

The air in the courtyard was choking hot, like in a sauna. He pushed past the break room door, but there was no air conditioning inside. It was almost dark. Red dashes were blinking on the snack vending machine. He inhaled the spicy smell of coriander. There was something earthier. Turmeric. Cumin. A stream of light on the carpet. It came from a half-closed door.

Ernesto shoved it open.

Gray chairs were stacked against the wall. The table was cramped with aluminum- covered dishes. The coffee maker on the counter at the end of the room was turned off even though the pitcher was full with dark black coffee. This was typical for the second floor people.

They were as flawed as their websites. Somebody had taped a note on the display of the microwave. It was out of order.

Ernesto opened some of the dishes. There were Biryanis, Masalas with chicken, mushrooms and prawns, and even the brown-green spinach sauce with cheese cubes in it, Palak

Paneer, Ernesto's favorite dish. But he couldn't take the whole container. The camera up in the corner had an eye on him. He unfolded two napkins on top of the paper bag filled with Chapattis, and bundled up four Samosas.

125 Ernesto ran wheezing across the platform. The train stood ready with the doors open. He didn't have a transfer and there was no time to get one. He had to look for the conductor and explain his situation before he got caught and fined for sure. He lost hold of a corner of his napkin bundle. The Samosas plopped on the red stones. Potato landed on his boot.

"San Francisco train," the conductor said through the gurgling speakers. "Doors are closing." Ernesto skipped up the stairs and almost fell over the last step. He would try to find the conductor in the front of the train.

Not many people were in the next car. An older woman with an American bulldog.

Another woman with two little girls who stood with their black and white Converse on the seats.

A group of Asian teenagers. The next car was empty. No, it wasn't. Somebody sat at the window of the last compartment. It was the panther. Ernesto hurried down the aisle and dropped the backpack on the blue seat cover next to Taylor.

Taylor gasped. He spun around. "Oh, it's you."

"I'll be back." Ernesto banged through the next door.

In the first car, Rashid the conductor was securing a red racing bike to the iron grid along the wall. His sweaty scalp was glinting like honey. He pulled a yellow-green rubber string across the frame of the bike and fixed the black hook to the metal. "It is the only bike," he yelled, "but the owner is not able to secure it." A guy with dreadlocks was sitting in a compartment towards the front of the car.

"Rashid, I didn't have time to buy a transfer at the California Ave stop. I'll jump off in

Redwood City and buy one there."

"That's a bad idea, Ernesto. We don't stop for long. You're going to miss the train."

"Can I buy a transfer from you?"

"No, I don't sell them. I know you. Don't worry about it. You always pay your fare."

126 "Thanks, Rashid." Ernesto opened the door. He froze and looked back. "How's your wife

and the twins?"

"Jalaja's fine. One of the girls is in the incubator. She's very small."

"She'll be okay?"

"I hope so." Rashid pulled at a blue rubber string. He let it go. The hook clanged against frame of the racing bike. "Yes, I think she's going to make it. I have strong daughters."

"You now have five daughters?"

"Six." Rashid stretched. His black uniform tightened over his chest.

"Dio santo," Ernesto said. "You're one proud man."

Ernesto sat down. Across from him, Taylor didn't stir. His eyes were fixed on the window. Somebody's property was hidden behind bluish-green cypresses. They were tall. In front of the plants, a bronze trickle ran along a riverbed. "Don't worry about Manuel," Ernesto said.

"He'll be fine."

"I don't know." Taylor pressed his hand against the window. "What if he ends up a paraplegic, or even a quadriplegic?"

Ernesto wondered if Taylor could eat the Chicken Biryani cold. Probably not. If only

Ernesto hadn't dropped the Samosas.

"Manu couldn't take being paralyzed," Taylor said.

"Don't underestimate him. I know this guy, CJ, who's a quadriplegic. He's living a good life."

"I'm sure he does," Taylor said. "But Manu's different. He loves sex. If he can't have sex, he's nobody."

"CJ has a great sex life."

"You said he was a quadriplegic."

"He has an incomplete injury," Ernesto said.

127 "A what?"

"CJ has some sensation from the neck down," Ernesto said. "His dick's fine."

Taylor untied his sneaker and pulled out his foot. "What if someone has a complete injury?"

"A quadriplegic?"

"Sure."

"You can feel an orgasm pretty much anywhere," Ernesto said. "If you only have sensation in your head, that's where you feel it."

"Hmm," Taylor said.

"Many disabled people have sex like queers. They don't care what's supposed to be normal."

"I can't imagine sex without feeling my dick," said Taylor.

"You adapt. An orgasm doesn't happen in your dick alone. Your mind's most important."

Taylor massaged his toe. "Do you think it's strange that we're talking about this?"

"About what?"

"Sex. Orgasms."

"It's complicated," Ernesto said. "I love talking about it."

"I think I get what you mean, about your mind being important. I dated a few women in college. My family didn't like the gay thing, and I wasn't your typical gay dude. So yeah, the girls gave me blowjobs. I fucked some of them. It was the same thing I had done with the boys, really. But it was night and day."

"What was different with women?" Ernesto asked.

"I didn't always get a hard on. The whole thing was exhausting. Pissing was more intense than some of the orgasms I had."

128 Taylor was breathing through his open mouth. Ernesto thought he looked like a boy trapped in a big man's body. He wanted to kiss the smooth coffee skin under Taylor's eye, to get him back on the planet.

"Do you think I'm making this up?" Taylor asked.

"No."

"Did you ever feel like that?"

"I felt worse," Ernesto said. "I hated sex until I started packing. I hated it if someone touched me between my legs and there was nothing."

"Did you get it done?"

"What?"

"Bottom surgery."

"No," Ernesto said. "I don't think I want to. I don't like the idea of surgeons messing with my area. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" Taylor said.

"Like you're starting to cry."

"I don't know." Taylor put his shoe back on. He leaned forward and tied it on the floor.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm freaking out about Manu. I can't see him in a wheelchair. He couldn't deal with the rejection."

"Don't get all wrapped up. Wait and see what happens."

Taylor dropped against the cushion. "I can't wait anymore. I was waiting for twenty minutes at the station. This train stops everywhere. What's that?"

Ernesto looked at the gray shelter on the platform outside. "Menlo Park."

"When I came from work it never stopped at Menlo Park."

"This isn't an express train," Ernesto said. "They only have them during rush hour."

"I wish I had a car."

129 Ernesto was searching for his phone in the jacket on his lap. It was in a chest pocket. He scrolled through the numbers and dialed.

"Honeyhunter, Inc. This is Janis. How may I help you?"

"Ernesto Pedrini, the Italian translator. I had to leave work early because of an emergency."

"That's a customer service issue. Contact Anesh, the boss."

"I tried to, but his line was busy," Ernesto said. "Could you leave him a message?"

"I guess he's in a conference call with China."

"My coworker's brother got assaulted. We're on our way to San Francisco City

Hospital."

"You went with him?"

"Yes. He was shaking and couldn't open his car door. I didn't want him to get in an accident."

"What were your names again?"

He said it slowly. "Ernesto Pedrini. Taylor Amatah."

"Did you notify anyone before you left?"

"I couldn't. Taylor was in shock. He would have taken off if I had run back to the office."

"Contact the customer service manager in the future," she said. "We terminate people's employment if they leave without notice."

"I'm aware of this. But I had to act fast."

"I'll email Anesh."

"I really appreciate it, Janis."

She hung up.

"That was something," Taylor said. "What if they find out that I don't have a car? Or a brother?"

"They won't."

130 The conductor opened the door. Taylor got up and took his transfer out of the back

pocket of his jeans.

"I know the two of you," Rashid said. "Don't bother. You always pay your fare."

The taxi driver's rust-colored curls were held out of his eyes with a ribbon. His hair was

brighter than his skin color. On the rearview mirror dangled a paper cutout of Bettie Page.

Ernesto zipped up his jacket. San Francisco was muffled in a cloud of cold, humid fog. Both

windows in the front of the car were open.

Taylor sat with his legs apart, and his knee almost touched Ernesto's thigh. The sleeves

of his blue sweater were pulled back. "Shit." He grabbed Ernesto's forearm. "What if they don't

let me in the emergency room? Manu and I are not related."

Ernesto felt the heat of Taylor's large hand through his jacket. "Don't worry about it.

They can't afford to be homophobic." He had no idea if it was true.

Taylor let him go.

"This is a hospital that's been treating HIV and Aids patients for more than twenty years.

Manu will tell them that you're his boyfriend."

"Not if his family comes down from Chicago. They think he's engaged to his best friend

Raquel. He takes her to weddings and funerals."

"He never told them?"

"He did, but they couldn't deal with it. They tried to hook him up with a bunch of

Filipina brides, so he asked Raquel if she would pretend to be his fiancee."

"Sorry to interrupt," the taxi driver said. "I know this guy who dress up like a girl when he visit the family of his boyfriend." He was staring at Ernesto in the rearview mirror. "The family don't know he's a man."

"Why expect anything from the world if your own blood can't deal with you," Ernesto said.

131 "Is your family down with you being a guy?" Taylor asked.

"My brother's okay with it, as long as I stay on this side of the Atlantic." Ernesto clamped his hands between his legs. "My mother still sends me Christmas cards addressed to

Paola."

"Is that what they called you? Paola?"

"Yup."

"Weird," Taylor said.

The taxi driver stopped. Taylor paid. Ernesto opened the door and got out. He stretched, but still felt wrinkled. His fingers were white from the cold. A guy in a puffy jacket sat against a pillar under the concrete roof of the hospital's entrance. He was pulling at blonde strands of hair and picked at them as if he was trying to get rid of chewing gum. Ernesto counted the floors.

Five. That was at least four too much for San Francisco. A severe earthquake and this building would be turned into rubble.

The glass door swooshed close behind Ernesto and Taylor. The ceiling was too low for a long space like this lobby. It was lined with small round lamps. There were rows of seats, like in an airport waiting area. A woman in a bright-blue jogging suit was reading a magazine. Her arm was connected to an IV stand. A girl with pink sandals was sleeping on the woman's lap.

Ernesto and Taylor lined up in front of a counter with four windows open. The queue moved fast.

"It doesn't smell like a hospital," Taylor said. "More like a greyhound station. Don't they have bathrooms?"

"There's no money for cleaning staff. Everyone gets treated here, regardless if they have health insurance or not. Is Manuel insured?"

"I think so," Taylor said. "He's working full-time for CallNation."

"That reminds me. They charged me double for cable last month."

132 "They always screw up the bills," Taylor said. "Manu switched us to BestCall."

It was their turn. The guy behind the counter wore a plaid tie that reminded Ernesto of a

tablecloth. He told them to go to office 452 in the west wing.

"What department is that?" Taylor asked.

"It's part of the Orthopedic Trauma Center."

They took one of the elevators with a sign saying WEST above the door. It was ancient,

but the permit was up to date. A plastic cup was squeezed between the turquoise-spotted tapestry

and the golden handrail. Taylor stepped on a half-eaten banana.

On the fourth floor, they walked down a white hallway with square overhead lights. The

air was saturated with a biting smell. Ernesto tried to swallow. The cleaning staff was wasting

disinfectants up here.

Room 452 was almost at the end of the hallway. It said FOR STAFF ONLY on a paper

taped to the blue door. In the wall next to the door was a window. The silver blinds were shut.

"They will be back," said a woman who sat behind them, on one of the three chairs along

the wall. She was chubby and short, with curls like black feathers around her face. Ernesto wasn't

a fan of people with that kind of a cherub aura. They moved slowly and made him feel like he had to confess something.

"Mrs. Santos," Taylor said. "Do you know what's going on with Manu?"

"You look familiar." The woman brushed her bangs out of her face. They bounced back.

"I'm sorry, I can't remember you."

"You don't know me," Taylor said. "I recognize you from a family portrait. I'm Manu's

uh... roommate."

"A roommate? He is living with his fiancee."

"We're living next door to Manuel," Ernesto said. He squeezed Taylor's shoulder.

"We've been friends for a long time. What happened? We couldn't believe what we read in the paper this morning."

133 "There was something in the paper?" Mrs. Santos took her large brown leather purse off the middle chair and pressed it against her stomach. "Please sit down. The hospital called me last night. They said Manuel had been assaulted. They had to do surgery. I took the first plane in the morning."

Ernesto sat down. He left the chair between him and Mrs. Santos empty.

Taylor stood in the middle of the hallway, with his arms crossed. "What kind of a surgery?"

"The spine. They have to stiffen it in two places."

"He's not going to be paralyzed?" Taylor said.

"They don't know." Mrs. Santos took a pack of tissues out of her purse and blew her nose. "They said the surgery would take three hours. I've been waiting for four and a half hours now. They're not done yet."

Taylor whacked his fist into his hand. "I'm going to kill this son of a—"

"I don't understand why somebody hurts my Manuel. My other son, Tomas, gets into trouble, but Manuel... He's nice to everyone. Do you boys know how I can reach Raquel? She didn't pick up when I called Manuel's home this—"

A man in a green hospital uniform pushed through two white doors at the end of the hallway. Mrs. Santos held her purse with both hands and leapt to her feet.

The man stepped up to her. DR. WONG said the pin on his coat. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He looked at Ernesto, then at Taylor behind him. "Would you like to talk in private, ma'am?" He jingled the keys in his pocket.

"No, it's fine. The two gentlemen are close friends of my son."

"We're almost finished," the doctor said. "He's weak at the moment, but we'll give him a blood transfusion as soon as it gets here."

"You don't have blood for him?" Mrs. Santos asked.

134 "We do," the doctor said. "We ordered it from a private hospital in town. You should eat something, ma'am. It'll take another hour until you'll be able to see him in the recovery."

"The recovery?"

"That's room 297 West." The doctor tightened his ponytail. One of his shoulders twitched, and his jogging shoes were squeaking on the floor. He hurried down the hallway.

"Thank you, doctor," Mrs. Santos said. It wasn't loud enough for the man to hear.

Taylor looked dazed. "Manu will wake up soon," he said.

Ernesto rushed after the Mr. Wong, but it wasn't easy to catch up. He had a stitch when he overtook the doctor. "Excuse me," he said. "My friend Taylor is Manuel's boyfriend. Mrs.

Santos doesn't know."

The doctor stopped. "Taylor's the black man?"

"Is there a way that he could see Manuel? He doesn't want to upset Mrs. Santos, but—"

"Manuel mentioned a Taylor before the surgery." The doctor took a yellow cell phone out of his pant pocket. He clicked something. "T-a-y-1-o-r," he said. His forehead glistened in the overhead light. "What's your number?"

Ernesto told him.

"I'll give you a call if Manuel wants to see your friend. We'll arrange something after visiting hours, when Mrs. Santos is gone."

Ernesto and Taylor got off the bus at Persimmon Park. They both lived only a few houses from the dollar store across the street, but in opposite directions. The sun had dispersed the fog. A sprinkler was pattering on the sidewalk. There was a rainbow in the water. The wind smelled of barbequed steak or something juicy like it. "I didn't know we were pretty much neighbors,"

Ernesto said.

"What are you up to?" Taylor asked.

"I'll give you a call when I hear from the doctor. Can I have your number?"

135 "Do you mind if I come with you?"

"I should eat something," Ernesto said. "I only had my salad for lunch."

"What about hot dogs in the park?" Taylor said. "It's on me."

"The Mexican corncobs," Ernesto said. "I'm addicted to them."

They passed the first eucalyptus tree on top of the hill when Ernesto's cell phone rang.

He picked up.

"Dr. Wong speaking. I'll meet Taylor in the waiting area of the lobby at 8:15."

"Where the chairs are?" Ernesto asked.

Taylor peeled gray bark off a tree.

"Be on time." The doctor hung up.

"Was it the hospital?" Taylor asked. "Is Manu okay?"

"I think so." The eucalyptus breeze blew Ernesto's jacket open. It was cold in the shade.

"Dr. Wong wants to meet you in the lobby at 8:15."

Taylor ripped the bark into strips. He stood still. "Will you come with me?"

"If you want me to."

"There's fucking dog shit everywhere. I hate this park."

"You're hungry." Ernesto took Taylor's hand and drew him into the sun. They were walking down the slope. A German shepherd was chasing a squirrel across the field. A couple stood in front of the sparkling hot dog cart. It was a quiet day. The smell of soil rose from the grass. Ernesto felt lightheaded and it was as if Taylor's firm grip kept him on the ground.

Taylor jumped backwards on Ernesto's white love seat. He slid into a corner, probably to free space for Ernesto. Dust was whirling in a ray of sunlight coming through the living room window. "Have you been with a man before?" Taylor asked.

136 Ernesto switched on his stereo. It was rumbling. He didn't know if it would find a CD.

For the last year, he had only listened to MP3s. "I kissed my best friend in elementary school," he said.

"That's a boy, not a man."

The chirping of crickets. A nasal male voice and an acoustic guitar. Poppyfield Typhoon.

The song was called Worship. "That's from the late eighties," Ernesto said. "Do you mind it?"

"That you kissed a boy?"

"No. The music."

Taylor took off his sweater. He was wearing a white T-shirt underneath. "I never kissed a trans man," he said. "Or I wasn't aware of it."

"You have a hole in your shirt."

Taylor looked down at his chest. "Where?"

Ernesto stretched out his index finger. The seam of the shirt was ripped open. Through the hole, he touched the edge of Taylor's shoulder. There was a tension in the skin. Ernesto drove his finger down Taylor's biceps and pulled the fabric with him. The muscle was warm and sleek.

Taylor gripped Ernesto's wrist.

Ernesto tried to free himself, but he couldn't. "I don't know if we're doing the right thing," he said. "I'm feeling dizzy."

"You've got to be more careful. It's too late now." Taylor put his free hand on Ernesto's lower back and was pulling him closer.

Ernesto was gliding along the leather. He could smell Taylor's hot dog breath. This was a man, not a panther. The singer of Poppyfield Typhoon was screaming. Ernesto couldn't do it. He got a hold of Taylor's waist. At first it was yielding, but then it turned firm like the mast of a ship.

There was the white and maroon of Taylor's eyes. Their noses touched. Taylor's lips were more delicate than a woman's, but they forced Ernesto's mouth open. A man was kissing him. Ernesto

137 couldn't think about it. It was as if he was drowning in sweet water. He was spiraling forward and lost sight of the surface. Light was everywhere. He didn't have to breathe.

Ernesto followed the lines of yellow overhead lamps until they stopped. "Do you think it was a mistake?" It was hard to talk with his throat stretched back.

"What?" Taylor asked.

Ernesto lifted his head and sat upright. They were in the lobby of the hospital, in the first row of seats. It was somber despite the lights. They had been waiting for more than half an hour.

"Do you think it was wrong that we had sex?"

Taylor took Ernesto's hand. He squeezed Ernesto's fingers together.

"Ouch."

"I can't stop thinking about your dick," Taylor said. "You impressed me."

"A friend of mine makes them. I told him he'd get rich if he opened a business, but he said he wasn't selling out his soul."

"He's an artist," Taylor said. "Nothing wrong with that."

Ernesto didn't say anything.

"Did you like having sex with a guy?"

Ernesto shrugged.

Taylor let go of Ernesto's hand. "Come on."

"You know that I liked it. It felt safe."

"That sounds boring."

"Not to me," Ernesto said.

"This lobby is like a fucking movie theater. Next thing the lights will go out."

Ernesto pulled at a braid on Taylor's neck.

"Is that him?" Taylor sprang to his feet. The outermost elevator had opened. A man walked out of the brightness with quick short steps.

138 "That's Dr. Wong." Ernesto said. "I'll wait for you."

Taylor jogged over to the man. They were shaking hands, and walked back to the closing elevator. Taylor leapt inside. It reopened.

Ernesto got up. He strolled along the seats to the glass front of the lobby. It was brighter outside. Two lamps the size of bowling balls were attached to the roof reaching over the entrance.

A guy with a cast up to his knee was limping back and forth. He was smoking and talking to someone on his phone. Ernesto was alone inside. Out there was the world. He pressed his forehead against the window. The glass was cold, almost wet. He didn't mind waiting. The pulse in his skull was strong and regular.

139 Chapter 16: Manuel Santos

Manu could see his pale face and his turquoise jogging pants, but his upper body was gone. He was a ghost! At least until the glass doors of the hospital slid apart and his reflection vanished. A breeze smelling of cigarette smoke blew his curls back. His suitcase rolled into the metal groove of the doorway and got stuck. He pulled at it. Pain sparked between his shoulder blades. The luggage jolted forward and knocked into his heel.

It was cool under the stone ledge covering the exit. Two puffing nurses were chatting with a cab driver farther down the sidewalk. The silver rim around the taxi's window flashed in the sun. Manu pulled his suitcase across the street to a large round flowerbed overgrown with orange California poppies. They were pretty. Inside their fleshy leaves, they had stalks like stars.

He parked the luggage and climbed onto the foot-high concrete encasing of the plot. In front of him, a red brick path was winding across the grassland to the bus stop on Potrero Ave. He stretched out his arms and inhaled the dusty warmth of summer.

"Manu! Are you out of your fucking mind?" Taylor came running along the trail, in a new caramel-colored cotton shirt.

"This is the most fabulous day of my life!"

"Get down, you idiot." Taylor reached up and held Manu under his armpits.

Manu lowered his foot on the ground.

"Why didn't you wait?" Taylor kissed him with brittle lips and grabbed the handle of the luggage. "Did you drag that suitcase yourself?"

"You should be proud of me."

"I'm sure your physiotherapist wouldn't approve of this shit. You could get paralyzed if you fell."

"Damien said it's good for me to climb steps," Manu said. "Or flowerbeds."

140 Taylor grabbed Manu's ears. "You have to be careful. Remember what Damien said yesterday? You've got to avoid going down stairs for the first three months. I heard that. It's too much pressure on your spine."

"Yes, mother."

"Are you sure you don't want to take a cab?"

Manu meandered through the fine, weed-free grass. "Sitting is bad for me."

Taylor and the rumbling suitcase stayed a little bit behind on the path, most likely to make sure Manu wouldn't trip to death. "I hope we don't get an asshole bus driver who jams on the brakes," Taylor said.

"How was work?"

"Same old. The owner paraded through the office today. Flabby fucking cheeseface.

Thinks he's all that."

"You're PMSing," Manu said.

"The guy's a cheap bastard. He's making millions with his defective websites. I'm going to quit as soon as I have enough money saved. Ernesto said he was thinking about opening a trattoria. I might get involved."

"You should." Manu stepped onto the sidewalk of Portrero Ave. "You have all that restaurant experience from back home."

Taylor kicked a can into the leafless bushes along the street. "It's hot like in the boondocks."

The air had changed from dusty to polluted. On the wall of the bus shelter, somebody had drawn cavities into the smile on a mouthwash bottle. Inside, a guy was sleeping on a cardboard box.

"Did your mom call last night?" Taylor asked.

"Ugh."

"She's not as horrible as you always make it out."

141 "Taylor, you don't know anything. She tried to convince me that my fiancee didn't truly love me. She said Raquel should have taken some days off when I was first in the hospital."

"Why do you need a fake girlfriend? It's time your mom deals with reality."

"Reality doesn't work for her," Manu said. "For me neither. I don't want her to call me every— Crap."

The bus drove past them and stopped hard at the next street light. Taylor ran down the sidewalk and held it up.

Manu wasn't fast. His spine was too stiff and didn't seem long enough for him to lean forward. He stalked along the rusty white bus to the front door. Woozy and out of breath, he climbed up the stairs.

Taylor was fanning himself with two light green transfers. "Could you please drive smoothly?" he said to the bearded driver. "My partner was just released from the hospital. He has back injuries."

"I'm a careful driver," the man said. He didn't hit the gas until Manu held himself on a post by the rear exit.

Taylor stood behind Manu and held onto the same post.

"Thanks, hon." Manu snuggled against Taylor's neck. "This is really comfortable."

They got off at Persimmon Park. Manu was glad to have steady asphalt under his feet. "I need a break," he said. Eucalyptus-scented warm air was blowing downhill and bent the grass into white splotches.

"Are you all right?" Taylor asked.

"This is where it happened." Manu looked up the slope, at the tall group of trees. The branches were jittering. "I woke up and it smelled like worms. My head was in the dirt. The worst thing was that I couldn't move my legs. I thought that was it."

Taylor sat down on the suitcase. "It said in the paper that you were screaming for help."

142 Manu shook his head. "Not at first. I was scared shitless the guy would come back."

"How long were you up there?"

"I don't know. Long. At some point, I couldn't feel my hands any more. That's when I began to shout. I got really into it, like when I was a boy. My friend Denise and I used to scream our lungs out on this pedestrian bridge over a four-lane highway."

"I couldn't sleep that night," Taylor said. "I was worried about you. But you know how it is. You think you're anxious for no reason."

"I was lucky that woman's Doberman went nuts and she had to go for a walk with him. It was really cold. My back hurt like a bitch."

"Let's go home," Taylor said. He squeezed Manu's cheek. "You're going to be fine. I set up the folding bed in the living room and put my old twin mattress on top. I thought—"

"Look at the fags!" someone shouted on the other side of the street. Manu clutched

Taylor's shirt. "Fa-ags!" It was the Korean boy from the dollar store. "You have ass sexV The little flamer almost fell off the sidewalk.

"Are you jealous of my boyfriend?" Manu yelled. He took Taylor's hand and they crossed the street.

"He's gross!" said the boy. His bangs were gelled skywards.

"Come here, Kyle," Taylor said.

Kyle didn't move. "Why do you have a suitcase?"

Taylor heaved the luggage up on the sidewalk. "Manu was in the hospital. A guy beat him up."

Kyle pulled at the black leather strip attached to the zipper of the suitcase. "Really? Did it hurt?"

"Yes," Manu said. "The man didn't like fags. I had to have surgery."

"Did he go to prison?"

"The police couldn't find him," said Taylor.

143 They walked to the house with Manu's turquoise Hyundai parked in front. Taylor ran ahead and opened the door beside the garage. It wasn't locked. An orange cat sped past him and up the concrete slope. Kyle grabbed it.

"Fireball has to go back inside," Taylor said.

"Can I play with it?" asked Kyle.

Taylor took the fidgeting cat out of Kyle's arms and dropped it in the garage. He was holding the door open for Manu. "Of course you can play with it," he said to Kyle. "But first you go home and tell your mom that you're here."

Kyle trudged grumbling back up the driveway.

The cat was sliding around Manu's legs. It had to be the stray Ernesto talked about when he was visiting in the hospital. The garage was empty except for a deflated mountain bike and the cardboard boxes that the four students renting the main floor of the house had thrown down the stairs. Both the washer and dryer next to the entrance of Manu and Taylor's apartment were on. It smelled of soap. Water was trailing to the drain under the garage door. "I'm not even home yet and I already want to kill the trust fund babies," Manu said.

The apartment wasn't locked either. Manu followed Taylor inside where someone seemed to be giving a concert. A woman was wailing in competition with flimsy piano scales.

The beat was so loud Manu could feel it through his sneakers. Taylor had forgotten to turn off the stereo. There was a twin bed in the middle of the living room. It was covered with Manu's favorite crimson satin sheets and a black duvet. A gold and blue garland saying WELCOME

HOME hung across the wall above the TV. The kitchen door banged open and someone in a red dress rushed towards Manu.

"Raquel!" Manu's dear friend with her thick brown glasses and the Madonna gap between her teeth. Seaweed-like tentacles spread from her gold necklace into her cleavage. "You look adorable!" Manu said.

144 Behind her skinny tall Ernesto with a vegetable knife in his hand. He was wearing a

white apron over his sparkling silver shirt. Now Manu knew who was responsible for the music and the smell of melting cheese.

Heather, the security from Latex, came out of the kitchen. Straight from work in her uniform. "What's up, shithead," she said to Manu. How he loved that woman and her humongous tits!

There was yoga teacher Paul, in a tight shirt. He looked tired. It was so sweet of Taylor to

let him come.

A head with blond curls jumped up behind Paul. Manu's physiotherapist from the hospital. "Damien!"

"No hugging," said Taylor. "Give Manu a kiss and let him relax on the bed."

"I prefer kisses to hugs anytime," Manu said. He smooched his girlfriend Raquel and then everybody else. His physiotherapist Damien didn't wear his usual black sweatpants, but jeans and a spinach-green shirt saying VEGAN. The music sounded like a walkie-talkie conversation with beeping aliens. Ernesto turned it down. Manu's arms and legs were heavy, as if he was getting a cold. Good that there was a security dyke. He clung to Heather's biceps. She and his hot therapist

Damien helped him getting into bed. The knot between his shoulder blades was pushing into his lungs. His left hand was tingling. He asked Heather to unscrew his pain meds bottle. Ernesto carried a steaming chai tea around the bed and placed it on the coffee table next to the chips. "I used to have this recurring dream," Manu told him, "where I was lying in the middle of a dance club on a bed. It was a party like back in the day, when techno was a big deal. People were sucking on pacifiers and shaking their butts to house music. I was the center of attention. All these buff guys in Speedos were dancing for me. I felt like the photographer of a muscle mag."

With his long fingers, Ernesto squeezed the tea bag against the spoon. "That sounds more like a premonition than a dream," he said.

Manu swallowed a pill. "You organized dancers?"

145 "Not yet." Ernesto twirled a braid around his index finger. "But I'm sure most of the people here would strip for you."

"I haven't seen my physiotherapist naked. Damien has to take his clothes off."

Ernesto went back to the kitchen. Heather showed yoga teacher Paul how to arrest someone. She slammed him face first against the closed bedroom door next to the futon couch.

Damien sipped at a glass of red wine and watched them. A dark blonde curl stuck to his temple.

"Thanks so much for coming, Damien," Manu said. He felt like a roman emperor on a divan, except that he had to lie on his back. "This is A-plus patient care."

Damien sat down on the blue couch and stretched his ivory fluff socks on top of the coffee table. "Well, it's a rare occasion that I get a dedicated and handsome—"

A loud whistling sound filled the apartment. For a second, Manu thought a steam locomotive was about to roll into the living room. It was the doorbell that no one ever used.

Taylor rushed out of the kitchen into the garage. The orange cat flitted after him. A zipper was clanging in the dryer outside the door. Heather brushed off her uniform. She and yoga teacher

Paul sank into the futon next to Damien. Taylor came back with the boy, Kyle. Out of the tall terracotta vase at the entrance, Taylor took one of Manu's peacock feathers and showed the kid how he could make the cat jump. Raquel in her red dress was watching them from the kitchen door. The cat's orange mane and a front paw leapt up between Manu's feet at the end of the bed.

Ernesto snuck up behind Taylor with a dark pink kitchen towel. He pretended to choke

Taylor and was chewing at his ear. "You said you'd grate the carrots for the salad."

Manu threw his satin pillow at Taylor. "Go help Ernesto cook. The kid can entertain himself."

Taylor caught the pillow and stepped up to Manu. "Yes, Mr. President." He pushed the pillow on Manu's face.

146 Manu dug his nails into Taylor's arm until he could breathe again. Ernesto dragged

Taylor into the kitchen. Raquel's red dress flared when she turned. She and the boy followed

Ernesto.

Therapist Damien sat up on the couch. "How's your writing going?" he asked Manu. His

cheeks were red and his wine glass was almost empty.

"More wine!" Manu yelled towards the kitchen. Ernesto came rushing around his bed and

refilled Heather and Damien's glasses with chardonnay. He disappeared again.

Paul the yoga teacher was sipping on a cloudy orange-yellow juice. He had gray rings

under his eyes. Perhaps his relationship with the guy Manu had met on Boar Night wasn't

working out. "You're writing," he said to Manu. "Bout what?"

Manu gulped down half of his tea. It was fabulously sweet. "Nothing of consequence," he

said. "Some therapeutic scribbles I had to do for Damien."

"That's not true." Damien leaned forward to see past Heather's shoulder. "Manu is writing a novel about the assault," he said to Paul.

"Yeah, right," Manu said. "I guess if you call yourself a vegan, Damien, I can call myself a novelist. I know how much you like roast beef sandwiches."

"A book!" Heather banged her heavy hand on the table. "I always thought you'd write a book, Manu."

"You guys are obnoxious. I wrote a few chapters to put my assault into perspective.

Damien told me to do it because I had these nightmares about being shot by soldiers."

Damien finished his wine and set the glass on the table. "Manu has been writing since day four after the surgery, when I brought him this lectern thing. Every time I picked him up for rehab, he was standing beside the stained curtains and typing."

"I haven't written a word today," Manu said. "I wanted to understand why this guy beat me up. But I don't get it."

Damien hugged his legs. "You'll make sense of it."

147 "Fuck off, Damien," Manu said. "Remember how upset I was?"

"You wanted to castrate the guy."

"No kidding," said Heather.

Manu stared at the concave ceiling. "That's right, Damien. I wanted to castrate him. And you know what? I still feel the same way. It won't change."

"They haven't found him, huh?" Paul said.

"No," said Heather. Manu wished she'd opened the top button of her blue security shirt.

It was suffocating her. "I was working the night Manu was attacked," she said. "I let that coward into Latex. The police questioned me about him, but I couldn't help. All I remembered was a tall redhead in a brown leather jacket. I couldn't even tell them if he had freckles or not."

"Yes, he did," Manu said. "They were big like moles."

Heather was bending over Damien and pushing up the window. "I hope you told the police."

"Sure," said Manu. "They know what he looks like. But they won't find him. I'm not famous enough."

"He had an Irish name and a California driver license," Heather said. "Sometimes people's names stick. It's usually the ones that sound perverted or special. If only I could remember. I didn't check his date of birth because I knew he was old enough. In his late thirties or early forties."

Yoga teacher Paul was rubbing his chin. "What'd you do if you met him on the street?" he asked Manu.

"I'd attack the bastard." Manu pulled his duvet up to his neck. "I'd mash his crotch into pudding with my umbrella."

"What the fuck are you talking about," Taylor said behind Manu. "You're not even supposed to do sports. No umbrella whacking in people's balls."

"You won't be able to do yoga?" Paul asked.

148 "He can do some yoga." Damien was trying to see past Heather's tits. "As long as it

doesn't put pressure on the spine. I always recommend swimming for my back patients."

"The lasagna is ready," Taylor said. "Ernesto made one with and one without meat.

Sorry, man." He pointed at Damien's VEGAN shirt. "Bechamel sauce is made with milk."

"I don't mind making an exception." Damien got up. "A little bit of ground cow never

damaged anyone."

"You're nasty." Heather was tousling Damien's soft-looking hair. "Do you want me to

bring you something, Manu?"

Manu said he was fine. They all squeezed into the kitchen. Raquel came into the living

room with a blue bowl that was shiny like her dress. She pushed Manu's chai and the chips back

and sat down on the coffee table. Manu jabbed her fork into the bowl and fed her some greens. A

corn kernel dropped into her cleavage.

"What's going on, Manu?" she whispered with her mouth full. "Did you and Taylor

break up?"

"What are you talking about?"

She grabbed Manu's arm. "He kissed Ernesto in the kitchen. A real kiss, with tongue and

grunting."

"I know," Manu said. "They're disgusting. They fuck like bunnies."

"Did they tell you that? That's so disrespectful. You're welcome to stay with me and

Jean-Luc."

"I don't mind it," Manu said. "It's the best thing that could've happened. Taylor isn't jealous anymore. I couldn't believe he invited our yoga teacher and my physiotherapist."

"What if Taylor and Ernesto fall in love?"

"It's not a big deal." Manu fed Raquel another fork of salad. "I think they are in love."

"It is a big deal, Manu. I know you're weak at the moment, and you feel like you have to take this. But you don't. This is bullshit."

149 The fork clanged into the salad bowl. "Listen, hon," Manu said. "Taylor and Ernesto are taking great care of me. I couldn't ask for more. Don't bug me with your antique values. Did you take a look at our yoga teacher? His gray face? He's lost at least five pounds. Talk to him if you want to help someone."

Raquel pushed her glasses up her nose. "You don't have to be rude." She placed the salad bowl on the table behind her. "My offer stands. If there's anything I can do for you, just tell me."

Manu yawned. "There's one thing," he said.

"What?"

"I can't stop thinking of the foot massage you gave me in the hospital. If you wouldn't mind."

"Right now?"

"You don't have to."

Raquel sat down at the end of the bed and pushed the duvet up Manu's legs. She pinched his toes.

"Hey!" Manu said. His socks slipped off his feet.

Raquel grabbed his heels. Her thumbs were circling into his arch.

Manu couldn't move his legs when he woke. Fireball was snoring rolled up on his shinbones. The white tips of the cat's fur were quivering as if there was a breeze in the apartment.

On the sofa, Ernesto was hiding behind a book. Taylor lay on his back with his head in Ernesto's lap. His new olive shirt had ridden up over his navel. The sun came in through the open window and gave the pubes trailing down to his boxers a luxurious gleam.

"What are you reading?" Manu asked Ernesto. In his back, the duvet was rustling.

Fireball curled up against his shoulder.

"It's terribly dry." Ernesto banged the book close and put it on Taylor's belly. "Step by step toward a dream come true," he read. "How to start your own business in California."

150 "Taylor said you wanted to open a restaurant?"

"It's time to grow up." Ernesto was tossing two braids behind his shoulder. "I'm turning

forty this fall."

A crow was ranting in the backyard. "Where are the others?" Manu asked.

"They went home. Raquel tried to wake you, but you were out."

"Damn it. I wanted my physiotherapist to strip."

"I like his pink baby cheeks and the blonde curls," Ernesto said. "He's pretty. Almost too

pretty for you."

"I know." Ernesto was right. Damien was more friend than dating material. Manu didn't

want to sleep with someone who outshone him. "I needed someone pretty to balance the ugliness

of the hospital," he said. "I guess I can live without Damien taking his clothes off."

"Let's host a party when you're feeling better," Ernesto said. "I have the perfect strip

sound."

Taylor tried to grab a handful of chips from the bowl on the coffee table. "What's going

on?" The book was gliding off his belly. It thumped on the hardwood floor.

Manu pulled his fists up to his ears and stretched. "We're planning a party, hon. You'll

have to strip."

"I might be able to get the upper floor of Latex," Ernesto said.

"I can't believe I passed out," said Manu. "This is so typical. I want a sexy first day out

of the hospital and instead I'm drooling over my satin sheets."

"I can give you a blow job," Ernesto said.

Manu kicked the duvet down to his feet. It slipped on the floor. "You can't handle a

queen like me," he said.

Ernesto gripped Taylor's shoulder and shoved him up. "You know what?" he said to

Manu. "I really don't care what you label yourself. As long as you have a cock, it's good with

me."

151 "Ernesto has some catching up to do," Taylor said.

"I always wanted a dick," said Ernesto. "But I've been realizing that I was too humble.

One dick isn't enough for me."

"I know what you mean." Manu turned to his side and pushed himself up. It was weird

sitting on the edge of the mattress. This bed was lower than the one in the hospital. "You'd really

help me out with a blow job. I feel like a dried-up virgin."

"Let's do it," Ernesto said. It sounded like he was quoting a song.

Manu stepped up onto the coffee table and took his time pulling his shirt over his head.

"God, I'm pale. Someone has to bring me to a tanning booth tomorrow."

Taylor rubbed his eyes. "What did I do to deserve these sluts?"

"You don't deserve us," Manu said.

Ernesto drove his long fingers over Manu's abs. The muscles hadn't totally vanished.

"Taylor was a ladies' man in another life," he said.

Taylor stood up and grabbed Ernesto by his shoulders. "I think you need help with that

piece of ass."

"I think so too," Manu said. Ernesto's fingernails were leaving red streaks on his

stomach.

Taylor jumped onto the bed. It was squeaking. Something orange shot past Manu and

Ernesto and landed on the couch. The cat tilted its head and scratched an ear with a hind paw.

Manu felt Taylor's warm hands on his waist. A lawnmower was buzzing in the distance.

Ernesto slid his thumbs into the elastic of Manu's turquoise jogging pants. He pulled down. Cool air was brushing against Manu's buttocks. "Wow," Ernesto said.

Manu didn't know what to focus on. Taylor was kissing the two stitches behind his hipbone. Ernesto's braids were tickling his thigh. You guys are spoiling me. Manu wanted to say it, but he didn't. A handsome young man knows when it's time to be quiet. Ernesto's watch

152 projected a sun dot onto the futon. The cat was chasing it. Manu folded his hands behind his neck and blew a lock out of his eye.

153 Chapter 17: Cal O'Connor

The sea lions were squeaking like a troop of drunks with rusty tin cornets. Cal lifted

Sandra on his shoulders and pushed past a couple of blonde tourists. Dutch or Swedish. Both had the same faded look, but the woman was taller than the man. The smell of Pier 39 reminded Cal of his grandfather's pig stable. He was breathing through his mouth. There was an empty spot at the railing, beside a skinny dark man with a camera. Cal sat Sandra on the two slats of wood that topped the balustrade. He tugged her mustard-colored skirt over her knees and held his arm around her belly. About a dozen rafts full of sea lions floated on the muddy water. Most of the animals looked like brown bags of sand. On the raft closest to the pier, a sea lion with black- spotted Dalmatian fur pushed herself up on her fins and groaned as if she was outraged by the laziness of her peers. Sandra ripped the pink handkerchief off her head and raised it into Cal's face.

"Don't throw it," Cal said.

Maria squeezed herself between the guy with the camera and Cal. Her sunglasses held her hair out of her face. "Look what the shiny one is doing," she said to Sandra, and pointed at a large sea lion who had his tail in the water. He was nuzzling a smaller brown one off the edge of the raft. The female plunged into the sea. She swam an underwater circle and crawled back onto the wood. Her slick fur was sparkling as if it was covered in blue and silver scales. The male ignored her.

Sandra rested her head against the stripes on Cal's shirt. The aquarium with the underwater tunnels had exhausted her. And she was probably still digesting her fatty fish and chips.

"I'm ready to go home," Cal said.

154 Maria looked at her small blue watch. Her arm was tanned from working in the garden.

"It's not even 2 o'clock," she said. "I wouldn't mind staying in the city for a bit longer. We won't have this breeze in Palo Alto."

"What do you want to do? Sandra is getting tired."

The large sea lion roared. He banged his tail on the float and pushed the female back into the water.

"He doesn't like the baby," Sandra said.

"Let's go to Persimmon Park," said Maria. "I'm sure there are other families on the weekend."

"That's not a baby," Cal said to Sandra. "It's a female. They're smaller than the males.

The tiny one in the middle of the second raft is a baby." He pointed at a sea lion that was enjoying the sun on its back, next to a female. It looked like a gray pillow roll.

"Is it sleeping?" Sandra asked.

"Cal," Maria said. "What do you think?"

"It's dozing."

"No," Maria said. "About going to Persimmon Park."

"I don't know." Cal tightened the grip around Sandra's belly. "Let's drive to Sunnyvale and play miniature golf."

"I'd like to see the park," said Maria. "It must be nice. You spend so much time there."

"Last time I went to the park was when you and Shelby played detective and spied after me."

"That was a while back." Maria was driving her fingers through Sandra's hair. "I'm sure the vegetation has changed a lot. You'll enjoy it."

"I think I'm burning my face," Cal said. "Is it red?"

Maria touched his brow with her index finger.

155 Sandra stretched out her hand. She let go of the handkerchief. A wind gust blew it a few

feet toward the shore. It landed on the water, still folded into a triangle. The sea lions were too far out to notice. A wave swapped the pink fabric under the pier.

"That was not good, Sandra," Cal said. "If people throw too much garbage into the water, the sea lionsuwill disappear."

"Why?"

"They don't like dirty water."

"The handkerchief wasn't dirty," Sandra said.

"Let's go to the park," said Maria. "That wasn't nice, Sandra."

"She's tired," Cal said.

"She can take a nap in the car."

Cal heaved Sandra on his shoulders. "Let's stop at one of the gift stores. Sandra and I need sun protection. We don't want to look like giant shrimp."

Cal pulled the yellow brim of his cap over his eyes. The barrier opened. He took his change from the blonde Afro woman in the parking booth and hit the gas. Pebbles creaked under his tires. He switched the air conditioning off. In the rearview mirror, Sandra was napping against the side of her baby seat.

He parked almost at the end of the lot. "I'll wait here until Sandra wakes up," he said to

Maria. "Go ahead. See if anything's going on."

"You guys come with me." Maria put down the sun visor and applied her salmon-colored lipstick. "Sandra's fine. She can sleep on the drive home."

Cal got out and opened the back door. Sandra was yawning. He unfastened her seat belt and covered her head with a yellow cap that said BAY AQUARIUM under a jumping blue dolphin. It was the child-version of his own cap.

156 Sandra sat on Cal's arm. She rested her head against his shoulder. The brim of her cap touched his ear, and her breath blew evenly against his neck. It wasn't a good idea to carry her around in this heat and pollution. Maria marched ahead of them to the other end of the parking lot, her hair swinging from side to side on the back of her white cotton dress. Dust rose from under her feet. Cal slowed down. His wife looked more like a schoolgirl than a mother.

They passed the bathroom bungalow with light green walls. Cal had never been in

Persimmon Park when it was so busy. The field was almost covered with blankets. A yellow

Frisbee swished over people's heads. The air smelled like weed. A Chihuahua with beige fur was sniffing Cal's leather shoe. Something red and green stood in front of the hill at the end of the field. It was one of these inflatable air houses for children to jump in.

Cal put his hand on Maria's shoulder. "Let's go to the lake," he said. "It's too hot out here."

"A lake?"

Sandra kicked her pump into Cal's thigh. "Let me down!"

Cal set her on the grass. She ran after the beige Chihuahua. "Don't touch it," Cal said.

"It'll bite you."

"Sir, please," said a boy with a snub nose and a pasty upper body. His leggings had the same color as his nipples. "Mirabelle doesn't bite." He was swinging a stick with an attached magenta ribbon and drew a tilted 8 in the air.

Cal turned away from him. "Let's walk along the path," he said to Maria. A trail was winding along the edge of the grassland. "It leads to the lake."

"Look at that," Maria said. "A tree with bloodshot leaves. I wonder where it's from."

The tree was wafting above the trail. It had large yellow-white leaves with crimson veins.

"There might be a sign," Cal said. "That's the arboretum. It's huge."

"Shelby mentioned an arboretum."

157 Of course she'd mentioned it. Maria's boss Shelby had been everywhere and seen everything. But she was a snotty aggressive bitch. Cal didn't understand why his wife adored her so much.

"Sandra, come!" Maria said.

Their daughter was petting the Chihuahua on a green army blanket. Beside her, the gay boy was running in place. His ribbon circled above his head.

"Can you please get her?" Cal asked Maria. "Tell her that there are turtles in the lake."

Maria walked over to the blanket and kneeled down in the grass beside Sandra.

The gay boy looked at Cal. He thought he was incredibly hot, swinging his ribbon.

Cal walked away, towards the trail. The wind blew the aggressive stench of the men's bathroom past him. What the hell was he doing here?

A dirty-white puff grew like a tumor on the back of a duck's head. The bird swam towards five turtles that sat on a plank reaching from the small island out into the lake.

Sandra grabbed Cal's hand. "Is the duck going to eat the turtles?"

The lowest turtle plunged into the churned water. Rings were growing from where it had vanished.

"No, sweetie. Ducks eat little things. Aquatic plants and snails. Turtles are too big for them."

"The bridge," Maria said to the girl. "Who's going to be there first? One, two, three!"

Maria and Sandra were running along the trail. They both lifted their legs sideways, as if they had knock-knees. Maria let her daughter win.

Cal took his time. The bridge led over a shady arm of the lake that was lined with tall eucalyptus trees.

158 Sandra sat on the timber railing of the bridge. Maria held her with both arms. "Daddy," his daughter whispered when he reached them. "We saw a dreamfish. It was orange and shiny.

And huuuge."

Cal saw their heads reflected in the glossy water. "Where was it?" he asked.

"It was swimming in a circle," Sandra said.

"Do you see the sunken log?" said Maria. "Below the Limefizz bottle?"

"Yes."

"That's where—"

"Dreamfish!" Sandra shouted.

A coral fish the size of a baby sea lion beat his tail and swam in a semi-circle around the log. The green plastic bottle seesawed. The fish disappeared in the mud water.

"Wow," Sandra said.

"That would have been a fish for the barbeque," Cal said.

"Daddy!" Sandra hit his arm with her flat hand. "That was a dreamfish! People don't eat those."

"Cal," Maria said. "It's beautiful here." She put her hand on Cal's neck and massaged his stiff muscles. "This park is invigorating. If I worked in the city, I would come here too."

"Do you want to head back?" Cal asked.

"No. We're almost halfway around the lake. I'm enjoying this walk."

They continued on with Sandra between them. Things moved between the fleshy-leaved strings that grew in the water along the shore. Frogs, perhaps. White boulders bordered the lake.

There was a noise. A pair of heavy and a pair of lighter shoes on the pavement behind them. Docs and sneakers. Maria let go of Sandra's hand and rushed ahead. But nobody overtook them.

Something was creaking. It sounded like a bike with rusty axles, or a chain somebody was swinging. Sandra squeezed Cal's hand. A rustling in the undergrowth beside her. Two olive-

159 brown birds were bouncing over leaves and dry sticks. Goldfinches. Their chests and bellies were yellow.

Sandra stopped. "Little birds!" she said.

The finches hopped under a bush with small oval leaves.

"They're gone," said Sandra.

A round blue paper lantern with white dots overtook Cal. It was the screen of an old- fashioned baby buggy. A woman who was taller than Cal pushed the squeaking thing. She had freckles and a dark complexion. Two coils of long black hair hung down the front of her red sweater. The woman beside her was pale and had the typical dyke haircut that was short on the side and spiked on top. Cal assumed she was Japanese.

Sandra let go of Cal's hand. She ran to the Japanese dyke and pulled at the black windbreaker around the woman's hips. "Excuse me," she said.

The dyke stopped and looked down at Sandra.

Maria turned around.

"Can I have a look at the baby?" Sandra asked the woman.

Maria stepped toward the buggy and put her hands on Sandra's shoulders. "I'm sorry about that. She's in a curious phase."

"Not a problem," the Japanese dyke said.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" Sandra asked.

"A boy."

"Can I see him?"

"Sure." The dyke pushed down the screen of the buggy.

Maria grabbed Sandra under her arms and lifted her up.

"He looks like a tiny old lady," Sandra said. "I can see into his nostrils."

Maria set her back on the ground. "He's adorable," she said. "I've never seen a baby with such long eyelashes."

160 The tall lesbian pulled up the screen of the buggy and crossed her arms.

"He's only two weeks old," the Japanese dyke said to Sandra. "Newborn babies look squished."

"I'm sure he'll look nicer in a few months," Sandra said. "I want a little brother. But not a squished one."

"I'm sorry," Maria said. "She has a big mouth."

The Japanese dyke smiled at Maria. "She's intelligent. How old is she?"

"She turned four in June."

The buggy squeaked. The tall dyke pushed it past two mallard ducks that were gabbling close to the shore.

"We have to go now," the Japanese dyke said to Sandra. "What's your name?"

"Sandra Michelle O'Connor."

"Bye, Sandra Michelle." They walked on. The tall woman's hair coiled all the way down to her woven belt.

Sandra ran to Cal. She hugged his leg. "Daddy! Can I have a little brother?"

Cal took her hand. "You'd have to be good to him. A baby brother is not a toy."

"I'll be very nice." Sandra hopped up and down. "I'll let him sleep in my bed."

"Cal," Maria said. "Do you think they're a couple?"

"Who?"

"The two women with the baby."

"Of course they're a couple," Cal said. "They had dyke written all over them."

"That's what I thought. I guess we'll see more of that."

"Of what?" Cal asked.

Sandra buried her face in his thigh.

Maria cleared her throat. "Gay parents."

"What's wrong with that?"

161 "Nothing," Maria said. "Nothing at all. I just feel sorry for a child without a father." She took off Sandra's cap and drove her fingers through her daughter's hair. "Why are you so defensive about it?"

"I don't think it's a big deal." Cal took Sandra's hand. "They seemed pleasant. I'm sure they have male friends who are involved in the boy's life."

"It's not the same," Maria said.

Back on the field, Cal handed his leather wallet to Maria. "You'll get her the ice cream.

My head hurts. I'll be waiting in the shade."

Maria folded her arms over the cleavage of her dress. The breeze was getting stronger and cooler. "Do you want me to drive?"

"I'll be okay. We'll leave afterwards."

Maria strolled across the grass to the ice cream truck. Sandra queued up behind at least half a dozen children.

Cal felt deaf. The park had the noise level of a community pool. A man older than Cal curved on his bike, topless and sunburned, around people's blankets. Violins and cellos were playing on the boom box in his hand. Ta. taTa. Cal took a jump sideways. Mozart's Kleine

Nachtmusik. The lunatic raced past him and almost drove into a couple that was making out under a small blue towel.

Two teenage girls were sitting down on the bench where Cal had planned to wait for

Sandra and Maria. One of them took a ball of yarn out of her crocodile purse and began to knit.

Cal walked past the teenagers onto the long pointy leaves that covered the soil under the eucalyptus tree. He sat down beside a patch of yellow-orange California poppies. A few more minutes in the park. Nobody would notice him here. He rested his head against the trunk. If only

Maria got pregnant again. She'd be too busy to work, and her boss Shelby wouldn't be able to raise her suspicions. Motherhood hadn't been Maria's priority lately. She'd been irritable and full

162 of aimless resentment. They'd be more of a family if they had a second child. It was time that

Sandra learned how to look after a little brother or sister. Cal inhaled the spicy fragrance of the leaves. The air was lacking in oxygen. Toward the end of summer, the pollution was getting worse.

A lady in a flowing light blue skirt was stumbling past the two girls on the bench in his direction. He couldn't see her face. She was carrying a large bush in a black plastic pot. The skin hanging off her arms was wobbling with every step. Cal skipped to his feet. He didn't want to be in the way of another lunatic.

The woman stopped. "Hello darling," she said. "Could you please help me set this tree on the ground?"

Cal hesitated. Green tomatoes were growing between the leathery oval leaves. He grabbed the edge of the pot and placed it beside the patch of poppies.

"Maria's husband. What a coincidence." The woman clutched his shirt and pressed her face against his chest. "You're still wandering the park." The lilac straw hat fell off her head. Her pale scalp was covered with fine peroxide-blonde curls. She let go of him.

Cal recognized Maria's boss because she had a thick layer of strawberry frosting on her lips. "Shelby. What are you doing in San Francisco?"

"They had a plant sale at the arboretum." Shelby leaned forward without bending her knees. She caught the brim of her hat between her fingers, but lost it. "I was hoping to find a few exotic plants for the business. I don't know why I bothered. Most of the plants were native."

"So you bought tomatoes?"

"Tomatoes?"

Cal nodded at the bush.

"No darling, these are fruits of the Gods."

Cal picked up the straw hat and handed it to Shelby. "Fruits of the Gods." Poor senile woman. How could Maria stand being around her?

163 "Berries," Shelby said. "The green things are berries, actually."

"Uh-huh?"

"Soon the tree will turn bare," she said, "and they will ripen into amber-colored delicacies. They're marvelous and sweet, but some people find them repulsive. I think it's because they expect them to taste like mangoes or apricots."

"What do they taste like?"

"Hard to say. It depends on the species, of course. You'll have to try it. I'll bring you and

Maria a few different ones in the fall."

"Maria!" Cal held up his hand. "She bought Sandra an ice cream," he said to Shelby.

"I didn't know your whole family was here." Shelby tugged on his sleeve. "I thought you were on one of your little adventures," she whispered. "Don't worry. We all have our little peccadilloes. Everything you tell me is between us."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your trips to the park," Shelby said. "How often do you come here?"

"Never."

"But you used to."

"I went for walks."

"For walks," Shelby said.

"Yes. Around the lake. Sometimes I'd look at the trees in the arboretum."

"But when Maria and I followed you," Shelby said, "you came across the field. We were waiting for you in front of the ladies' bathroom."

"I did some stretching. It's good to walk on the grass. I have to circle my shoulders. My grandfather had terrible posture."

"Well, whatever floats your boat." Shelby rubbed some soil off her stomach. It left a stain. "All of my ex-husbands hated walking. Santiago drove his Lincoln to the corner store across the street."

164 "Shelby." Maria stepped beside her boss. "You decided to go to the arboretum sale."

"I'm so glad to meet you here, darling. I'm sure you can help me—"

"Where's Sandra?" Cal asked.

"She wanted to go to the jumping house," Maria said. "I told her I would say hi to Shelby

and send you over."

The inflatable castle was a small green and red square on the other side of the field. "I'll be back," Cal said. He skipped around Shelby and began to run.

"I'll meet you at the car!" Maria yelled after him.

The knitting girl and her companion still sat on the bench. A chilly wind brushed against

Cal's arms. He passed two men with beards who were folding a plaid red blanket. Was Maria

losing it? People were leaving the park. His baby in her cute golden dress was out there on her

own, available for anyone to pick up. They were in the city, for God's sake. Nobody let's little

children stroll around alone in a public park. He smelled the hot dog stand to his left. A dirty

poodle was leaping towards him. He would kick it if it attacked his legs.

"Tessy. Come here!" a gray-haired woman in front of him said. The poodle barked.

Cal tried to exhale the tension in his body. He was getting closer to the jumping house.

Behind it, the sun pierced through the eucalyptus trees on the hill. They were drabber and more

massive than he remembered them.

There was movement in the air house. A woman was holding a baby's hands and walking

a circle on the wobbly red floor. A young man with dreadlocks was sitting on a bench that was

facing the inflatable cube. Sandra wasn't there.

Cal jogged towards the man with the dreadlocks, but then changed direction and passed the green plastic wall of the house. He was panting uphill and it was as if he could feel his

nanny's grip under his arms. She had made him walk up a metal slide on the playground even though he'd been terrified of the big boys on the tower. Nothing had happened to him. But one of boys had knocked his knee into a girl's head. He had pushed her face first down the stairs.

165 "Sandra?" The eucalyptus smell burned Cal's nostrils. He rubbed his eyes and a twig cracked under his shoe. It was hard to see something in the gloom of the small forest. Transparent waves were jittering in the air and bounced off trunks. They filled him with a buzzing so high he almost couldn't perceive it as sound. He stepped on soft soil and stumbled over a fern, but he felt as if he was drifting past the trees.

Strips of eucalyptus bark littered the clearing. A crow hopped away from a chocolate- glazed doughnut that looked as if it was straight from the glass cabinet of a bakery. Cal could hear someone breathing. He stopped in front of a pile of bark. Here the boy had tumbled on the ground. Here he'd been lying, with his too big sweater covering his face. His spine had trailed down his back like strung up beads.

Cal swallowed. He crouched down and took a long piece of bark off the pile. It was curved into a tube. He tried to hold on to the rough coppery surface, but his hands were shaking and the muscles in his fingers lost their strength. The bark dropped onto the dirt. His throat was clogged. The air he inhaled got stuck and came back out of his nose. He slumped to his side and curled into himself. To keep his heart in place, he pressed a fist against his chest. His head was expanding and he wondered if that was what people felt before they went brain dead. Or was he having a stroke? Something pink appeared in his vision. It was a shoe with a small white leg sticking out of it.

"Are you sick, daddy?"

"No." Cal rolled on his back and turned away from Sandra. "Daddy has a hard time breathing. I'll be okay."

"Should I get mommy?"

"No, Sandra. Daddy just has to rest for a moment."

Something came down on him. His daughter pressed herself against his back and held him with her warm little arms. She had dropped the strawberry ice cream cone in front of his face.

He could smell the artificial flavor.

166 "It'll be okay," she said.

It wouldn't be okay. He had severely injured the victim's spinal cord. That's what it had said on the front page of the San Francisco Observer. The young guy's name was Manuel. He might be paralyzed. Cal saw himself with a cigarette in a wheelchair on his deck. The bonsais obstructed his view of the yard. He tilted his head back and was blowing the smoke towards the sky. Or had the golden point of the umbrella clanged down on Manuel's neck too? A ringing in

Cal's ears. He pressed his knuckles against his forehead. The injuries must have been bad. And what was even worse was that he could only feel sorry if he imagined being Manuel.

He wasn't Manuel. He was nothing like him, except, well, maybe they had a similar taste when it came to sex. That was the problem, really. Cal would have sworn off guys if he had been able to stand it. He would have never returned to Persimmon Park. But he felt a tightness in his shoulders, as if two strong hands were gripping him. His crotch was feverish and his brains were about to explode. Pressing his fists against his head didn't help. He had been sleeping with guys since the last year of high school. The only way he could stop it was if he committed suicide.

He opened his hands. His fingernails had left white marks on his skin. There was a succession of short gasping sounds, like hiccups. The sleeve of his shirt was wet.

"Sandra, are you crying?"

The hiccups got louder.

Cal lifted Sandra over his side. He sat up and buried his nose in her fine hair. She smelled of chamomile baby shampoo. "Where's your cap?"

She pulled her head away from him. "There."

Cal grabbed the yellow cap on top of the pile of bark. He got up with his daughter in his arms. She was heavy. Lately, she'd been eating almost as much as Maria. His feet sank into the soil. It was quiet. Massive eucalyptus trunks surrounded them like guards.

167 Beside the last tree, he set Sandra on the ground. There were still some people on the field below them. The green walls of the air house were collapsing. A line had formed in front of the hot dog stand.

"I don't want to walk," Sandra said.

"I can't carry you anymore. You're getting too heavy for daddy." Cal took his daughter's hand and dragged her out of the shade. He had two lives, and if he wanted to continue, he had to keep them separate. Sandra freed herself from his grip and ran down the slope. Her legs and pink shoes flew sideways in the air. The sun was glinting silver-yellow behind the dark spot at the edge of the grassland. It was the bathroom house. His breathing was back to normal. He inhaled the hot dog smell and leapt over a patch of pearl-shaped blue flowers. This park was delightful and mundane. You'd never know what it was like at night.

168