Yield

  “Wow.” I was taken aback by his vehemence. “Where’s this judgmental attitude coming from? It’s been missing from our dialog so far.”

  “Because you’re honestly in search of the truth,” Father Spencer replied. “I’ve been a priest for many years and I’ve heard it all. It’s my job to pastor and listen to anyone in need, but that doesn’t mean I have to like the canned speeches that ring hollow.”

  “The priesthood would be completely denuded if you had your way.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a fatalistic shrug. “Weeding out the ones who shouldn’t be there in the first place would be a blessing, but it won’t happen in my lifetime. I’ll leave that campaign to younger, more energetic leaders. Let’s drop this weighty discussion and get back to your issues.”

  “My main concern right now is finding a job.”

  “What would you like to do?”

  “I have degrees in liberal arts and theology, but I’m not sure how that’ll translate into the real world. Teaching comes to mind, but I’d like to get my head on straight before I attempt to fill a young mind with new ideas.”

  “You can do other pastoral work without being a priest.”

  “Such as?”

  “Social work? The system is in tatters, and they’re always looking for good people. Most social workers have turned into overworked automatons who can’t see beyond their next paycheck while people in need are falling through the cracks. There’s also several LGBTQ organizations in the Bay Area looking for advisers if you’re interested in helping young men and women who’ve been in your shoes.”

  “I’m not sure I’d qualify.”

  “Start out as a volunteer and go from there.”

  “Unfortunately, that won’t put money in my pocket.”

  “What about your boyfriend?” he suggested. “Can you move in with him until you’re financially stable?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re on hiatus.”

  “Do you want to talk about him?”

  “Perhaps some other time.”

  “I’m always available to you, Jay. In the meantime, don’t worry about money. I have a little nest egg I can draw from that should keep you above water until you start working.”

  “How come you have money and I don’t?”

  He gave me a sheepish grin. “We do things a little differently here.”

  It sounded fishy to me, but I wasn’t about to challenge him. If I was going to be the parish charity case, then so be it. I needed help.

  “See you tomorrow?” he asked as I stood to leave.

  “Same time, same bat channel.”

  “That’s more my era than yours,” he said, grinning broadly.

  “I watch the reruns.”

  “Adam West was perfect in that role.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  Father Spencer shrugged. “Go home and get some rest. You’ve been spinning your wheels like a hamster in a cage.”

  “For real.”

  “And eat something, will you? Tuna’s cheap and loaded with protein.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Back home, I opened my last can of soup and stared at the empty cupboard. Figuring out where I would get my next meal shouldn’t have to factor into my life crisis. It brought to mind my conversation with Father Spencer and choices other priests had made. I’d never thought of the financial advantages of being a Jesuit, but I was aware of the vast riches and immense power they yielded globally. Our Pope was a Jesuit, God’s representative on earth, and living the good life in palatial surroundings. It didn’t seem right that he wasn’t subjected to the same vows of poverty.

  I brushed the unkind thoughts away. Money had never been a driving force in my life. I was looking for love in a committed relationship and maybe children someday. Gay men were allowed to marry and have families in most states. Maybe I’d be one of the lucky ones. Although picturing Sami as paterfamilias was a stretch.

  After I inhaled the clam chowder, I pulled out the wad of twenties Father Spencer had handed me earlier. It totaled eighty dollars. Enough to feed me for an entire week if I shopped wisely. Rino always asked if I had food when he called each day to check on me. It was kind of him, but he’d done more than enough. It was my responsibility to work this out on my own.

  As for my mental health, I couldn’t afford a psychiatrist until I was financially stable or got medical insurance through a job. Thankfully, Father Spencer was an intelligent, forward thinker. He might not be a bona fide shrink, but he was a wise man. I didn’t think I could be in better hands.

  Sami’s continued silence was discouraging. I had hoped he’d cave after our steamy goodbye, but he’d stayed away. I suppose it was the right thing for both of us, except I was lonely as hell. I couldn’t even watch porn since the laptop was no longer in my possession. Maybe a few hours at a gay club would help past the time. There had to be someplace that didn’t charge money to walk through the entrance.

  Belatedly, it occurred to me that I was free to do anything I wanted. There was no need to hide behind an avatar or patrol alleys looking for quick release. I could openly join the ranks of gay men in search of a happy ending. Someone out there might want to spend time with me instead of shoving me out the door. Why the heck not? Sami had asked me to stay away from Heaven’s Gate, but he hadn’t made any promises, which meant I wasn’t bound to him legally or morally. There was nothing to stop me from dating other men. Could I enjoy sex without pain? Only one way to find out.

  Chapter 22

  After a refreshing shower, I wrapped a towel around my waist and tried to decide what to wear. My meager selection wasn’t made for flirting. As soon as I got a paying job, I’d have to invest in some new outfits. Rino had offered to lend me whatever I needed, but he was twenty-five pounds lighter and several inches shorter. I settled for a chambray shirt in cornflower blue and rolled up my sleeves to show off my lightly furred forearms. Sami liked my body hair, although it was so blond a person had to look hard to realize I was somewhat bearish, a label he’d used to describe my body type. Next came a pair of faded jeans that hugged my fuckable ass. Again, these were Sami’s words, not mine. In spite of our separation, he was front and center on my mind. I didn’t think I had the guts to have sex with a complete stranger tonight, not after the fiasco that landed me in the hospital, but a flirtation would be nice. It would go a long way to boosting my sagging morale.

  After scrolling through venues on my phone, I changed my mind about dancing and headed toward a bar in the Castro area. Last Call received great reviews on Yelp and had the longest Happy Hour—twelve to seven p.m.—where I could get a drink for only three dollars, or two if I settled for a beer. It sounded like a safer choice for my first night out as an openly gay man.

  I was nervous heading toward Eighteenth Street in the waning light. It was the heart of a district I’d previously visited in the shadows. My hands were clammy and a slow trickle of sweat ran down my back, but I kept reminding myself I was no longer a priest and free to do as I wished. The classic pub ambiance put me at ease when I walked through the door. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this relaxed and friendly atmosphere.

  There was an open spot at the bar, and I slid onto the wooden seat, checking out the other patrons. Background music was coming from an old-fashioned jukebox, currently playing “What a Fool Believes.” It was a hit in the late seventies, a full decade before I was born in 1988. Nonetheless, I was familiar with the song. If you changed the pronouns, the lyrics were sadly relatable.

  I ordered a Pabst on tap because it was one of the two-dollar selections. The bartender placed a bowl of popcorn by the frosty mug and watched as I took my first sip.

  “Should I start a tab?” he asked when I put down the mug.

  I nodded enthusiastically.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I live in town, but I’ve never been here before.”

  “That’s surpris
ing,” he remarked. “We’ve been in business a long time.”

  “I don’t get out much.”

  “Then welcome. We’re glad you decided to pay us a visit.”

  “Thanks.”

  Having done his due diligence, the guy moved on to the next customer.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing,” a voice to my left commented. “You’ll find this is a great watering hole.”

  Swiveling my stool slightly, I took a good look at the acknowledged busybody. Warm brown eyes twinkled behind rimless glasses. Full lips stretched to reveal slightly crooked teeth, but there were no gaps or unsightly stains. He had freckles on his nose and a full head of dark auburn hair. I couldn’t help thinking of James Norton of Grantchester fame, one of the few British series I followed. This guy had the same seriously attractive quality.

  “I’m not a bar connoisseur,” I responded, “but I like the atmosphere so far.”

  “And the popcorn’s great,” he said, grinning. “My name is Tom Finley.”

  “Jay Blackstone.” I reached for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Can I buy you another drink?” he asked, pointing at my rapidly dwindling supply.

  “If you’ll let me buy the next round.”

  “You got it.”

  By the time happy hour ended, I’d lost my newbie jitters and let Tom convince me to have dinner. We walked to a Mexican place a few streets over and exchanged basic information over a plate of appetizers consisting of jalapeño poppers, chips, guacamole, and salsa. My main course was cheese enchiladas topped with green sauce and sour cream—the cheapest selection on the menu. Tom ordered sizzling steak fajitas, a two-person platter, and insisted that I share. A good cut of meat was in short supply since I’d left the order, and I found myself piling sautéed onions, bell peppers, and garlic-infused beef into a freshly made corn tortilla. It was the best meal I’d had in a long time.

  In between bites, Tom offered more background information. He was second-generation Irish, an English professor at the University of San Francisco, and a natural storyteller with a great sense of humor. I found myself falling under his spell despite my best intentions. It was easy to avoid comparisons to Sami as the two men were polar opposites. Tom’s positive vibes were radiant while Sami was a brooding mass of conflicting emotions. I wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship with someone like Tom, then quickly pushed the thought away. There was no logical reason to feel guilty, but I’d perfected the emotion to an art form.

  Sami and I weren’t in a committed anything. Whatever I felt for him was buried in an avalanche of lust, lies, guilt, and anger. I would have given my left kidney to see or hear something bordering on affection, but I brought out the worst in the man. Two weeks had gone by since we’d parted ways, and he hadn’t bothered to text or pick up the phone. What was I supposed to think?

  “What about you, Jay?” Tom asked, drawing me back to the moment. “Where have you been before tonight? I would have noticed you.”

  “Long story,” I hedged.

  Did I want to tell an Irish Catholic he was having dinner with an ex-priest? He’d turn tail and head for the nearest exist. Then again, he might be more sympathetic.

  “I’ve got all night,” he said encouragingly.

  I ducked my head, ashamed to keep looking into such earnest eyes. I changed my mind about spilling my guts. Tom was an average guy in a conventional job with ordinary expectations. His perception of me would shift the minute I shared my troubled past. I couldn’t risk ruining what I now considered a perfect first date.

  “Maybe another time.”

  He looked disappointed, but it was better to end the evening on a positive note. “May I have your number?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Of course,” I replied.

  He entered the info into his smartphone, and I received a familiar ping as he texted me.

  “Go ahead and answer so we’re connected.”

  I obeyed without protesting.

  “Do you live around here?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Is it okay if I walk you home?”

  “Tom….”

  “No pressure, Jay. Just another stroll in the moonlight.”

  Another? If he only knew that I’d never been on a real date or walked home with anyone, he’d think he was in the presence of an alien. It was the main reason I nodded my head instead of trying to come up with a believable excuse to keep him at arm’s length.

  And, by God, it was refreshing. To be with someone who didn’t think twice about clasping my hand as we walked down the street, pointing out iconic gay landmarks, and marveling at the bravery of people like Harvey Milk who’d died to make life easier for all of us. I couldn’t contribute to the conversation, nor did I feel entitled to be a part of the collective us. I’d been a closeted mess far too long, but Tom’s easygoing manner soothed me, and he didn’t require any of my input as he rambled on about the Castro District.

  At my front door, I let him kiss me good night. It was a sweetly chaste kiss, and my body responded to the unfamiliar tenderness. It was a revelation, and I almost invited him in, but I didn’t.

  “This was fun,” Tom said.

  “It was great,” I murmured. “Thanks for being such a gentleman.”

  He thumbed my lower lip. “Does this mean I get to see you again?”

  “Yes, call me.”

  He smiled. “I will.”

  I unlocked the door and walked into the empty apartment. Instead of turning on the lights, I lit a few votive candles on the small altar. They danced to life, and I knelt and bowed my head, giving thanks for Tom, an unexpected bonus I didn’t feel I deserved.

  The centuries-old debate between the doctrine of predestination and the paradox of man’s free will was an unsolvable riddle I would wrestle with until I drew my last breath. Not for the first time, I wondered how my life had gotten so complicated. If I was destined to fail as a priest, why had God started me along this path? Brainwashing an insecure boy in desperate need of love had to be the cruelest form of enlistment. Surely there were other ways I could have overcome my putrid gene pool. If my entire vocation had been a mistake, how would this end? Would I reach for the cilice belt again or take a flying leap off a bridge? I’d struggled to push these thoughts away and mostly succeeded, but I knew it wouldn’t take much to tip the scales in the wrong direction.

  My phone beeped, a timely lifeline that pulled me away from my dark thoughts. It was Tom.

  Same time, same place?

  Wow, that was fast. Was he worried I’d try to back out if he waited too long? Should I add an intuitive mind to his understated charm? My instant reply was positive. I resolved to live my best life in the here and now instead of constantly looking back. I’d given up too much to let these moments go to waste.

  When I met with Father Spencer the next afternoon, I recounted my entire evening. He was happy I’d chosen to spend time with someone other than Sami. Although he’d never said I could do better, I knew he didn’t approve of our relationship. Still…I wasn’t sure I’d achieve happiness with anyone else. Sami and I were like two broken pieces of the same pot. With a little bit of glue and finesse, we might make a whole, even if the edges didn’t quite fit.

  The walk back to the apartment gave me enough time to argue the pros and cons of a second date with Tom. I should go without preconceived notions and let fate decide how this would play out. Trying to control anything—a counterproductive measure if I believed in predestination—would only ruin the evening.

  Father Spencer had handed me a twenty before leaving, urging me to purchase a nice shirt for my date. I must have looked awful if the old priest was playing fashion police. There was a discount store on my way home, and I ducked in to see if something affordable caught my attention. It must have been my lucky day because I spied a navy-blue Calvin Klein sweater marked down several times. It was a large, my size, and made my eyes pop. I hoped Tom would approve.

  He b
eamed when I opened the door, and seeing his reaction did wonderful things to my ego. I couldn’t recall a time Sami ever looked at me this way. With him, it was all about lust and the urgent need to possess. Tom’s appreciation was an anomaly as was the beautiful pink rose he nonchalantly handed me. I found a bud vase under the sink and filled it with water before plopping in the long-stemmed beauty. Placing it on the altar underneath the image of the Virgin Mary, I realized I’d drawn attention to the one thing I wanted to avoid.

  “I’ve never dated a religious man before,” he remarked.

  Shit.

  “Is this a part of your mystique?”

  I laughed, embarrassed at being called out. “Let’s talk about it over a drink.”

  “Will you need one?”

  “No, but you might.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m really curious.”

  We walked hand in hand to Pizzeria Delfina on Eighteenth Street. According to Tom, it wasn’t your typical pizza joint but more an Italian restaurant that made great pizza.

  “You must eat out a lot,” I commented.

  “Not a lot, but often enough to know where the good places are. I hope you like Italian?”

  “I’ll eat whatever you place in front of me.”

  I expected more questions, but he just gave me a sideways glance and nodded.

  From the outside, the restaurant was unassuming, but it was packed, which was an endorsement in and of itself. Tom must have made a reservation because we were led to a small table in the back without having to wait. The menu was varied, and I was overwhelmed by the choices. I hadn’t thought to ask who was paying tonight, but I had a feeling he’d pick up the tab since he initiated the date. Nonetheless, I felt it necessary to let him choose the selection for both of us.

  “Why don’t you order, Tom.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded.