Beach Reading

by Abramson, Mark

  Tim remembered the tree house. That’s where he took his friend Beth. It was overgrown with vines by that time. Uncle Dan had built it for Tim’s cousin Dianne, but she was already in college. Tim and Beth would climb up there and smoke grass and let their feet dangle. They looked over the fence at the neighbors’ pool and listened to his Aunt Ruth’s ancient 8-track tapes of Neil Young or Nancy Wilson, depending on their mood.

  Beth had good grass by high school standards. The first time Tim got high was in that tree house. She won his trust enough to find out why he was living with these relatives instead of his parents and she told him some of her story too, but Beth found his more interesting.

  “I had a crush on him,” Tim remembered telling her. “My grades weren’t great, but I could run fast. If I wanted to get into college, it would have to be on a track and field scholarship. Besides, the coach made me feel good about myself in ways my parents never did.” Tim took another hit off the joint at that point, but Beth didn’t interrupt. When he was slow to start in again, she asked the coach’s name.

  “Dave… David Anderson. There must be a hundred guys in Minnesota named Dave Anderson, but anyway…“ Tim handed the joint back to her. “We were at a track meet in Duluth. I twisted my ankle and he took me to a doctor and gave me a ride back to Minneapolis in his car instead of going back on the bus with the team. He had car trouble, so we stopped to eat and then he found out it would take a lot longer to fix than he thought. At least that’s what he told me.”

  This was the point in the story when Tim’s voice always faded off, not that he told it often. He didn’t even think about it much anymore. The hardest time came months later in front of the school board, that panel of men his father’s age, men in dark suits whose thumbs fondled their wedding bands as Tim answered questions. They agreed that Tim must be to blame. Dave Anderson was a church-going man with a beautiful wife and a perfect little daughter. He might have a drinking problem, but there was help for that. Tim Snow must have instigated this distasteful business that went on.

  Beth never pressed Tim, but she didn’t discourage him. “Dave and I stayed in a motel that night. He bought us some beer that we drank in front of the TV. He talked about pretending I was his kid brother or something; I don’t remember. He could always talk me into anything. Anyway, that was our first time—my first time with anyone.” Beth lifted the joint to her lips to relight it. It was easy to tell her about Dave because she didn’t judge. She accepted the way things were, including the scar on her face. Or maybe it was because they were so stoned, just as stoned as he was today, years later on the crowded subway under Market Street.

  Tim stared at the girl and remembered telling Beth, “It wasn’t just sex. Dave took me fishing sometimes. My parents thought that was a great idea. My dad never had time to do things like that. Dave knows some great spots out in the woods where there aren’t any people for miles around. He tried to get me interested in photography, too. He took lots of pictures of me, of the two of us sometimes. I wish I knew what happened to them. He even knew how to develop them himself in his basement, but I always had other things on my mind when we were in the darkroom.”

  Beth just let out a low whistle at that point and Tim grew quiet. He didn’t tell Beth about the time he got a cramp in his leg and tried to stand up too quickly. He nearly knocked over a tray of chemicals, but Dave held his hand on the top of Tim’s head and pushed him back down. He wasn’t finished yet.

  “Then we started getting careless around school. I’d run an extra lap or two after the rest of the team hit the showers. They’d be on their way home, but Dave was waiting for me. It seemed almost natural to find him soaping up in the shower room and he’d wash my back. He was right out of college, not that much older than me. When we finally got caught we were parked in front of my parents’ house. My mother was standing in the dark behind the curtains in the living room window and she watched me give him a simple innocent kiss goodnight. After all we got away with up until then, we got busted for a kiss!”

  Tim still remembered that kiss. It was the last time he would kiss a man for a long long time. The coach went back to his wife and took a different job in a different school district. Tim went to live with his Aunt Ruth and Uncle Dan to finish high school in the suburbs where nobody knew him, either.

  “Who you staring at, faggot?” The voice of the tattooed boy on the subway made Tim jump.

  He didn’t mean to stare at the girl. She must get more than her share of stares. The boy stood up to meet him face to face and fear crawled up Tim’s back like the blade of a knife caressing his spine.

  It was his own fault. He was stupid to make the girl uncomfortable and he deserved whatever came next. He braced for a blow, but he still kept on looking at the girl and he meant no harm. Thoughts of Jason flooded back to him. If Tim could muster up Jason’s attitude at the Eagle he could… “Castro Station… K-Ingleside… Outbound.” The crackle of a recorded voice broke the spell.

  Tim sidestepped the boy and leaned in close to the girl with the scarred face. “Is your name Beth?”

  “No, my name is Amy… Do I know you?”

  “I guess not,” Tim admitted. “You reminded me of a good friend I haven’t seen in a long time and it’s really nice to see you again. I mean her. It’s really nice to see her again, even though I know you aren’t her. It’s nice to be reminded of her. I didn’t mean to bother you… I’m sorry…”

  “That’s all right.” The girl named Amy smiled the way Beth smiled. Her face became homely and beautiful at the same time. Tim wanted to touch her and hug her, but the doors were open and a crush of bodies piled off the streetcar. The boyfriend stood behind him staring at Tim like he must be insane.

  “This is my stop. My name is Tim and it’s nice to meet you, Amy. Take care of yourself…”

  “You too, Tim.” She shook his hand and Tim wanted to kiss her cheek on the side away from the scar, but he stepped off the streetcar just before the doors closed behind him. When he looked back at them the boy had sat down again with his arm around Beth’s shoulder but she was Amy now.

  The outdoor escalator was broken, as usual. People trudged up the stairs from Harvey Milk Plaza to Castro Street. By the time he got to the stairs they were empty and Tim bounded up them two at a time.

  The fog swirled around him and Tim realized that no one in San Francisco knew his story. Everyone on Castro Street must have a story of his own and Tim’s past would pale in comparison to some of them. There would always be people in the Castro who had to come even farther than he did to seek the freedom they’d always dreamed of and escape the nightmares of their pasts.

  Chapter 5

  Tim didn’t spend a lot of time at Arts outside of working hours. The restaurant was around the corner from Tim’s apartment and his bosses were also his landlords, so he saw them nearly every day. They’d invested in real estate before the Castro became trendy, gay and expensive. Since Jason and Tim were no longer sexually involved, that was one more reason to avoid the place. Tim wanted to get beyond all that and since he had to walk up that block on his way home, he thought he might as well stop by the restaurant. He barely set foot inside the door when he regretted his decision. Artie was in one of his moods.

  “Don’t even think about asking for next Saturday off,” he started in before Tim had a chance to sit down. The place was quiet and Jason was nowhere in sight. “I don’t care if it’s the party of the century. You can go there afterward but I need you to work first. I’m sure it will last ‘til dawn. I told Arturo we should just close for that one night, but he won’t hear of it. He’s convinced that some of our regulars will come in. You and I might be the only ones here, Tim. I already told Jake and Patrick that they could go. Don’t give me any grief! They asked first. Jason is going, too, but he’s tending bar at the party. He’ll make a lot more in tips than he would here, that’s for sure.”

  “What party?” Tim felt out of the loop. Artie wasn’t exactly the go-to pe
rson to find out what was happening around town. Ever since Finocchio’s closed, Artie’s life revolved around Arturo and the restaurant. He had gained at least thirty pounds and retired his old act along with a wardrobe of feather boas and sequined gowns that no longer fit him.

  “What party? Where the heck have you been? You don’t mean to tell me you missed that noisy helicopter flying around town all afternoon with the giant disco ball dangling from underneath it …”

  “Oh, that,” Tim said. “Yeah I saw it, but I didn’t know what it was all about. I was South of Market when it came through there.”

  “We had customers from Marin County said it was clear up over Stinson Beach this morning. It hovered over the intersection of 18th and Castro for the longest time, just spinning away, with that little airplane dragging a banner making great big circles in the sky. You should have seen the crowds on the sidewalks. Everyone ran out of the restaurant. They didn’t even care that their drinks were melting. I haven’t seen anything like it since the total eclipse. You’d have thought it was the Martians landing in a UFO or the second coming of Judy Garland!”

  “It hovered over the patio of the Lone Star, but I couldn’t read the banner. I don’t have plans for Saturday night, Artie. It’s fine by me if you need me to work. Where is this party, anyway? I don’t know anything about it.”

  ”It’s at the Moscone Center. Everybody’s talking about it. I guess those reunions at the Trocadero have been so successful it gave them the idea to go big-time. I’m sure most of the kids your age will be there. I’m way too old for that sort of thing, but even with Jason out, I shouldn’t have any trouble handling the bar by myself. Nobody will be on Castro Street, you can mark my words.”

  “It seems pretty quiet in here tonight, too. Where is everybody?”

  “Viv asked to leave early. Her new boyfriend came by to pick her up. Maybe this will be husband number five. Or is it six? I can’t keep track. It must be serious, though. You know Viv. She’ll plunk out show tunes on the piano until we turn out the lights as long as there’s one lonely drunk still throwing tips in the brandy snifter. Tonight she didn’t have a single request during the last hour she was here.”

  “Where is Jason? It’s early for him to be off, isn’t it?” Tim had been trying to act like Jason earlier and he thought he would like to see him now, if only for a minute.

  “I let him and Jake leave after the dinner rush. I think they were heading down to the Lone Star, too. I’m surprised you didn’t run into them. Patrick is still here. He must be in the kitchen. He and I can handle the stragglers. That couple of lovebirds down the bar are just having after-dinner drinks. Hey, what happened to the birthday boy? I thought you had a hot date lined up. You were supposed to meet him at the Eagle, weren’t you?”

  “I went to the Eagle after a stop at the Lone Star and earlier I went to this other place called the Hole in the Wall. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, but I haven’t been South of Market in years,” Artie answered. “Don’t change the subject. What happened to that cute young boy with the FBI man?”

  ”The birthday boy… Corey… he won’t remember much about this birthday, I’m afraid. He’s going to wish he didn’t remember the hangover he’ll have when he wakes up tomorrow. They had to carry him out of the Eagle by the time I got there.”

  “Pity.” Artie wiped his wet hands with a bar towel. “Do you want a drink, Tim?”

  “No thanks, Artie. I’m on my way home.”

  “Come on, Tim. Let me buy you one,” Artie insisted. “It’s been so slow in here tonight; I’m about to go crazy from boredom. Keep me company. I made a fresh pot of coffee… how about an Irish?”

  “Oh okay, Artie. Twist my arm…”

  “Tell me about your day after you left work,” Artie prompted. He wasn’t the fastest bartender in the world, but he knew from experience that most people liked to talk about themselves. “Was it busy down there South of Market?” He placed a steaming mug in front of Tim and slid a layer of fresh whipped cream across the top, then stuck a plastic straw inside it.

  “I guess so.” Tim stirred until the layer of whipped cream turned his drink one color. “Yeah, come to think of it, it was. The Eagle was packed. They had a benefit going on. The Lone Star was pretty busy, too. The weirdest part was that I was so stoned! I still am a little, I guess.”

  “You and your pot! I haven’t touched that stuff since Vietnam.”

  “It wasn’t even my pot,” Tim protested. “I met this old lady named Vanessa on the streetcar and she got me stoned. Vanessa Caen, no relation to Herb Caen, she said. She doesn’t even live here.” Tim remembered the joints in his pocket and pulled them out along with the party invitation and a napkin they were wrapped in.

  “You were smoking pot on the streetcar with an old lady?” Artie asked.

  “No, not on the streetcar. I helped her carry her groceries back to her brother’s apartment and we got stoned there. You should see the place. It’s like a big loft on Clementina Street or is it Clementina Alley...? I don’t know.” Tim unfolded the paper and the joints fell out. “The address must be in here somewhere.”

  “Tim, put that away before someone sees!” Artie scolded.

  “Nobody’s looking, Artie. Don’t be so paranoid. I’m invited to a party there and I’m curious enough that I might go. Hey, when did you say that party is happening at the Moscone Center? Saturday? That’s the same night as this party, I think.” Tim unfolded the invitation, rewrapped the joints in a paper napkin and slid them back into his pocket. “That’s strange…”

  “What is?”

  “It doesn’t say when the party is. It just says Harley Wagner with the address on Clementina and a phone number to RSVP, but no date or day or time. I think I left my baseball cap there, so I’ll call and see.”

  “This weekend is that other big hoopla in town, too,” Artie said. “That big Men’s Revival is going on down at the Civic Auditorium. It starts on Friday night and lasts all weekend.”

  “What’s that, another gay party on the same night?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that; in fact, it’s just the opposite. That evangelist from Minnesota is coming to town. Remember the ‘Promise Keepers’ a few years back? Maybe you’re too young. They tried to teach men to take back their macho roles in society. It was sort of a backlash against the feminists. This guy is as homophobic as he is sexist, though. He’s anti-abortion, anti-women’s lib, pro-war, but his biggest cause is getting the gay rights laws repealed… all in the name of Jesus, of course.”

  “The only evangelist from Minnesota that I’ve ever heard of is Billy Graham,” Tim said. “But I thought he was dead, or at least retired. Maybe he has a son.”

  “No, Tim, it’s at the Bill Graham Auditorium,” Artie tried to explain. “Bill Graham was the rock promoter who died in a helicopter crash, but that was years ago. Maybe that’s what you were thinking. You don’t read the papers, do you Tim?”

  “Sure I do. I get the Chronicle delivered. I always read the Datebook, at least. Bill Graham and Billy Graham were two different people. I’m almost sure of it.”

  “Look at today’s paper, Tim.” Artie pulled the news section out from behind the bar and opened it to page two. Here it is: Arlo Montgomery to hold weekend prayer vigil at Civic Center. There’s a picture of him in Chicago last weekend. It says he drew a crowd of over 50,000.”

  “Imagine the lines at the men’s room,” Tim said, laughing.

  “Imagine the action in the men’s room,” Artie chuckled. “With 50,000 guys on their knees for an entire weekend, there must have been something going on besides prayer. It sounds a little like the army and I can tell you from my own experience…”

  “Wait a minute,” Tim said. “Let me see that picture. That guy behind the preacher… I know him!”

  “Who?” Artie asked.

  “That’s my old track coach from high school. That’s just got to be him. I’m sure it is!”

  “Were you in
track, Tim? I never heard about that part of your life. You were a high school athlete? How sexy!”

  “It’s a long story,” Tim said, sipping at his Irish coffee again. It had cooled off enough to drink it now and he finished it in two gulps.

  “I’d love to hear the story in detail when you have a chance sometime.”

  “Aw… not tonight, Artie. I wonder if I have this paper at home. I couldn’t have thrown it out. I didn’t even look at it yet.”

  “You can have this one.”

  ”Thanks, Artie,” Tim said as he stood up and slipped his arms into his leather jacket. “I gotta run. And thanks for the drink.”

  “Sure, don’t mention it.” Artie took the coffee mug and wiped down the bar.

  As Tim stepped out onto Castro Street he thought he heard a helicopter’s rotors spinning somewhere in the dark, but this time it was only his imagination.

  Inside his apartment Tim peeled off his jacket and headed straight for the kitchen. The Sunday Chronicle was still in its plastic wrapper with a free sample of laundry detergent inside. Tim spread it onto the kitchen table and sat down to untie his boots. His feet were sore from so much walking today. He didn’t go South of Market very often and almost always got a ride with Jason in the past.

  Tim didn’t think it had to do with any of his elusive psychic powers, but he sensed that people were playing tricks on him today. The old lady named Vanessa reminded him of his grandmother at first, but once they got stoned he didn’t think so. The girl on the subway reminded him of Beth, but this girl named Amy was only a teenager. Artie couldn’t have known about Dave Anderson, either. Even if he did, he couldn’t have doctored a photograph in the newspaper and there was no reason for Artie to mess with Tim’s head.