Beach Reading

by Abramson, Mark

  “That must have been about the time I was having a bath. The water pressure in this building is terrible, isn’t it?”

  “You can say that again,” she agreed. “This was fairly early in the evening, considering we’d been to about five bars. Anyway… he came back from the shower raring to go, but he only took a minute…”

  “Oh, no…” Tim sympathized.

  “Oh, yes…and then he passed out. He was so cute this morning, though. He really wanted to make it up to me, but he had to go to work. He was out with some buddies last night, but he lost track of them so I drove him back to Oakland this morning and I just got home.”

  “You’re not planning to see him again, are you?”

  “Why not? He can’t get any worse. Besides, he likes me. He’s taking me out next Friday. Another Bloody Mary, Tim?”

  “No thanks, Teresa.” Tim felt his bare wrist but he’d left his watch downstairs on the dresser. “What time is it anyway? I’m not used to starting out my Monday mornings like this. It’s lucky you’re a teacher and you have the summer off, but I’ve got to check the schedule at work and then go down to Clementina to get my cap back. Thanks for the drink, Teresa. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  Tim also wanted to stop at home to e-mail his Aunt Ruth. He had several questions to ask her about Dave Anderson. Then he tried the restaurant and caught Arturo in the office. “Yes, Artie’s got you down for Wednesday through Saturday nights and then Sunday Brunch again,” Arturo told him over the phone. “You’re not on tonight or tomorrow, though. How does that sound?”

  “Fine, Arturo, thanks…” Tim said. He was sure that Artie wasn’t working tonight either, after pulling a double on Sunday, which meant that Jason was scheduled for Tim’s nights off.

  “Artie mentioned that you stopped by last night, Tim. I guess he didn’t do the schedule until after he closed, though. How was the rest of your Sunday after you left work?” Arturo asked.

  “It was okay, I guess,” Tim said. “Arturo, could I ask you something personal?”

  “Sure, Tim… shoot!”

  “Do you remember what it was like to be single in San Francisco?”

  Arturo laughed. “Not really, Tim. It was a long time ago and it seems like Artie and I have been together since we were kids. We met in Viet Nam, you know…”

  ”Yeah, I’ve heard that, but not much about it.”

  “There’s not that much to tell, kid. We messed around during the war and then we really hooked up again about a year later. May I give you some advice, Tim?”

  “Sure!”

  “Maybe you need to find a hobby you enjoy… besides men, I mean…” Tim could hear Arturo open and close a cabinet in the background. “Do you like to read? I have some good books you could borrow. I’ll sort through them one of these days and find a few that might be right up your alley. Have you ever thought about a drawing class? You’re a sensitive guy.”

  “Paint-by-numbers were the only drawings I could do, Arturo. I took an art class in high school, but I never felt confident. At least with paint-by-numbers, I knew when they were finished.”

  “I know, Tim,” replied Arturo. “There’re lots of things in life you never know when they’re finished. Speaking of which, I hope you’re not still pining over Jason.”

  “I’ll be all right, Arturo… Thanks.” Tim knew that both of his bosses wanted the best for him, but Jason was one of their employees, too.

  When Tim stepped outside onto Collingwood Street the air felt heavy. The light had a crystalline quality that made him want to turn down a dimmer switch on the day. Distant buildings faded into silhouette with the sun behind them. On his short walk to Market Street the Castro neighborhood felt almost European, a small Alpine village tucked away in a high mountain pass. Tim loved looking up from the corner in front of the Twin Peaks bar past the giant rainbow flag as the last tendrils of morning fog burned back over the hills.

  The streetcar driver clanged her bell to let people know she was leaving. It was a red and yellow bullet car and the driver was the same lady who had let him ride free one recent day when he forgot his wallet. No matter what else happened, Tim was glad to be in San Francisco.

  The driver smiled when Tim flashed his pass, but continued her conversation with a couple of elderly tourists in the front seat. “Mission Dolores is at 16th Street. This one’s 17th and when I turn the corner we’ll be heading down Market toward the Ferry Building. If you don’t mind walking, you could get off at 16th and Sanchez and it’s due east. Otherwise, you can stay on this car to Church Street and transfer to a #22 Fillmore bus and get off when it takes the left turn at 16th and the church is right across the street on the next corner.”

  Tim had heard it all a thousand times. Her job wasn’t all that different from his. Bartenders, waiters, cab drivers and friendly locals were always giving directions in this town. It was high season for tourists, probably sweltering where they’d come from, but shivering in San Francisco in the shorts and T-shirts they’d brought with them. Tim wore shorts and a tank-top today, but he had a hooded sweatshirt tied around his waist and he intended to be back in the Castro long before the fog made its return around four o’clock.

  “Will you join us for a bite of lunch?” Vanessa Caen was dressed all in green today. She handed Tim a joint as soon as he stepped off the elevator. “We’re having shrimp salad in heirloom tomatoes from the farmer’s market with toasted baguettes and a nice bottle of California chardonnay.”

  ”You sound like me announcing the specials at work,” Tim said. “Did I tell you I was a waiter? I guess I can hardly refuse after that description. I am a little hungry.”

  “Good! Here’s your hat. Wait outside on the deck and I’ll go get Harley,” she beamed. Tim adjusted his COLT baseball cap to shade his face from the sun. It was warmer today than the last time he was here and the fog had burned back to expose the Sutro tower. Vanessa had left the joint with him, but he was careful this time. He took two shallow tokes and didn’t hold them long.

  “Hello there, Timothy Snow.” A deep voice came from behind the philodendrons. Tim jumped up to shake hands with the man in the wheelchair being pushed by his much smaller sister.

  “How do you do, Mister Wagner.”

  “Please—call me Harley, Tim. Vanessa told me that a handsome young guest was coming by for his hat, but her description didn’t do you justice. I’m glad you’ve agreed to stay for lunch.”

  “I didn’t intend to stay. I only came by for cap, but…”

  “That grass is good, isn’t it?” Harley said. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have an appetite without it. Let’s move to the table, shall we?” Vanessa had already gone inside, but Harley wheeled himself beyond a redwood planter where a glass-topped table was set for three. The rooftop deck was larger than Tim’s apartment.

  “Have you lived here long?” Tim asked.

  “Long enough,” Harley answered. “Since the 60’s, but let me hear about you. Vanessa just told me you were kind enough to help her with the groceries yesterday. Did you find your friends afterward?”

  “I was… too late.” Tim didn’t feel like talking about Corey and those people he hardly knew. “It was dark by the time I got home last night. I stopped at the bar down the street first, the Hole in the Wall, and there was a naked guy in there.

  Harley laughed and said, “They used to be known for that. In this part of town, you never know what kind of excitement you’ll find.”

  “I guess you’ve seen a lot of changes since the 60’s.”

  “Oh, yes…” he said. “The Castro was just a working-class family neighborhood then and most of the gay bars were on Polk Street or in the Tenderloin. Folsom Street was hardly what it became. Of course, that’s nothing today like it used to be, either, before AIDS. What kind of work do you do, Tim?”

  “I’m a waiter at Arts on Castro Street,” Tim answered. “Do you know it? It’s been there a while. The owners are Arturo and Artie. They’re also my landlords. Arturo wa
s a chef before they bought the restaurant and Artie used to be an entertainer at Finocchio’s.”

  “Artie Glamóur? Vanessa!” Harley shouted. “Tim knows Artie Glamóur! Where are you, sis?”

  “I’m coming!” Vanessa appeared pushing a cart full of wine and food. “Did you say Artie Glamóur? I remember him! She was almost as big as Charles Pierce in his day.” Vanessa seemed comfortable mixing pronouns.

  “Where did you see Artie?” Tim asked. “Did you really see him perform? I’ve never even seen Artie in drag.”

  “At Finocchio’s, of course,” said Vanessa. “We used to go there in the seventies, after I retired.”

  “Vanessa was in show business, too. She was in the original Broadway cast of Finian’s Rainbow,” Harley bragged as his sister set their salads in front of them. Harley reached for the wine and corkscrew and then offered it to Tim. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to open this, Tim. We don’t often have a professional in our midst.”

  Vanessa said, “All I ever wanted was to be a Rockette, but I was at least four inches too short.”

  “Four inches can make a world of difference, can’t they, Tim?” Harley said with a wink. Tim tried not to laugh, but Vanessa was clueless.

  “I was also in the touring company of Oklahoma. That was fun, but I got tired of living out of a suitcase. Harley saw me dance at the Orpheum Theatre. I had a big part in the dream ballet sequence. My brother was a wonderful dancer too, weren’t you, Harley?”

  “Never on the stage. I loved dancing at Dreamland and the Music Hall on Larkin Street was one of my favorite discos. You’re too young to remember them, I suppose.” He tapped his index finger on his glass as if he heard some faraway music.

  “I’ve heard people talk about the Trocadero,” Tim said. “There’s a big dance party this weekend at the Moscone Center. You must have heard the helicopter yesterday, Mr. Wagner… Harley.”

  “Yes, it woke me from my nap. Are you going?” Harley asked. “We’re having a party here this weekend too, but I won’t be dancing, I’m afraid.”

  “I have to work Saturday night,” Tim said, “but I could go later, maybe. When is your party?”

  “I remember the old dance parties like Night Flight,” Harley said. “There was one on Mission Street back in 1980s called Snow Blind and I’m sure we all were. Those were the days when everyone was all coked up or on acid or MDA.”

  Vanessa shouted, “MDA—Mary, don’t ask!” and erupted into laughter.

  Harley continued. ”There was a big party called Stars and everyone had to buy their tickets in advance and send in a photograph. All night long the partygoers’ faces were projected on the walls above the dance floor, so everyone was a star that night.”

  “Sounds like fun…” Tim said. “There’s also that other thing going on this weekend… that religious revival or whatever they call it. It sounds like a one-man anti-gay crusade and it’s just a few blocks away. I was thinking about going down to join the protesters.” Tim had thought about going there, but more out of curiosity to see if he could spot his old coach than out of any sincere political motivation.

  “Are the boys from Act-Up organizing a riot against the Christians?” Harley asked.

  “I don’t know who is organizing things,” Tim said. “I’m sure it will be in the gay papers on Thursday or there will be posters all over the light poles in the Castro.”

  “I wish I could go,” said Harley. “I haven’t been to a good riot since the night of the Dan White verdict when we trashed city hall and burned police cars.”

  “Were you there?” Tim’s eyes lit up.

  “You bet!” Harley beamed. “I’d be hard pressed to decide nowadays between rioting and dancing all night, though.” He looked down at his legs in the wheelchair and pushed back from the table as he reached for another joint. “Who am I kidding? I’d go dancing all night if I could. Screw those crazy bigots. Give me a disco ball and Sylvester’s music any day!”

  Chapter 7

  Tim awoke Tuesday morning to a moment of panic. He couldn’t remember what he’d done the night before. More joints had followed the lunch on Clementina Street and then he’d been tempted to look for Jason, but didn’t. He remembered stopping at the Badlands for a beer and then at the Edge, where they were playing Country music. Some guys recognized him as their waiter at Arts and sent over a double shot of premium tequila. That was what caused this hangover. If he’d stuck with beer, it might not have been so bad.

  He pulled on a pair of shorts, made coffee and sat down at his computer. When he touched the mouse the screen sprang to life and Tim remembered his intoxicated prowling when he got home last night. There was more Spam than usual this morning—offers for Viagra and Vicodin from Canada or videos of underage Asian girls peeing, all for one easy credit card payment. No thanks. Tim hoped he hadn’t made any on-line dates that he’d forgotten about. Half a dozen guys had viewed his profile on dudesurfer.com and left him offers between 2am and 5am. He imagined they were sleeping by now or still tweaking. No thanks again. He almost deleted the one e-mail he was looking for:

  Dear Tim—

  How lovely to hear from my favorite nephew! You sound well, but what a lot of questions you have. I’ll do my best to answer them. First off, I’m fine, though it’s been muggy and the mosquitoes are worse than ever this year. There’s a big controversy about spraying chemicals near the playground, understandably, but the mosquitoes are as big as my hat and the little ones come in from a day of hopscotch just covered in nasty bites.

  You asked about Beth and you know, Tim, as often as I’ve thought of her, I don’t know much. You might try a search on the Internet. My girlfriend Deirdre had some luck with that when she was looking for an old “friend” after her divorce. It turned out he was still married, though. You knew Beth had plastic surgery, didn’t you? Maybe not… It’s been so long. I’ve heard you can barely see her scar now and she married a cello player from the Minnesota Orchestra, but he’s not with them anymore. They trade some of those musicians around like they were athletes or something. He’s with the Boston Pops now, if I’m not mistaken. The last time I saw the symphony was in Powderhorn Park for the Fourth of July, like we did when you and Dianne were kids, remember? I didn’t recognize anyone, but they probably put in substitute players for an event like that when it’s outdoors and free. I always tried to get Dan to buy season tickets to the symphony, but it was all I could do to drag him to the Guthrie for a play now and then. He never missed a Vikings game though, no matter how poorly they played... so much for culture.

  I saw an article in the St. Paul Pioneer Press about Arlo Montgomery, but there weren’t any pictures. Now Tim, I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t like the sound of you dredging up ancient history. If David Anderson is involved with something like that Arlo Montgomery anti-gay business, it’s all the more reason not to get mixed up with him again. There must be lots of nice boys in San Francisco and I couldn’t ask Nancy even if we were on speaking terms. What would I say? “I heard your closeted husband left you again to join some religious crusade against gay people?”

  I did happen to see Nancy, though. She didn’t see me. I saw a darling sundress in the Marshall Field’s ad, so I drove over to Southdale. I could have gone on-line to order it, but I was invited to a garden party at the Carlsons’ that weekend and it seemed just the thing. Well, wouldn’t you know, the Southdale store was out of them, but I ran into Bebe Halverson and she said they had just what I wanted at Bloomingdale’s at the Mall of America, only better, in more colors and even cheaper than the sale price at Marshall Fields. I hate to deal with all that traffic, but I didn’t have a thing to wear and as I said, it’s been so muggy that I wanted something cool and fresh. By the time I got over there, the air conditioning in my car was acting up and I was fit to be tied. I found just the dress I wanted, though, in turquoise with white piping and I already had the perfect sandals.

  I decided to treat myself to a glass of wine and there I wa
s at the Napa Valley Grille and thinking of you out there in California, but I’m sure the food is better in the real Napa Valley than here in the suburbs. Anyway, I looked up and there she was behind the counter—Nancy Anderson! She was working there! I was so surprised I nearly choked on my Chablis. I don’t think she saw me because the next thing I knew she took off her apron and left. It was probably time for her break, I guess, unless the sight of me made her walk off the job!

  The Carlsons asked how you were and I didn’t know what to tell them, but now I will. I’ve got to call and thank them, anyway. They had a good turnout, terrific food and best of all Dan wasn’t invited, so I didn’t have to worry about any messy scenes with him and that girl who is young enough to be his daughter. The only sour note was when—do you remember their old dog, Maxie? Yes, she’s still alive—must be a hundred and ten in dog years. Anyway, she knocked the lid off the ice chest that was full of walleye filets and hot dogs for the grill. The poor old beast ate half of them before anyone noticed and then she got sick in the pool. Fortunately, she was down by the diving board and the kids were in the shallow end. There were plenty of other things to eat, so we weren’t in danger of starving. I prefer my walleye fried in a nice beer batter anyway, but I suppose grilling it is a lot healthier.

  I almost forgot to tell you I ran into Paula Nelson at the Carlsons’ party and she’d seen Nancy, too. Remember Paula? She was the Spanish teacher at the high school where Dave was before you transferred over here, so of course she knew him and I mentioned that I’d seen Nancy. Well, Paula says Nancy told her that she and Dave are going through a trial separation while he goes off to get “born again.” Paula said she told Nancy, “I was born Lutheran and I still am and being born once ought to be enough for Lutherans if you take to it properly the first time.”