Beach Reading

by Abramson, Mark

  Dear Aunt Ruth—

  Sorry I didn’t answer your e-mail right away. I had a champion hangover that day, but this morning’s is running a close second. Don’t worry. I’m not ready for the Betty Ford clinic yet. I don’t want you to worry about me at all, but I know you will, so I might as well come out with it.

  I saw Dave Anderson last night! He tracked me down in my own neighborhood. I guess he was trying to be nice in his own way, but the weirdest thing was—he almost seemed to be coming on to me too, after all this time. He looked good, but I’m proud to say I resisted his advances. I’m probably flattering myself. I’m too old for him now, anyway.

  Arlo Montgomery arrives here tomorrow and the gays are up in arms, but Dave says he is going to put a stop to everything. I think he’s delusional, but he wouldn’t explain, so I don’t know what he has in mind. How could he have the power? And he said it like he was doing it for me, as if that would make everything all right between us, like some kind of atonement. He’s nuts, if you ask me. One thing I know for sure, he’s never going back to Nancy.

  Aunt Ruth, I know you’re concerned about me and I love you for it. I do meet lots of guys my own age every day, but there’s rarely any spark. I fell kinda hard for this bartender named Jason where I work, but that didn’t pan out. I hope we can be friends someday, but I haven’t even seen him lately.

  Then last weekend I met a college kid from Washington D.C. who was a lot of fun, but he was only here for a visit. My friend Jake at work says relationships are like your favorite shoes or your favorite blue jeans. When you get them broken in enough to feel comfortable they start falling apart. Jake shouldn’t complain. He does all right, but it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten past that ‘newly stiff’ stage with blue jeans, if you know what I mean, and you can take that however you like.

  I can’t wait for you to come and visit. The guys at work will love you—Artie and Arturo are an older gay couple that own the restaurant and they’re also my landlords. Jake and Patrick are a little crazy, but they’re nice enough and Viv, the piano player… well, you’ll see. I have some vacation time coming too, so I can show you around. We’ll have fun and of course there’s room for you to stay with me. You can even have my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. I take naps on it sometimes and it’s real comfortable. If I come home with a trick, though, you might have to sleep there. I’ve got an idea! We’ll make it a contest. Whoever brings a man home first takes the bed and the other one gets the couch. See you soon!

  Love, Tim

  Tim clicked SEND and took another sip of coffee. It was cold, so he chugged it and headed for the shower. Maybe it was the smell of soap or the needle on the bathroom scale that showed an extra pound, but Tim decided to go for a run after all. It would be a good break from his tedious gym routine. He poked his head out the back door as he towel-dried his hair. The fog was burning off and his hangover had abated too. He pulled on a jock strap and baggy running shorts with a sexy slit up both sides. Then he scrounged under the bed for his favorite running shoes. He thought of Jake’s comment again. These shoes were about as comfortable as shoes could be and Tim hoped they didn’t fall apart for a long time.

  Tim found his jacket from last night and shook it upside down to empty the pockets. His keys fell out as well as a square tan envelope that landed between his pillows. It was the size of a Thank You note and Tim knew he hadn’t put it there. He wondered if Dave Anderson had written him a formal apology, but that seemed out of character. Whatever it was, Dave must have slipped it into Tim’s pocket when he went to the toilet at the Edge. He tore it open, not sure whether to be excited or angry. Whatever Dave had to say, he could have said to his face. Inside, he found a receipt and a note: Tim—If anything happens to me, take this to the airport and it will prove everything. Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to—Dave.

  Tim wasn’t sure whether or not his old coach was crazy, but there was one thing that seemed certain; Dave Anderson sounded a little scared.

  Tim ran north to Oak Street and jogged through the panhandle of Golden Gate Park. He felt out of shape before he reached Stanyan Street. He was used to a few laps around Dolores Park, but this was the longest he’d run since placing among the first ten thousand in the annual Bay-to-Breakers race in May. He remembered how he ached that week, but how proud he was at having finished. A bunch of guys he knew from the gym had run Bay-to-Breakers naked and almost talked Tim into joining them. As he ran past Marlena’s, the only gay bar on the route, a crowd of people hooted and called his name. It was Artie and Arturo and a whole gang of regulars from Arts. Thank God he wasn’t naked!

  Today was a perfect San Francisco day—warm in the sun with a cool breeze. Men in hardhats, boots and coveralls lined JFK Drive. Tim stared at one so hard he ran into the path of a sprinkler and then stepped into a puddle that splashed mud up his leg. The sexy workman turned away just in time to miss Tim’s clumsiness. Then he remembered that these guys were doing their jobs and not out here for a Village People look-alike contest. Construction never seemed to end. First they tore down and rebuilt the DeYoung Museum. Then it was the Academy of Sciences. Tim hoped no one planned to bulldoze the Japanese Tea Garden to make it more modern. For the biggest piece of pristine open space in the city, Golden Gate Park was always under construction, but so was the rest of the city. Construction workers were almost as plentiful as tourists.

  There might be towns in America that stayed the same year after year. Tim remembered them from his Minnesota childhood as passing scenes from the back seat with the car windows open, smelling of bakeries and new mown lawns. They were jigsaw puzzles with all their pieces in place or completed paint-by-numbers of Americana. Their colors might fade over time, but otherwise they remained the same. If San Francisco was a work of art it was one that would never be finished.

  Tim thought about his earlier conversation with Arturo. Yes, he and Jason might be finished and Tim was growing to accept that, but his own life was just getting into gear. He felt a surge of energy and picked up his pace past the rose gardens. Kids were on a field trip led by teachers who couldn’t be much more than Tim’s age. They petted a live iguana on the grass, a creature that only existed in books when Tim was in school.

  He ran clockwise around the outer rim of Stow Lake and crossed the arched bridge onto the island and Strawberry Hill. Tim sat on a bench beside the waterfall and read the plaque: Doreen Querido, Artist – Activist – Lesbian, 1947 – 1997. A turtle the size of Tim’s foot climbed onto the bank and stared up at him. Tim tried to remember his high school Spanish. Querido must a form of the verb querer, to want or desire and he felt some kinship with another gay person, even though she was a woman he never knew.

  He wished he had something to feed the turtle, but he would probably only scare it away. Doreen Querido had only lived to be fifty. Some benches in Golden Gate Park were dedicated to people whose entire lives happened before Tim was born. He’d seen plaques that bore the names of two men who died in the 1980s—lovers, partners, AIDS victims? He wondered how long he would get to live here. His current HIV drugs seemed to be working fine. Maybe he would get to have a long life just like normal people. Tim took a hit off a joint and thought he saw the turtle yawn at him before it plopped back under the water and swam away.

  A pair of young men walked past him pushing a baby carriage. Tim was jealous until he heard the baby cry. He envied their commitment more than their responsibilities. He saw two cute guys in a paddleboat in the distance and Tim forgot about parenting and the names on brass plaques on park benches. It had been two whole days since he’d had sex with… what was his name? Oh yeah… Corey.

  “Hey Tim!” One of the guys in the paddleboat was waving at him.

  “Hi Patrick! I didn’t recognize you outside of work.” It was the newest waiter at Arts, the one they all wanted not to like. He was too perfect, blonde and blue-eyed with a great body and straight white teeth. Jake had said Patrick reminded him of a Ken doll or a figur
e on top of a wedding cake. And Patrick seemed to evaluate every move in terms of its political correctness. Tim agreed with Patrick’s politics, but his earnestness grew tiresome. Still, it was hard to dislike someone so eager and guileless.

  “This is my friend Barry. Barry, this is Tim. We work together at Arts.”

  “Hi, Barry. Nice day for a boat ride.” Tim waved. They were too far from shore to shake hands. Barry was sexy… or was Tim just horny? He was never sure lately.

  “You working tonight, Tim?”

  “Yeah, you?”

  “I’m coming in after the dinner rush. Artie wants to train me to fill in behind the bar when they’re short. Tonight he’s going to teach me to close so I can do it by myself.”

  “Why’s that?” Tim asked. ”Where is everybody going?”

  “Jason is working that big party at the Moscone Center on Saturday. I’m taking off that night for the demonstration at the Civic Center.”

  Tim didn’t want to suggest that if David Anderson was telling the truth about foiling Arlo Montgomery’s plans, the demonstration might not be necessary.

  “And Artie said he’s going to a party with you tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. See you tonight,” Tim said. It was time to head back, anyway. Tim was hungry and thirsty and needed to get ready for work. At least his hangover was gone.

  “Where have you been all day?” Artie asked Tim as soon as he walked in the door of the restaurant. “Some guy was looking for you, ringing your doorbell at the apartment and then he came by here not half an hour ago.”

  “I went jogging in Golden Gate Park,” Tim said, feeling defensive. He couldn’t imagine that Dave Anderson would have come back to see him so soon after leaving him that note last night. “Who was he?”

  “His name sounded like a girl… something like Genevieve…”

  Jake piped up, “That flight attendant, Tim… the French one… you know.”

  “Oh! Great! Jean-Yves?” Tim asked. “I haven’t seen him since last fall.”

  “Jean-Yves—Genevieve… I was close,” Artie said.

  “What did he want?” Tim asked.

  “He wanted you! What do you mean by that? ‘Oh, great?’ He was adorable—a little younger than you’re used to, but not as young as that kid you had last weekend. What was his name? Cary? This one had the cutest French accent. I’ve always been a sucker for accents. I remember when Arturo used to come back from visiting his relatives in Nicaragua and roll his ‘R’s. It drove me wild, but it never lasted.”

  “Tim doesn’t mind a little foreign tongue once in a while, do you?” Jake was standing behind him at the waiters’ station and pretended to stick his tongue in Tim’s ear.

  “Corey,” Tim corrected Artie and sidestepped his co-worker.

  “I thought you said Jean-Yves.” Artie was confused.

  “Jean-Yves is the name of the French flight attendant,” Tim said to Jake. “And Artie, the boy I had last weekend was Corey, not Cary. Don’t we have anything to do around here besides talk about my sex life?”

  Tim did feel “great” about the news that Jean-Yves was in town again, but he didn’t want it to be everyone else’s business. He and Jean-Yves had met a while back and though they didn’t keep in touch, the sexy Frenchman would show up when he had a layover in San Francisco. Tim thought one of the best things about being gay in the 21st century was the ability to have men like Jean-Yves in his life. He might have a lover in every port, but Tim didn’t care. Jean-Yves had insisted on safe sex from the beginning and in some ways they had more fun than the guys Tim got bent out of shape over, like Jason. Tim knew from the very first time that they were never going to be domestic partners, so he was open to just having fun with Jean-Yves whenever he came to town. This news put Tim in a good mood all evening. Even the most demanding customers didn’t bother him and the dinner shift flew past. As Tim bent over the table to pick up his last tip of the night he felt a hand on his ass and heard a familiar voice whisper something sexy in French.

  Chapter 10

  When Tim woke up on Friday morning a muscular arm was draped around him. Jean-Yves never fell asleep without his watch, but it was set to Paris time, so Tim craned his neck to get a look at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It wasn’t quite seven. He’d left the window open enough to hear birds arguing on the roof. Jean-Yves’ regular breathing meant he was still fast asleep.

  Jean-Yves also never reset his stomach as he traveled through time zones. He sometimes ordered a cheeseburger for breakfast or eggs for dinner. What did Tim care? Last night was just what he needed. The last time Jean-Yves was in San Francisco was before Tim started sleeping with Jason and this time was just after Corey. Tim didn’t care to count how many men there had been in between. In the months since they’d seen each other, Jean-Yves seemed bigger than Tim remembered. He must find time to work out, even on his strange schedule.

  Tim extricated himself from Jean-Yves, went to the bathroom and then looked through the peephole in his front door for the morning paper. He must be up before Teresa for a change. He turned on the coffee maker, pulled on a robe and stepped into the hallway in his bare feet.

  Due to the slope of the hill, Tim’s apartment was the only one on the ground floor. The room across the hall was just large enough for five water heaters, three washing machines, two dryers and a clothesline. The tenants felt lucky when all the washers worked, but Arturo and Artie never raised the rent, so no one complained much. Tim grabbed both Chronicles and bounded up the stairs. Classical music came from the apartment of the newest tenant, Malcolm. Tim didn’t think he would even recognize him if they met on the street.

  Ben and Jane Larson lived across the hall from Malcolm. They were the “token straights” in the building and they had a little girl named Sarah. Tim heard a television tuned to a children’s show and Sarah was happily singing along. At the top of the stairs he was about to drop Teresa’s paper at her door when it opened. “Tim! You startled me. I was just going to run downstairs for that.”

  “I thought I’d beat you to it for a change. Here.”

  “I’d invite you in for coffee, but Tony’s just getting ready to leave.”

  Tim thought she looked sleepy in her tattered robe and bare feet. “That’s okay, Teresa. I’ve got my own coffee going and someone waiting for me too.”

  “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Teresa asked with a sly smirk.

  Tim could hear snippets of a man’s voice coming from Teresa’s television set and it wasn’t tuned to Sesame Street. “The Day of Judgment is coming…. forty-five million babies murdered, all in the name of a woman’s right to choose… heathen liberals care more about a beached whale or the habitat of an insect… more about the rights of the sodomites… than the lives of the innocent unborn!”

  “What the hell are you watching, Teresa?”

  “It’s the local news. They’re showing that nutty preacher that’s coming to town.”

  “Where will you stand, my friends? Will you stand on the right hand of the Lord or… “

  “I’m not watching it…I just turned on the television set in the kitchen when I went in to make coffee.”

  “…cast into the fiery pits of eternal damnation? Our great nation was…”

  “I’ve got to go turn this off right now!” Teresa said. “Thanks for the paper.”

  “You bet… Seeya later.”

  Tim ran downstairs and turned on the TV set in his own kitchen to get a good look at Arlo Montgomery, but the newscast went to a live shot on Castro Street. The reporter was getting reactions from commuters above Harvey Milk plaza. The camera angle had the Castro Theatre in the background. Tim recognized a guy he’d gone home with a couple of months ago, but he slipped past and the reporter picked someone else for a comment, someone who looked dazed and could barely formulate an intelligent sentence. Either the eloquent gay commuters weren’t out this morning or they didn’t want their faces on television.

  Tim
picked up the small square envelope from beside the toaster. He opened it, fingered the receipt and read Dave Anderson’s note again. The local news went back to the studio. “Several protesters will greet the arrival of Arlo Montgomery at the airport this afternoon. The minister urges his followers to support politicians in repealing gay rights legislation across the country. Meanwhile, thousand of gays arrive in San Francisco this weekend for what is being billed as the party of the decade at the Moscone Center…”

  Tim glanced at the clock on the microwave. He dropped Dave’s note back into the envelope as he watched the mirror ball dangling from the helicopter on the morning news. He wanted to get dressed and head to the airport right now. He could find out what the receipt was for and then join the protesters. Tim heard a yawn and a naked man stepped into the kitchen. “What are you watching? What time is it?” Jean-Yves’ accent was thicker than usual when he was half-asleep.

  “Haven’t you heard? This jerk is arriving in San Francisco today. We could go to the airport right now for the protest.”

  “Oh, yes… I’ve heard all about him,” Jean-Yves said. “You go ahead. I spend enough time in airports. Americans are crazy!”

  Tim’s anger was rising at the same rate as his libido. “What do you mean by crazy? Don’t you think we should protest when people try to take away our rights? Don’t you think we need to fight back?”

  “Take it easy,” Jean-Yves said as he put his arms around Tim’s shoulders. “I’m on your side. I didn’t mean you were crazy, amoureux. I don’t think of San Francisco like the rest of America, do you?”

  “No, but…” Tim calmed down.

  “I just meant that Americans are up-tight about sex,” Jean-Yves explained. “The people who aren’t getting any are always jealous of the ones who are, so they want to put a stop to it and make the sexy people’s lives as miserable as their own.”