Beach Reading

by Abramson, Mark

  Tim’s dream flooded back to him. He was on Alcatraz on a Ferris wheel with Jason who turned into Dave Anderson and then he became the nearly naked man from the Hole in the Wall Saloon. Harley and Vanessa were in the car in front and in the seat behind him was the girl with the scar across her face. Her name was… Amy… but she reminded him of his old friend Beth… and the boy with the tattoos had a switchblade knife and he was sitting behind Tim on the BART train right now. This was no dream. “Hey, I know you!” the kid said.

  Tim forced himself to turn toward the sound of the voice. “You were the guy on the streetcar the other day… the subway… under Market Street. You were staring at my girlfriend and then you got off at Castro Street and...”

  “I didn’t mean to…” Tim said. He was scared, but he felt his defenses rise. He hadn’t meant any harm. Tim could see now that the glint of silver in the boy’s hand was a fingernail file, not a knife. The kid was trying to pare some of the grease out from under his nails.

  “Amy said she liked you, man,” the boy said. “You reminded her of her brother.”

  The tension in the back of Tim’s neck was released as if the weight of the world had just been lifted off his shoulders. He let out a deep breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “Your girlfriend… Amy… she reminded me of an old friend of mine, too. She seems like a nice girl.”

  “Her fag brother’s about your age,” the boy continued. “She hates when I say that, though. She was pissed off at me that I called you a fag that day on the streetcar… bad habit. It sounds like something my dad would say. Her fag brother helped raise her. He’s an okay guy. He owns a chain of them beauty salons, now. He wants to pay for her to get some surgery on her face and get rid of them scars. It costs a lot of money. I told her she don’t need it. She’s pretty enough to me just the way she is. Whatever… it ain’t my money. He can spend it any way he wants. Hey, I’ll tell her I ran into you. This here’s my stop—San Bruno. I gotta work Saturdays. My dad has a body shop and it’s real busy right now. Take it easy… Seeya…”

  Tim waved at the boy and noticed how clean his own hand was. Tim’s father’s fingernails were always lined in grease from working on cars. Then the doors closed and the BART train moved on toward the airport. Another part of his dream had come true, but things could have been much worse. At least it wasn’t a knife. Maybe Amy’s brother with his chain of beauty salons could even do something about her boyfriend’s filthy fingernails.

  Tim got on the shuttle going the wrong direction and rode all the way out to the long-term parking lots and then around the periphery of the airport to the northern terminal. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he saw the sign: Due to security regulations since 09/11/01, airport lockers will be out of service until further notice. Locker service is available exclusively at the Airport Travel Agency, located on the Departures/Ticketing Level of the International Terminal Main Hall.

  It was about the size of a small town post office. The man behind the counter reminded Tim of the actor Morgan Freeman when he asked, “May I help you, sir?” Tim supposed he might look suspicious in that he was wearing shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes and he wasn’t carrying any luggage.

  “I hope so.” Tim gave the man a weak smile. “A friend of mine checked something here and he asked me to pick it up for him. Here’s the receipt.”

  The man disappeared behind a panel and came back out a moment later with a manila envelope, but he didn’t hand it to Tim. “This was checked on Tuesday. Today is Saturday. Your friend only paid for two days.”

  “He ran into some… ah… trouble,” Tim said, trying to think of a plausible story. “He’s sick. I’m sure he didn’t expect it to take so long to get it back. How much does he… do I owe you?”

  “It’s three dollars a day. He paid for two days, so that comes to six more dollars.”

  Now that Tim had the package in his hand he hardly knew what to do with it. He felt like he needed to set it down before it burned his fingers. He found the nearest Men’s room and locked himself inside one of the stalls. When he opened the envelope and looked at the contents Tim felt sick. Yes, this could bring Arlo Montgomery down instead of Harley’s bullet, but it wouldn’t be nearly as clean and quick.

  The first pictures showed Arlo with several naked boys and young men. They were splashing and diving in a watering hole somewhere in the woods. They might have been taken with a telephoto lens without Arlo Montgomery even knowing about them. As Tim paged through the pile they became more incriminating and much more explicit.

  The bathroom stalls on either side of Tim’s were empty and the light from the ceiling shone in. Tim held the pictures down by the floor to study them better. Judging from the furnishings, these must have been in hotel rooms. Why had Arlo Montgomery allowed these pictures to be taken? There were beer cans and liquor bottles on the bedside tables. Some of the boys were tied up and most of them looked like they were either asleep or in a stupor. Tim remembered pictures of prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib. Maybe Arlo thought of them as trophies, showing off his conquests in some sick way. Or did Dave Anderson take them from a hiding place? No, Dave was in a few of the pictures, too and he appeared to be taking an active part. He still could have set up the camera… but Tim might never know. And the thing that upset Tim most was that some of the boys were so young—even younger than Tim was when he and Dave first met.

  Tim had to talk to someone right away. He called the restaurant to get Patrick’s cell phone number, but regretted it when Artie answered. He would have to deal with Artie’s questions sooner or later, but at least he got the number and Artie became distracted by a delivery coming in the door, so he let Tim off the hook for the time being. Patrick was thrilled by the news about the photographs and told Tim to meet him and Barry on the double. They agreed to wait for him at the Civic Center BART station and they would come up with a plan.

  Tim was relieved to have told someone—anyone—about the pictures, but he was still reeling at the shock of finding them. Maybe he should have called Harley Wagner first. Maybe he should have called the police. He wished his Aunt Ruth was close by, if only to talk things over. He wouldn’t want her to actually see the pictures. All he could do now was trust Patrick and his friend. Tim headed toward the BART shuttle and stared at the overhead map, trying to figure out which direction to go. He didn’t want to take another tour of the long-term parking lots. Tim thought about the envelope he held in his hands and went inside another Men’s room. This time he had to wait for a stall to empty. He locked himself inside, tore up every picture that showed Dave Anderson’s face and flushed them down the toilet. Then he found his way to a BART train bound for San Francisco.

  Chapter 13

  “Patrick, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Tim asked. The three of them had ridden the F-Line streetcar from the Civic Center BART station down Market Street to the nearest copy store. Barry was biting the end off a glue stick while Patrick wielded a pair of scissors.

  “Don’t worry, Tim,” Patrick said. “Barry was an art major at City College.”

  “These pictures are awesome, man. We’ll make a collage of the most incriminating ones and run off a ton of them.“

  Barry was having fun with the project, but Tim still had his doubts. “Shouldn’t we just call the police right now? Some of those boys have to be minors. I have to work tonight, but I want to know exactly what happens when Arlo Montgomery’s supporters see these pictures.”

  “You can leave everything to us, Tim,” Patrick said. “A bunch of our guys went down there in suits and ties earlier this week to volunteer. They didn’t need all of us, but they will tonight because it’s sold out. Tonight all the VIPs will show up and they can use more ushers. One section down in front is reserved for well-known politicians, some actors and a few big names in sports, but the big-shots don’t want to sit through all the warm-up acts. Just wait until they see their programs with something extra that we’ve tucked inside.”

>   “That reminds me… that old lady Vanessa gave me a map we can use if we need it.” Tim searched through the bottom of his pack until he found it. “Here, it shows the floor plan of the Civic Auditorium, the stage set-up, the lighting design, special effects devices and the schedule of events is on the back. Arlo is supposed to appear at midnight, after the crowds are all warmed up for him. We should make extra copies of this too.”

  “Why not call in sick to work so you can join us from the beginning?” Barry said.

  “I can’t! You don’t know Artie,” Tim said. “I promised him a week ago that I’d work tonight.”

  “Come down to the Civic Center as soon as you get off, then,” Patrick said. “There won’t be anybody in the Castro tonight, anyway. Everybody that’s not picketing outside the Bill Graham Auditorium will be dancing all night at the Moscone Center. I don’t even know why they’re bothering to open the restaurant.”

  “I don’t either, but I’ve gotta go get ready,” Tim said. “I’ll come down and look for you the minute I get off work. If anything happens before I get there, call me at the restaurant.” This was one of the rare times that Tim wished he owned a cell phone, but he complained about them so much that he was too stubborn to break down and get one.

  He was sure that the hours at work would drag by while all the excitement was happening somewhere else. Once inside the front gate on Collingwood, he opened his mailbox to find a PG&E bill, an advertisement for a new gay travel agency, a supermarket flyer and a thin blue envelope with a San Diego postmark, but no return address. Tim’s name and address were printed in block letters across the front. He sat down on the front steps and tore it open.

  Dear Tim—I trust by now you have been to the airport. I wonder how long you waited and I wish I could have seen the look on your face. I couldn’t let Arlo continue his crusade, but I wasn’t brave enough to stop him directly. As far as he knows right now I’m just another suicide off the Golden Gate Bridge. Let him think so. Whatever happens will be too good for him. It was great to see you, Tim. I’m glad you’re doing well. I won’t flatter myself that you’d ever want to find me, but the authorities won’t be able to either. I have a new passport and all the money I will ever need, thanks to the devout and pious men who wanted to be saved from the clutches of sin. What fools! Arlo was a fool, too, for giving me access to the bank accounts. He’ll need more than a public defender now, but that’s all he’ll be able to afford. I hear that Mexico is hot this time of year, but I think I’ll start there. I don’t mind hot weather and I’ve heard that the boys down south of the border come sexy and cheap. Take care of yourself, Tim—Dave

  Tim read the letter twice before he stood up from his front steps and walked to his front door. He was tempted again to call the police, but it wouldn’t do any good. David Anderson was long gone by now and he would have to live with his conscience. Tim just wanted to wash his hands of the whole mess, but all he could do was let the plan go forward. He turned the key and noticed a note under his door. It was written on a brown paper grocery bag in magic marker:

  Tim—A delivery came for you this afternoon. Come upstairs as soon as you get home—Teresa.

  Tim tucked the letter from Dave with his other note next to the toaster. He could hardly wait to take a long hot shower, but he at least washed his hands and face before he dashed upstairs to knock on Teresa’s door. She answered with tears in her eyes and a catch in her voice. “Come on in, honey. Something came for you about an hour ago and they rang my bell by mistake.”

  “What’s the matter, Teresa? Are you crying? Wait a minute… are you drunk?”

  “Are you kidding?” she replied as her way of answering. “Who wouldn’t be? Tony said he was expecting an important phone call and he was in the shower when his cell phone went off, so I answered it.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It was his goddamn wife!” Teresa screamed. “She called to tell him she was going into labor! I didn’t even know the bastard was married!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I threw the phone in the shower at him and then I threw his clothes out the front window onto the sidewalk. Then I made myself a stiff drink and I sat down and drank it and then I made another one as soon as he left. If I ever see him again, I’ll kill him! Do you want a cocktail, Tim?”

  ”No thanks, Teresa, I’ve got to get ready for work,” Tim said holding up her hand-written note. “What was it that came for me?”

  “Oh, yeah…” she pointed toward the kitchen. “There’s a couple of dozen long-stemmed roses in a crystal vase. There’s a card with them. You’d better take them home before I knock them over. It’s lucky they arrived after that bastard was gone or I would have broken that vase over his head! He ran off with one of my best towels, too!”

  “I’m really sorry, Teresa, but I’ve got to get ready for work. Will you be all right?”

  “Oh sure, hon… you go on.”

  Tim carried the heavy vase and his card down the stairs and set the flowers on his own kitchen table. He wondered whether Dave had bought these with some of the money he’d embezzled from Arlo Montgomery. Tim tore open the card and saw that it was from Corey.

  Dear Tim— Well, I’m back to my everyday rut. I have a huge reading list to finish up before my next semester starts, but I wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking of you. I wish I could be with you under that big mirror ball on Saturday night, although I’d rather be with you someplace more private. My friends are glad to see me back, of course, but that’s what friends are for, I guess. I don’t know how to thank you for showing me around. You’re a great guy and you really made my visit special. If you ever get to this part of the country be sure to look me up. In the meantime, I’ll see you in my dreams. I hope you like roses. I’m sending them with lots of big wet sloppy kisses —Corey.

  p.s.— I’ve enclosed a picture of the two of us at that beach in San Francisco when we interrupted you trying to read. I can’t say that I’m sorry. Donald and Jerry had their camera along and one of them snapped it. I already have a copy on my refrigerator. It’s the first of my collection of memories and I’m sure it will always be one of my favorites.

  Tim moved the roses to his bedside table and set the note there, too. He could fall asleep to their fragrance for as long as they lasted and remember his time with Corey. It was funny that Corey’s note mentioned dreams. Tim couldn’t remember if he’d told Corey that his dreams had a way of coming true ever since he was a boy.

  Tim inhaled a big whiff of the flowers and made room for the photograph on his refrigerator. Corey was a nice kid. Tim would have to stop ignoring guys that were younger than him. It had gotten to be a bad habit, but one he knew he could break if he tried.

  Tim started to get undressed for the shower, but clicked on his e-mail to see a dozen new messages. The only important one was from his Aunt Ruth.

  Dear Tim— I’ve done it! I made the reservations and bought my tickets. My flight arrives on the last Friday of this month at 10:45am. I’ll get a cab from the airport and hope they can find Collingwood Street. If I tell the driver you live in the Castro that will be a good place to start looking. I’ll only stay with you for the first three nights and then check into a hotel. You know what the Chinese say about fish and house guests. I’ve cancelled the papers and arranged for my neighbor lady Erna to feed Bartholomew and take care of the litter box, water my plants and bring in the mail. The lawn sprinklers are on a timer and I’ve paid that sweet boy named Kyle who lives down the street with his grandparents to keep up the mowing. He does it anyway so he has a key to the shed. I guess you didn’t hear any more from Dave Anderson. It’s just as well. I feel sorry for his poor wife Nancy, but I’m not going to run all the way over to the Mall of America just to have another glass of wine at the Napa Valley Grille. I don’t mind some clever dish with the girls, but if what you say turns out to be true then he’s really not coming back to her and that falls beyond the category of harmless gossip. I’d hate to h
ave to give anyone such bad news. I can’t think of anything else right now but to say how excited I am to see you soon and I can’t wait to catch up. Much love, Aunt Ruth

  Tim wondered whether he should hit “reply” and tell his Aunt Ruth about the pictures Dave left him and what was going to happen tonight. If she assumed that Tim hadn’t heard any more from his old track coach, it might be better to leave it that way. Whatever happened tonight, she would probably hear it on the news. He turned off the computer and stripped off the last of his clothes. The shower felt good and there was decent water pressure for a change. He let it beat down on him until it started running cold. Between working at Arts and whatever happened at the Civic Center, not to mention the throngs of people going to the Moscone Center party, it was bound to be a very long night in San Francisco.

  The waiters at Arts didn’t have uniforms and Artie wasn’t a stickler about what they wore as long as they looked neat and clean. He complained each time Jake had an ear or eyebrow pierced in another spot, but Artie and Arturo were more concerned that the customers were comfortable. On Saturday when Tim left for work, he wore a crisp white dress shirt and stuck a necktie in his pocket for later. He knew he’d be too late to get inside Bill Graham Auditorium with the other volunteers, but he wanted to blend in as best he could and the sooner he got to the Civic Center the better. He was nervous that something would go wrong to foil Patrick’s plan. The more he thought about the pictures of Arlo Montgomery with those young men and boys, the more he wished he had taken them to the police or to the newspapers.

  Arturo had given most of the staff the night off with so much happening around town, but Saturday night started out busy. Even some of the guys who were headed to the Moscone Center party were sensible enough to eat before going out. Artie speculated that the early diners were old enough to remember Sylvester and therefore less apt to do “whatever the kids snort up their noses nowadays to stay up dancing all night,” in Arturo’s words.