by Don Schecter
“There have to be gays here. I read an article that said Salt Lake has the third largest gay population in the west, after L.A. and San Francisco.”
Brett’s eyes narrowed. “How could that be? I’ve never even met one. Do we live in a big Mormon bubble? Gays don’t get in, and straights don’t get out?”
Emily shrugged. “There must be some gay Mormons as well. That same article said being gay is mostly genetic, at least that there was a genetic predisposition.”
“Well, LDS’ers certainly don’t agree. They think it’s a sickness. When it surfaces, we try to cure it.”
“I’m afraid your father thinks we’d be safer if we stayed inside the bubble.”
“The whole trouble is, my father doesn’t think at all; he only believes what the Church tells him. Look, Em, I’ve got an open mind on gays. I don’t know anything about them; but I’m sure if we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.”
“Well dear, we’re about to find out for ourselves if your father’s beliefs are founded.”
The next afternoon, they entered the city over the Bay Bridge. Emily had her eyes glued to the map as she guided them to a neighborhood called The Castro, one step ahead of the GPS voice. On the internet, she had snagged a last-minute room cancellation near Market Street at a good price for the week. The streets were filled with people, some of whom seemed dressed for a costume party. Brett saw men walking with their arms casually draped around another man’s shoulder or waist, or holding hands. What he saw made him so uneasy he was forced to revisit how open his mind really was. But the clerk at the desk had a buzz-cut, and was dressed in a suit and tie, which reassured Brett. Two lady bellhops unloaded their truckload of boxes for storage in the hotel.
“You can’t leave anything in your pickup overnight, and you certainly don’t want to drive around with boxes on display during the day,” the clerk explained.
“Why? Isn’t this neighborhood safe?” asked Brett.
“Safe?”
“Well, for my wife to walk around while I’m at work.”
The clerk grinned broadly, “Oh honey, she’ll be safe enough, but you may have to beat them off with a stick, especially Sunday when the Folsom Street Fair is on. And this week is also Leather Week, so beware.”
Brett let the remark pass, unsure why a leather convention would be unsafe, and asked where they could eat. The clerk gave them directions and some odd advice. “Get in there early because the crowd changes later and you might not be prepared for what goes on.”
“Thanks, we’ll do that. What goes on?”
“Oh, just guys being guys. You’ll get used to it after a while.”
The restaurant, called The Stud Corral, was a very pleasant-looking supper club. It sported a small dance floor and was decorated in uniforms of every sort, military and commercial. While they were ordering, a brawny fellow entered in full leather regalia: harness over his hairy chest, and leather jacket, pants, and boots. Brett recognized him.
“Is that Branden Ellis over there?”
“Sure is,” the fey waiter replied without needing to look.
“Then he must come in here often?”
“Every night about this time. He likes to dance.”
“Holy Hannah, Em. Wait ’til I tell Casey. That’s Branden Ellis, the star fullback of the 49ers. He’s Casey’s hero; no, Casey’s God is more like it.” As he spoke, several men came up to Ellis, hugged him, and patted his ass. Brett looked confused. His mind absolutely rejected what his eyes were seeing. “Are those his teammates?”
“They’re all on the same team,” the waiter replied, looking down his nose at them.
Ellis began to dance with a teammate. “They do that here? Who’s that guy he’s dancing with?”
This time the waiter had to look. “Oh, that would be his favorite wide receiver.” He turned back to the couple. “Are you folks ready to order?”
The food was good, but it was lost on Brett, who couldn’t take his eyes off the patrons. By the time they were finished eating, the dance floor and bar were packed with men, and some women, in leather. They slipped away as fast as they could, but not before an enterprising leatherman pinched Brett on the butt. Normally, he would’ve snapped the guy’s head off except he sensed he was outnumbered.
“That guy pinched my butt in there!” he informed Emily, incensed, once they were safely outside.
“Well, darling, I always said you were handsome. That’s one of the reasons I married you. Now you know how girls feel.”
“That’s not the same. You’re a beautiful blonde.”
Emily smiled. “I think it is…very much the same. And the guy who pinched you thinks you’re a beautiful blond, too.”
As they picked up their room key, the clerk hoped they enjoyed dinner and asked Brett, “Were there any hot babes in there tonight?”
Brett snapped at him instead. “Hey, watch your mouth. This is my wife.”
“Sorry, Sir. No offense intended” The clerk recovered neatly by pretending to have addressed Emily. “Just a little girl-talk.” He winked at her.
In the elevator, Brett asked Emily what the guy meant by ‘girl-talk’?”
“The clerk’s a woman, Brett.”
“Huh? How do you know that?”
She pointed to her throat. “No Adam’s apple.”
“Wow.” Brett whistled through his teeth. “Guess I’ll have to be a little more observant.”
The plan for their first day in San Francisco was simple: Brett was going to take a cab to the Museum while Emily used the truck’s GPS to answer ads for likely apartments.
They hoped to find a place within a week. It seemed a simple enough thing, but they failed to take into account that roadmaps—especially God’s roadmaps—don’t display detours.
Brett was having trouble finding a cab that drizzly morning. He waved the newspaper he bought in the hotel at taxis whizzing by with their roof lights off. Luckily, a cab stopped right in front of him to let out two men who were lip-locked in the rear seat.
Brett held the door open for them encouragingly. “C’mon guys, it’s raining out here.”
But, on entering, he was assailed by the odor of men’s colognes, too recently applied, hanging in the humid air. He didn’t like the heavily perfumed smell at all, nor the reminder of what the men had just been doing. “It’s OK,” he said, backing out of the taxi, “I changed my mind.” Like a punishment from heaven, the rain started to come down harder. He used the paper to cover his head while hailing other cabs. Although he couldn’t see into the passing taxis, he imagined they were all filled with two men, hugging and kissing. He knew he was exaggerating; still, standing in the rain, he was happy to have someone to blame. “These darned fairies are messing up my perfect life.”
He was soaked through when he arrived at the Museum. The admin who processed Brett took pity and offered him a towel. She directed him to the sixth floor. There, he was greeted by Lloyd and Floyd, who were engaged in cataloguing the smaller Godfre relics.
They were flamboyant gays who did their best to welcome him. In addition to flirting with him and showing their appreciation for such a hot-looking co-worker, they managed to explain that Mr. Cobb would be back the next day. They showed Brett to his artifact lab, the largest of six interior rooms, where they pointed out what Bergen Cobb considered the prize of the collection. “He told us to ask you to start on translating the inscription on this coffer,” Lloyd said.
Floyd added, “We take a break at noon for lunch, and we’d love to have you join us. After work, we hit the gym — they have a great Jazzercise instructor.”
“Thanks very much, fellas. Maybe in a few days. I’ve got a lot going on today.”
“If you need anything, we’ll be in the main room. Just holler.” They both waved at him as they jiggled out of the room.
Brett got right to work. He began cataloguing the tables full of relics, and copied down interesting glyphs so he could have them at hand in case a bright id
ea occurred to him. He opened several crates and examined their contents. There were hardly shelves enough to house all the artifacts shipped from the site. It looked as though the Temple of Godfre had been dismantled and sent stone-by-stone to San Francisco. There was even a section of the temple wall resurrected in the room, apparently because it was covered with unusual glyphs. He tried to analyze them but was quickly stymied, so he turned his attention to the coffer. He noticed the glyphs carved into the lid were similar to the glyphs on the section of temple wall. He had just begun to examine them closely when Emily called.
“Brett, I’ve been to twelve apartments and I finally found the right one. It’s attractive, large enough, and within our price range. I need you to hop over here and sign the lease.”
“Can it wait, dear? I’ve just started to get down to the real work.”
“Sweetheart, you have to appreciate that this is an owner’s market. No sooner do I see a place than someone phones and snatches it out from under me. I’m the first renter to look at this one and, if we don’t take it now, we’ll lose it in a few hours.”
“OK, Em.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll be right there.”
Forty-five minutes later, soaked again, Brett found Emily in the kitchen getting her feet massaged. “Hi, hon, that’s Fred who opened the door, and this is Phil, who is really good at massaging a pregnant woman’s tired toes. Gentlemen, this is my husband, Brett.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky woman?” Fred gave Brett a dish towel to dry his hair.
“Emily, stay here with Phil and let me have the pleasure of showing your husband the rest of the apartment. I hope he likes bright colors.”
Brett followed Fred on the tour, becoming more disheartened as he viewed each room. The wall colors were tame compared to some of the wild furnishings, and the master bedroom was fitted out as a fully-operational dungeon. The pictures on the walls were enough to get a good Mormon boy excommunicated.
“You’ve got a really nice place here, guys, but I don’t think it’s for us.”
“But Brett…” Em was dismayed.
“I’m sorry, honey; I just couldn’t feel comfortable here.”
Outside, Em was angry. “Brett, I’ve looked all morning. I’ve been in five neighborhoods. This is the best of all of them, even the ones that were taken. We can’t afford to lose it.”
“We can’t afford to take it. I couldn’t sleep a wink in that house.”
“Why not?”
“Because those guys have had sex on every upholstered piece in the house, as well as every rug. And probably on the kitchen counters. I just couldn’t stay there.”
“Why are you concerned with what others have or haven’t done? You don’t know who slept in our hotel bed last week.”
“That’s just it. I do know who’s been sleeping in these beds, and it grosses me out. Let’s find an apartment for rent by a straight landlord.”
“I’m afraid most of the landlords will be gay. Every apartment I saw this morning has been a gay rental.”
“There has to be one that isn’t.”
By the end of the day, both exhausted, Brett finally turned to his wife. “OK, honey, I admit today was a disaster. Apartment hunting is hard work. Let’s get you back to the hotel so you can take it easy. I want to go to work later and make up the time I lost today. And tomorrow, you’ll find a beauty spa where you can treat yourself to total relaxation while I find us a place. Something nice, I promise.”
Emily smiled. “You really are a sweet guy, you know. I’m sort of glad I married you.” They kissed and promised things would improve in the morning. “Are you sure you need to work tonight? It’s just your first day.”
“I’m anxious to get off to a good start; and I can get more done without my queer co-workers sniffing around me.”
The bars were in full swing when Brett left for work. Music from several clubs mixed in the street, people shouted to each other, and traffic was heavy. His pickup was hopelessly blocked by revelers who had dropped their cars willy-nilly, as though there were no parking regulations in effect. He hailed a cab and got to the museum just before midnight. When he signed in, the night guards were clustered in a group, gossiping off in a corner. He heard one shriek, “Well, girlfriend…” followed by lots of knee-slapping laughter. In addition to the other annoyances of the day, Brett ticked off another niggling mark against gays: they made poor security guards because they gabbed too much. He headed for the elevator.
On the sixth floor, the hall lights were on but the room was dark except for moonlight through the windows. He picked his way along the tables of artifacts until he got to his lab, which was devilishly labeled 666. He hadn’t noticed earlier that his lab had no windows. Before he found the light switch, Brett saw a greenish glow across the room.
He switched on the lights and it was gone. He switched them off again; it was back. In the dark room, he guided himself to the green light which was coming from the box Bergen Cobb had designated the most important find at the Temple. Green light poured out of all four sides through a one-inch space that made it look as if the lid were floating.
He tried peering into the opening to see if the cover was mounted to the box on a central post, but the light blocked his view.
Brett glanced at the writing on the wall and could swear it looked different bathed in green. Oddly, a few glyphs were recognizable now. He began to speak them aloud, sounding the pictures out while guessing at the still unfamiliar ones. As he spoke, the light behind him grew stronger, and suddenly he could read the entire inscription.
Sensing movement behind him, he turned and saw green smoke billow out of the box, reach the ceiling and curl back down at him. It condensed into the figure of a man dressed in leather. He thought he was looking at Branden Ellis again. “What the devil…”
“Look out, world. I am out of the box, out of the closet, and out of control. Greetings, stud.” The figure struck a modified Saturday Night Fever stance, with his lowered hand spread on his hip.
Brett tripped over backward, striking his head against an iron shelf support. Rubbing the sore spot, he spluttered, “Who…who… where did you come from?”
“Cool down, hot man, I’m a genie, and I came out of that ceremonial coffer. But you saw that. So what can I do for you, bud?”
“Bud? Is that how genies talk these days?”
“Well, I know you’re not happy with the whole master/slave thing, so I thought I’d appear as someone more comfortable for you, like a teammate. Now, listen up, you are a sophisticated dude, so let’s get on with the three wishes.”
“First I have to convince myself I’m not dreaming.”
“Oh, the old dream routine, huh? I thought we might skip that this time.”
“How do I know you’re real?”
“Hey, I’m real, baby. That last archaeologist who summoned me wished he could live his life over, and he’s in diapers now.”
“So that’s what happened to my great-uncle? What were his other two wishes?”
“First, he wished me five-feet tall. Kind of wasted that wish, in my humble opinion.”
The genie pressed his extended fingers to the center of his chest where the leather harness crossed. “Never got around to the last one. Too busy playing with his rattle. But I know I owe that child; and in another twenty years, if he finds me again, I’ll make good.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I can tell you and your uncle are related; you ask the same dumb questions. Sure I have a name. It’s Marq… with a q. Now, I’ll make a deal with you, Blondie; you show me around downtown and I’ll give you a whole lot more than three measly wishes.” Marq pumped his pelvis for emphasis.
Brett shook his head hard. “No. This is not real.”
“Are you saying a genie can’t be a great lay?”
“I’m saying a genie can’t be gay. What was supposed to be the first day of a perfect life has turned into a real bummer. And it’s all because of you ga
ys. This whole city is crawling with gays. I wish you’d all just get out of my hair and leave me alone.”
Brett was suddenly talking to an empty room. He scratched his head, which hurt.
“Ouch,” he said aloud. “I either hit my head harder than I thought, or the strain is getting to me. I’m hallucinating. I better pack it in for the night before I really hurt myself.”
He left the museum without signing out because there was no one manning the night desk. He caught a cab easily, but the driver was in a state. “Hey bud, you won’t believe this. I had a fare in back and the next second he wasn’t there. Just vanished.”
Brett shrugged. “He must’ve ducked out at a light.”
“I guess. But I swear we were rolling.”
As the cab approached a more populated area, they began to notice other cars stopped at lights, red or green, with no drivers behind the wheel. And here and there, cars had run up against lampposts, but it was eerie the way there were no people on the streets. Soon the cab was weaving to avoid randomly stopped vehicles where a few people were beginning to gather. A motorcycle lay on its side, wheels spinning, with no rider in sight.
Brett shrugged. Nothing in this city surprised him anymore. He paid the cabbie, and in a few minutes crawled into bed behind Emily. “Ooh, this feels good. Just keep saying tomorrow will be better, and it will be.”
“I love you,” she said drowsily. He kissed her and patted their son, sleeping in her belly.
The next day was sunny and full of excitement for them both. Brett took the truck and went to work, anxious to meet Bergen Cobb, the curator who hired him. He saw a lot of dogs wandering free and wondered if there were no leash laws in San Francisco. He also noticed groups of people gathered around way too many fender benders, scratching their heads in confusion. A few cops were evident as well, and it seemed every other vehicle was a tow truck. There was hardly any traffic, and he brightened as he saw that the parking lot at the Museum was near empty.
The janitor was at the sign-in desk. “No guards showed up for work this morning. They left last night without locking up the place.”