Morris’s face had darkened. “Justice! Payments!” He bobbed indignantly in his chair. “We will not agree to such words!”
Finally, Morris stopped bobbing. “You’d have to drop the lawsuit, of course,” he continued, as I watched his eyebrows try to work their way from shock to appeasement.
“Yes, that would be our last move,” I agreed. “In return the Center’s Board enacts standard employee Personnel Policies and Procedures.”
“The Lesbian Tide would have to call off the community boycott,” Morris continued. “You’d have to convince lesbians to return to the Center.”
I sighed. “Yes, Morris, The Tide would call off the boycott, but GCSC would have to back up reconciliation with real and public change. The Center would have to seat one or two known feminists on your Board. You have to offer everyone their jobs back and put some of the Gay/Feminist 15 into management.”
“Ahhh,” Morris let out a long slow breath. “That will not be possible.”
Morris’s narrow-eyed glint considered me as mine countered his.
“What exactly is not possible?” I asked, realizing that a deal breaker was on the table.
The man leaned back in his armchair, his voice trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “Perhaps I misunderstand. I had assumed that few of the dissidents would want to return to work at GCSC.”
“That’s quite an assumption.” I hid my surprise. “How few…had you assumed?”
“Very few.”
I sat back, flummoxed. The possibility that GCSC would settle but NOT offer strikers the option to return had been so remote that it hadn’t even been raised in meetings.
Morris saw my confusion. “How many of the strikers might want their jobs back?”
“I’m not sure,” I hedged, looking to guess at a number.
“Do you want to come back on staff or to the Board?” Morris asked.
“No Morris, I wouldn’t go back if the Center was the last gay bar open on the planet. I’ll never work for the Center again.”
“That’s excellent,” he sighed. “There is a lot of strong feeling against you as being the leader of the dissidents.”
I started laughing. “Morris, I am anything but the leader in this circus!”
“The Board thinks you are.”
“Do you think I am?”
“No, we’ve worked together too long. I know your politics. But my Board perceives you as such. And politics is perception.”
“If my not coming back were a condition from your side, I could insist to the strikers that I can’t return due to The Tide needing me.” I drew a quiet breath of relief. My returning, if only to seal an agreement, would amount to conscription to purgatory.
“We couldn’t take back any of the other ringleaders either,” Morris continued flatly. “Not June Suwara, Dick Nash, Eric Morello, Colin McQueen, or April Allison. Certainly none of the women associated with the alcoholism program can return.”
“You’ve just named half the strikers! That’s hardly acceptable.”
Morris continued his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “There are, among the dissidents, people who want to bring down the Center.”
“Most of the women are separatists,” I defended, “who don’t want to work with men unless it’s in a feminist context.”
“Those aren’t the people I am speaking of,” Morris replied. “There are people in your group who want to overthrow the Board of Directors and shut down GCSC. They have hidden agendas.”
Suddenly, Morris stood up. “Tea anyone? How do you take yours?” As he took teacups down from his makeshift kitchen selves, I knew I’d stumbled upon my godfather’s real bottom line: he didn’t want any of the major players back at the Center. Power meant everything to Morris. He had to maintain his power as GCSC’s dictator. He would make other compromises, but not that one.
Personally, I didn’t care if Morris ran his own Center until the millennium blew past us. Apart from illegally firing feminists, I thought GCSC was a good thing, even an amazing thing. At the birth of our movement I hadn’t conceived that gays in L.A. would ever have their own government-funded social services center.
What disturbed me most about both Morris and my father was that each had the power and skill to shape his passions into a finely-honed laser beam that de-materialized any obstacle that stood in his path. In my father, this formidable power was focused on becoming a business success. Morris’s saving grace, in my eyes, was that his laser intensity was most often focused on the human condition and what he could do to improve it. That said, I also knew that the secondary focus of Morris’s laser energy was his own ego. It was an almost separate entity inside him that fed on raw power.
I sat back in the cushions and listened to the sound of boiling water on Morris’s stove. Was I the pot calling the kettle black, I wondered? For years I’d fought tooth and nail to keep The Lesbian Tide on its ideological lesbian feminist course —my course. Was the house of my own ego a neighbor to Morris?
Early on I’d realized that politics was heavily influenced by ego, and denial of it was the hallmark of real egomania. Owning one’s ego was the only way to keep it in check. There was no fortune to be made in giving up a career to work on behalf of one’s people. So ego was the lubricatory currency, when altruism ran dry. My ethics dictated that it was all right to be partially motivated by ego, as long as it did not become the sufficient or determinative cause of my political actions.
Rachel grabbed my hand and whispered hoarsely, “He doesn’t want any of us back!”
“Shhhh,” I whispered, as I squeezed her hand to let her know I heard her but couldn’t take my focus off Morris to acknowledge her feelings.
My mentor returned with teacups and pot, and bent over the coffee table to serve us.
Rachel said caustically, “I don’t care for any, Morris.”
“I don’t drink tea,” I said, putting my hand over my cup.
“Ah,” said Morris as he filled his cup and sat down comfortably.
“Look Morris,” I resumed. “We can’t spend the day here. Someone is likely to come by. What about the jobs? GCSC must put the right to return to work on the table.”
“We will make that pretense only if we can be assured that none of the ringleaders will accept the offer.”
I picked up a pen and tablet. “Give me those names again.”
Morris repeated his hit list. Scribbling the names, I realized it was a safe bet that most of the named hated GCSC too much to authentically want their jobs back anyway. But how to tell the likes of June and the others that the Center would only make the offer if it was guaranteed they won’t take them? Pride and ego would make them want to say, “No way!”
Aloud I said to Morris, “I’ll make this work. You have a deal.”
“You can persuade your side?” Morris parried.
“Persuading them will take whatever credibility I have left. There’s deep anger…”
“On both sides…”
“But yes, I’d be willing to give it all I’ve got if I knew it wasn’t in vain, that the Center would accept.”
Morris sipped his tea. “How will I know if you’ve succeeded?”
“When you get the final phone call from me asking you to call your lawyer to call ours to negotiate.”
“I’ll want to hear from you at that this point that our terms are agreed upon.”
I stood up. The room’s stuffy heat was laying heavy on my head. “I understand,” I said to Morris as I held out my hand. “Maybe this is where the good faith comes in.”
“Quite so,” Morris shook my hand, “Let us begin.”
Chapter 23
Front Seat Rapture
[Los Angeles]
Mid-August, 1975
Rachel popped the caps off her beer and my Dr. Brown’s cream soda with a bottle opener she carried on her keys, her only butch accessory. Driving away from Morris’s we’d stopped at a liquor store for some celebratory drinks.
“H
ow on earth do you plan to convince the Strikers Committee to come to the table?” she asked. “Your promises to Morris took a lot of clit!”
I laughed. “The difference is, Morris really has the power, and I’m faking it. Here’s the plan. I’m going to tell Patton that Morris called me—because we know each other. That he feels he can’t lose face by formally calling her and risking a loud, fat, public ‘No.’ I’ll tell her that he’s desperate to settle and that I think he’s ready to give us what we want if the strikers take the first step and issue a public invitation.”
“But he’s not.”
“That’s the hard part,” I thought aloud, bringing Lionheart to a stop in The Freep’s parking lot. “You and I have to get the strikers ready to settle for much less than what they…we…want.”
I killed the engine. Rachel leaned back against the passenger door and brought her legs up on the leather seat between us. We felt victorious. We had confronted the enemy and forced him to promise the strikers a public apology and to come to the negotiating table. My adrenaline was high and Rachel’s folded legs offered a new challenge. She looked particularly beautiful in that moment, her face flushed from the day’s excitement. The blue of her eyes was highlighted by a sky-colored blouse. She was right; we didn’t see enough of each other in daylight hours.
“I wouldn’t go back to work for the Center if it were the last gay place in L.A.,” she said. Her shoulders shook like she was trying to ward off a chill.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, watching her fingers start to pick at her nails like birds desperate for crumbs.
She sighed. “I feel rattled. You and Morris sounded so angry at times, and I hate that we had to do this so secretly, behind everyone’s back.”
“Not all activism is as fucked up as this,” I tendered. “This strike ranks as one of the most contorted I’ve ever been involved in.” I reached for her feet and began to massage them. “But you, darling, will have to grow a thicker skin if you’re going to stay in politics.”
“Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of high tension.” She reached down to the floor, producing another beer. “I haven’t slept well since the day we were fired. Politics is a thrill, but there’s so much pressure…”
I uncrossed Rachel’s legs, leaned over and snuggled my face against hers. “How about the pressure of my body on yours?” I asked, flipping the radio on to a soft music station.
“I’m serious,” she said, stroking my hair. “I’m trying to sort things out. When this strike is over, I need to decide whether or not I want to be an activist.”
I began to undo the top button of her blouse.
She slapped my fingers. “Stop that, babe. Do you seriously think you’re going to make love to me in a parking lot? My father would take a horsewhip to you!”
Now lying on top of her, I proceeded with her buttons. The session with Morris had revved me up. My body needed to unwind. I traced her collarbones to the place where they formed a shallow hollow at the base of her throat. She smelled like the wildflowers in the mountain meadow of Tuolumne.
“Oh shit!” I said. “I almost forgot something really important. Reach over me and open the glove compartment. It’s a little brown box.”
I heard the glove snap open. “Is this it?” she asked.
“Open it. It’s a present for you.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“It’s a just because present. Just because we’ve been lovers for almost three months, and just because it says how much I love you.”
Rachel lifted the lid and took out a small, carved jade-stone heart on a gold chain. She looked at it for a long time. Finally she threw her arms around my neck.
“I love it.” She kissed me on the lips. “It’s the perfect size for me.”
“The right size,” I replied, gathering her close, “tiny, but lovely.” Watching the radiance on her face gave me a deep sense of peace. The feeling was not a condition that permeated much of my life, yet I was beginning to associate this fulfilled state with being with her—even when we weren’t making love.
“It’s precious. Where did you get this?”
“From the Hopi reservation in New Mexico,” I answered. “I’ve been saving it for a long time…until I knew who in my life it belonged to.”
She bent her neck toward me. “Can you put it on?”
I fastened the chain before settling back onto her chest. My jade heart dropped into the hollow between her collar bones, filling the space. “Delicately carved to size,” I whispered. My head on her breasts once more, I could hear Rachel’s breathing quicken as my hand stroked her thigh.
“I guess this means you really do love me?” she whispered.
I lifted my head. “That is why I asked you to join The Tide’s staff. I do want to see more of you.”
Rachel took my face in her hands. “Seriously, Jeanne, I can’t sit in a room every Thursday night with BeJo and other women you’ve slept with. I’m not like you. I’m not cut out for this non-monogamy. At least not with someone I’m in love with.”
My heart started pounding as I listened to Rachel’s words. Neither of us had told the other, I’m in love with you. In love went a step further than simple loving. It meant your body parts tingled when you heard that person’s voice, your skin gave off the wild scent of no return when you touched.
“Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about non-monogamy?” I asked, my voice troubled.
“It seemed like the right thing, what feminism says about not being possessive. But my heart feels otherwise. I should have stopped seeing you when I realized you lived with someone else.”
I groaned. This was definitely not the topic my body wanted.
“You promised me we’d see more of each other after you talked with BeJo and broke off your arrangement. When is that going to happen?”
I flinched. “I’ll talk to her.”
“You told me that last week.”
“Forget it.” I sat up. My body couldn’t take anymore false starts.
Rachel pulled me back down on top of her. “We’re not finished,” she soothed, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I love my heart. And I’m touched that you want to share The Tide with me. I know it’s the centerpiece of your life.”
“So,” I stroked her cheek, “you’re just saying no to joining because you’re viciously jealous?”
She fell back against the passenger door laughing. “You’d better finish what you started, or you’ll see vicious!”
I spread Rachel’s legs apart and adjusted myself on top of her, my left foot braced against the steering wheel. She brought up her skirt and wrapped her legs around my waist. Fleetingly, I was grateful that I’d parked close to the building and in the staff section. Free love at The Free Press meant never having to apologize for when, where or how much.
I pried loose the rest of her buttons and pressed my lips into her breasts searching for the root of what made me want Rachel so much, and so often. I’d never felt so physically gripped, so captured and compelled by a lover. My enslavement mystified me. The answer had to lie somewhere beneath the chocolate-toned freckles that lay over her pale skin. Tension gathered in my calf muscles and groin. My longing sought relief. I kissed her hungrily, and pulled her more tightly against me. My hand yanked her skirt up to her waist. I felt the fabric of my shirt rip, but her mouth on my nipples made it okay. I struggled with her knotted belt until it finally gave. My palm slid over her belly, my open jeans zipper scraped my knuckle as my fingers entered her and pressed a path. Her hips moved under me. My breath came tighter and shorter and I found her clit with my thumb.
“Jeanne,” she gasped, expelling my name with her breath. “Come to me.” She pulled my head up bringing my lips to hers as she cried out again, “Don’t let go!” With my other hand I gently cupped her mouth stifling the echoes of her orgasm. I sucked in her scream, filling my lungs with the sound of her pleasure. As her passion subsided, mine rose. She cupped my ass in her hands and p
ressed me against her thigh. The locus of power shifted between us, and the rush washed through me, forcing my mouth off hers.
Then tears came, as they almost always did with Rachel—out of joy or pain, I wasn’t sure. It was a grief that slept underneath who I was. First, the pounding drive. Then, the simple release. The intensity between us brought out both the feminine and the masculine in me, making them conscious of each other as they struggled for separation. In those moments I was safe—spirit without constraint. It felt like fate yet came as shockingly as a rogue wave rises out of the sea. Catching my breath, I realized that making love with Rachel fed my need to feel. This was the mystery of our connection. She was the time and place for me to feel.
My sobbing eased and I rolled to Rachel’s side, still clinging to her. Did she know that I found peace through her? I was too afraid to ask her.
“Jeanne,” she tugged my hair, “where are you?”
“I’m here,” I murmured, as I gathered her into my arms and began to rock us. “I love you.”
She started singing softly in my ear, the words from Keith Carradine’s surprise new hit about uneasy lovers. Humming along, I followed what I knew to be Rachel’s thoughts behind the lyrics as she sang about giving love away when one’s lover wasn’t free.
As she finished the last chorus line saying I’m easy, yeah I’m easy, I teased her. “Yes indeed, easy is the perfect work for you! You could come if I blew on you.”
Rachel smacked me playfully on the mouth. “Those aren’t the words I was hoping you’d say.”
“I’m calling you easy from now on…”
“Only between us,” she whispered. “I’m not this way with others. And you shouldn’t talk; you’re only seconds behind me!”
A ray of the slanting sun fell on Rachel’s forehead, bringing out gold strands in her hair shining against the dark upholstery.
When We Were Outlaws Page 29