Heading out to Sea Cliff, Geoff drove by a beige stucco mansion. Laura shouted excitedly, “There’s Robin Williams’s house!” She twittered about how he had read the books and sent JT a really sincere message about them.
We parked by a steep cement stairwell leading down to a small beach that looked like a murder scene in a Hitchcock movie. Gus said in a pleased tone, “Here. This is the place. Let’s do some pictures here.”
I wrapped my neck and chin in a grey knit scarf. The five of us gathered along the metal railing and leaned over. The waves below sucked up the black-pebbled beach. The Pacific Ocean stretched beyond. Tufts of foam drifted up through the air like dandelion fluff. They clung to the steps and coyote bush.
“I’ve got to get a picture of all of you,” Laura said, leaning her hip out to fish through her dirty black bag. She pulled out her disposable camera and made us block together. “Alright, Mozoltov!”
Mike put his arms around Geoff and me. Gus kept his arms folded and stood aside.
She looked at him and asked, “Am I stealing your shot?”
“No, I don’t mind waiting a bit,” he replied.
“Right then, get in,” she said, ushering him along with a flick of her hand. She hopped a little in her place, and I could tell her feet were cold in her diaphanous stockings and stout sandals.
Gus sidled hesitantly up to Geoff and stood with his arms still folded. Laura pulled her chin down and gave me a meaningful look, then she snapped three consecutive shots.
Mike shivered and said, “Let’s go. I’m freezing my balls off up here.”
“Yeah, me too,” Geoff agreed.
Following them down the steep, pock-marked cement stairs, I catalogued this balls expression for future use.
The black pebbles of the beach crunched like new snow underfoot. Doomed baby jellyfish reflected the cold winter sun. Gus directed me to stand in a ravine of driftwood. Blue Styrofoam, bleached plastic bottles, an ancient clock, and a blender adorned the smooth, twisted branches. I lifted my hand against my cheek to hide my “Marilyn” piercing above my lip: a beauty queen in a state of false surprise. Geoff and Mike watched, bracing themselves against the wind, their heads tucked into their necks like a couple of roosting birds. I stood frozen with hunched shoulders, what was fast becoming my signature pose.
After shooting about twenty pictures of this same pose, Gus said, “I can tell this makes you uncomfortable, JT.”
I nodded. Gus fussed for a moment with the F-stop on his camera.
Laura walked up to me and whispered, “Ask him if you can raid his minibar later, okay?”
I shooed her away.
Trying to project my voice over the wind, I turned to Gus and said, “My balls are real cold.” Had he heard me? It didn’t seem like it. I tried again, “My cold balls are about to freeze up.”
Without acknowledging my comment, Gus said, “I’ll take some pictures while you go up the stairs.”
Mike caught up to me and we scaled the steps in time with one other.
“How long?” I said, my breath growing uneven from the ascent, “How long were you on the street?”
“A few years . . . And you?”
I had no idea how long I’d been on the street. I thought he might swap stories with Gus later and it wouldn’t add up. I said, “She saved me. And Terry, my therapist. I don’t know where I would be without them.”
“Yeah,” he said, giving Laura a glance.
I kept my hands behind my back, one hand wrapped around my other wrist. This was the way I had often seen my mother walk up the stairs. Hearing the clicking of Gus’s camera, I quickly slid them into my pockets.
“Hold it right there, JT,” Gus instructed. He took a few more pictures of me looking down at my sneakers.
I trembled and chewed on my lips, hamming up my discomfort.
Mike laughed, “You really are a spaz, JT.”
I smiled a little demurely at him. Swiveling toward Gus, I said, “Are we done yet?”
“Let’s go eat!” Laura said.
Gus looked at his watch and said, “Well, our reservation isn’t for another hour, but I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Rubbing his hands together obsequiously, the maître d of Charles Nob Hill greeted us, “Monsieur Van Sant, we are so pleased to have you this evening.” He assessed the rest of us with a little dismay and said, “Please, follow me. I have your table ready for you.”
The maître d led us from the waiting room into an elegant dining room with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. Its walls were lined with sumptuous leather banquettes. The kitchen was enclosed, and two doors swung back and forth on their squeaky hinges as tuxedoed servers hurried to take care of the three other parties ensconced at opposing points of the room. The maître d swept his arms graciously to a round table in the middle of the room. We passed a middle-aged couple. She had shoulder-length dyed-blond hair and wore a knitted Chanel suit. He had the ruddy complexion of someone who enjoyed his cocktails and wore a pink oxford, a blue blazer with gold buttons, and a Rolex. They reminded me of some parents of the girls I’d gone to boarding school with. They glanced over their menus and took stock as we passed by.
I started to sit. The maître d pulled out a throne-like chair and waited for me to take my place. I sat down quickly and then stood up like there was a pin in the cushion. I grabbed Laura’s hand and whispered low, “I gotta’ go take a leak.” I was rather pleased with my improvisation and headed for the door with a gold silhouette of a portly gentleman.
The maître d eyed me and said, “No, Madame, this is for monsieurs.” I tightened up my neck up and blustered, “I am a boy!” hoping that my table had heard me, and remembering how Hilo, my ex, used to look when people mistook him for a girl. I glared at the maître d and pushed the door open forcefully to punctuate my feigned offence; I would have to thank Hilo, if I ever saw him again.
The bathroom smelled of talcum powder and cologne. The French wallpaper depicted repeating gold scenes of sheep and oak trees, little boys, shepherds, and women with bustles. I sat down on the pot sighing as I did my business. Even after I’d finished, I sat there for a while, wondering what it would be like to pee standing up. I washed my hands in the gold basin and dried them with one of those thick paper towels that are somewhere between paper and fabric and always feel like a waste to throw away. I pulled off my glasses and cleaned them with my damp towel, just to get a little more use out of it. A red indentation severed the bridge of my nose. I flipped over the empty gilt trash-can and stood on top of it. My butt looked big in powder blue corduroys with rubbed out knees and frayed hems. But the shirt was good, a ’50s plaid pajama shirt with heart-shaped buttons. I’d tried to pick clothes that emulated the look of the boy in the author photo on the back of Sarah. It felt strange, trying to look like a ghost. I ripped the wig off, closing my eyes for a second. I began to vigorously scratch my scalp, telling myself again that this evening of excess could be fun, couldn’t it? I’d gone to boarding school and I was aware of upper-middle-class rules—you don’t talk about money or ask personal questions or beg to raid mini-bars. I knew what fork to use for my salad and what spoon to use for my soup. Without the wig, Savannah could have sat down with that conservative couple and probably charmed the pants off of them. No. I yanked my blue wig back on. It was much more interesting to join forces with Laura and Geoff and forget all the conventions, proprieties, and inhibitions that could truss me up in a modern corset of mediocrity.
Returning to the table, Laura asked, “JT, do you want fish? I’m having the whole chicken. I’m pregnant, you know.” She directed this last bit to Mike.
I laughed without meaning to. I’d never used the “I’m pregnant” excuse; I usually used “I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”
Mike giggled, “Wow, I didn’t know.” He’d taken off his sweatshirt and was wearing a striped T-shirt worn down to a gossamer. I could see the blond woman and her husband at the next table sucking him in, repulsed yet fascinated, as if t
hey were watching porn or a car accident.
I said, “I think I might want the pork chops.”
Geoff cringed, “Ugh, pork.”
Laura scolded, “You don’t eat pork, JT! Astor,” she said to Geoff, “You’re going to get the fish, and, JT, you’ll have the quail, and I’ll have the chicken. That settles it. Oh my, look at Gus reading the wine list just like it’s the holy scripture!”
He held his wire-rimmed glasses like a monocle over one eye.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “They have a lot of really good wine.”
A stocky busboy with slick hair and a priest’s collared shirt arrived bearing a basket. He kept his tongs poised, a starched white napkin draped across his arm. He visited each of us, leaning ceremonially to reveal the contents of the basket. The bread was arranged from white to dark. “Fig, sour, levain, and black olive,” he repeated softly, as though he were reciting a liturgy. Then he took his tongs and gracefully set the bread on our plates. When finished, he back-stepped, bowed his head, and somberly reassembled the remaining slices into a continuous arrangement.
Gus said to Laura, “What do you think, Speedie? Chateau Lafite? A Pommard? A nice Burgundy, perhaps?”
She flashed him a charming grin, “Is that the pink bubbly? Do you think I know the first cluck about wine? JT is the one with the refined palette. ’E’s the one who put me up on the bonne chocolate. Though I can remember a time when he was eating Snickers bars. Now look, ’e’s all uppity from his talent!”
“And I’m draggin’ you along with me, Speedie,” I said. Fun, this was fun.
Gus grinned indulgently while Geoff leaned into me and said with knit eyebrows, “You aren’t going to have those porkchops, are you? You shouldn’t eat that stuff. I mean, this is a real high-end restaurant, but I don’t see any awareness on the menu about their meat being free range. Those chops could very well be from Porkshwitz. I’m going to check to see if that fish is wild, otherwise I might have to say I’m a vegetarian.”
Suddenly, the head waiter appeared and announced, “Oysters Rockefeller. Bon appetit.” A cohort of five servers delivered each of our party a heavy porcelain soup spoon with a dollop of something green and slimy topped with a sprig of parsley.
Without further formality, Mike slammed the whole thing like a shot of tequila, clanking the spoon on his teeth.
“Yeow,” he bellowed. He sanded his tongue with his napkin. “That tastes like snot! I think I cracked a tooth.”
The voyeurs at the next table shook their heads disapprovingly.
Gus looked at Mike affectionately and lamented, “Pauvre.”
Mike swallowed a big gulp of wine and insisted, “You can’t tell me it didn’t.”
Laura agreed, “It did.”
Geoff said, “Shellfish and everything like that makes me queasy. I like California rolls. The avocado and rice kind of back it up—but this stuff. Just looking at it makes me queasy. In fact, I can’t eat mine. Do you want it, Mike?”
“No, dude, you eat it. That’s not fair. That shit is gross. You haven’t been tortured like the rest of us. The chef made it special for you, too. Astor, eat it.”
Geoff laughed, “No, I can’t.”
The bread priest returned to the table.
Laura said, “Don’t eat too much bread, you guys. Don’t want to fill up on carbs.”
Mike said snidely, “Okay, Atkins-South-Beach Speedie.”
Laura giggled, “Right on,” and grabbed five pieces of bread, tying them up in her napkin. She batted her lashes coyly and said, “May I have another napkin when you get a chance?”
As the bread priest retreated, Mike reached back and grabbed a few slices from the basket. The affronted bread priest stuttered then abruptly stalked off.
Laura screamed, “Now you have ruined my chance of getting another napkin from that man, Mike!”
“I’m sorry, what did I do?” he asked, brandishing the bread between his teeth like a wild dog.
The head waiter cleared his throat. Laura initiated, “I’ll be havin’ the chicken and my little friend ’ere will be ’avin the quail and ’e’ll start with a smoked salmon. Astor, love, you gonna ’ave the fish. Let’s see, and I’ll start with a salad. I think we should order a few things for the table too—one of those artichoke souffles and maybe one of those scallops au Corsica? Astor, love, what’ll you be startin’ with?”
I took a deep breath and bit my tongue as I stared down at the menu. At the bottom it said: Three course prix fixe $189. Laura reached out and touched my arm in a motherly way. She whispered, “I’ll share my chicken with you.”
Mike yelled across the table, “JT, you’re so shy. Why don’t you let go a little?”
I shrugged, realizing that he was staring at me seductively with those soft blue-green eyes of his. I felt baffled and glanced at Gus, who was laughing a little under his breath. Mike leaned further over the edge of the table, nearly knocking over his wine glass, and said, “I want ’choo to hear my music, JT. You’ll like it.”
I said, “Um, I would like that.”
“JT, I feel like we came from the same place.”
Laura said, “I feel like you two did, too.”
Mike strained a little further across the table. “Do you want to go sneak a cigarette with me?”
“Fucking great,” Laura said, throwing up her hands. “JT shouldn’t be smoking, ’cept between meals! You all go on, then.” She patted my shoulder encouragingly.
I cringed—what would I do on my own? What would I possibly say to him? I looked from Mike to Gus to Mike again and muttered, “Okay, let’s go have a cigarette.”
Sheltered by a hunter green awning, we tumbled down the steps, smudging up the brass banister with our buttery fingers. Dense hedges framed the tall ’30s high rise. I could hear the far-off hum of cable cars. Mike tucked a Camel between his pouty lips, then expertly flicked his pack so as to offer me one. He cupped his hands and lit it, then took a long drag, gazing at me all the while. He passed me the lighter, and I fumbled with it, wondering what I was going to say to him. His eyes were on me all the while, and I could taste his exhaled smoke on the back of my tongue. I felt that intense insecurity that always ensues right before a kiss. I swallowed uncomfortably just as the heavy door swung open at the top of the landing. Suddenly, Laura burst out, clutching her disposable camera. I couldn’t believe how relieved I was to see her, to hear the bubbling of her phony cockney.
She pointed accusingly, “Aha! I’ve caught you: smoking cigarettes and getting dirty fingernails! You look disreputable! You should be ashamed of yourself, you there with your dirty wig!”
I raised my stubby hands and displayed my chewed-up fingernails. She continued, now pointing at Mike, “And, you, you with your lipstick!”
Mike exclaimed, “I don’t wear lipstick, Speedie! My lips are just like this!”
Laura said, “A likely story! JT did a photo shoot last week for the first time and he put on lipstick. It was fucking brilliant! And you didn’t fuck the photographer. I was so proud of you, JT.” Then she said in a conspiratorial tone as if I weren’t there, “He used to have sex with anything that paid him a compliment.”
“Really, JT?” Mike said, “I can’t imagine you being, like, that forward.”
“It was more like resignation. Like a dog rolling over.” Then, holding up her camera, she said, “Can I take a picture of you two together smoking?”
Mike asked, “Why’re you always taking pictures?”
“Because JT’s my family. And you guys look very sweet together.”
Mike put his arm around me and leaned his head into my neck.
Laura said, “That’s beautiful!”
I held my cigarette flamboyantly, blowing the smoke out with a push of breath, the way Chuckie and Frankie did when they brought a date back to the loft. I affected arabesques, lifting the cigarette up and down and up again to my lips.
Laura said, “Why don’t you guys kiss each other?”
Mik
e and I smelled each other’s cheeks, then pecked on the lips like children. Laura clicked her shutter. The flash sounded like a doppler, rising in pitch.
Mike said nervously, “But you’ve got to be careful because I don’t want this to get back to my agent.”
Laura winked and giggled dangerously, “I can see the headlines now: Teen heartthrob hot for JT LeRoy!”
Mike gave Laura a that’s-not-funny look.
Laura said, “Don’t worry, we wouldn’t actually do that.”
“But you were in Hedwig and the Angry Inch?” I countered.
“My agent definitely didn’t like that.” Mike turned to me, “But I loved your books, JT. So they can fuck off.”
Laura and I smiled at one another, and she said, “Let’s get back to dinner!”
As soon as we sat down, with the assistance of the maître d, who insisted on pulling out my chair for me, the waiters presented our appetizers. They had to rearrange a few bread plates to make room for the extra souffle and scallops. I gobbled up my salmon in a few bites, ravenous from the afternoon spent in the cold air.
Geoff smiled at me and said, “I wish Hennessy were here. She would really enjoy this.”
Alarm bells trilled in my head: how could he mention our sister’s name so nonchalantly?
Laura licked her spoon and groaned, “Delicious.” She winked at Geoff and blew him a kiss. He laughed easily and grabbed at the air for it.
Next, the cohort of waiters proffered a lobster custard with caviar, which was received much more graciously than the chef’s previous snot appetizer. I felt my cheeks grow rosy from the wine. When the entrees arrived, we dug in with gusto, though after a few bites I felt my little-boy underwear begin to pinch at the waistline. I continued eating anyway. Laura passed vegetables to Geoff.
Gus turned to me, “Are you happy with the restaurant choice, JT?”
“Gus,” Laura said, “It’s a pleasure he has waited for all of his life. Here, JT, try Astor’s fish.” She quickly switched our plates.
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