“You okay?” the cute cop asks, dialing.
I nod—I really am okay. I’m great, actually. I just now realized that when a cop brings you home, your mom can’t tell you to stay away. I’m going home. I’m going to have a bath in a tub and see Marianne and Davy and I can make up and—
“Mrs. Commagere? This is Officer Malone from the San Francisco Police. I’ve just picked up your son Jason.” (pause) “No, he’s fine.” (pause) “We need to transport him back to you, so if you could—excuse me?” (long pause, cute cop glances over at me and my heart skips a beat) “Yes. Okay. What’s the address?” He scribbles, I glance over—it’s not any place I recognize. Did they move? “We’ll see you in about 45 minutes.”
Officer Malone doesn’t cuff me this time. That summer rain shows up—it starts as we head south on the 101. We cross the Dumbarton Bridge. Again, we don’t talk. I’m not quite so giddy anymore, because I don’t know what’s happening. We pull up in front of a house I don’t recognize. A sign on the gate says DR. JEFFREY INGULSRUD, FAMILY COUNSELOR.
My mom’s therapist. My heart races.
Is this where they hook you up to electrical wires to make you stop being gay?
“It’s okay, son,” Malone says, his hand now firmly on my shoulder. My knees wobble as we walk up to the porch. The cop knocks once on the door and an old bald guy with a scruffy beard opens it. He looks like the absent-minded professor.
“I’m Dr. Ingulsrud,” he says. “Please come in.”
It’s pouring now, like it does in movies when bad things are about to happen. We wipe mud off our feet before entering. Dr. Ingulsrud doesn’t look at me, just at my mom, who stands toward the back. She’s perfect, as always, even in the middle of the night. Her hair’s up and neatly pinned. She’s wearing a yellow shirt tucked into black pants. She doesn’t look a bit wet. She doesn’t smile or speak, just smokes her cigarette and drops the ashes in a cup on the little table. I check around for the wires but see nothing. The doctor goes to her, leans down and whispers. She nods and finally looks over at us.
“Jason, come with me,” she says. Her voice sounds natural and good. Maybe this will turn out all right. “Officer Malone, will you please stay? I won’t be long.”
“Sure.”
Maybe she’s sending me to Juvie, like she did Paul. Not much I can do about it now. Officer Malone smiles and gives me a slight nudge. I follow my mother into a room that used to be a bedroom, but now has only a table, a couch, and a chair. The doctor trails; he still hasn’t looked at me.
No wires here, either.
“Call me if you need me.” He pats her arm and leaves.
My mother stands facing me, arms crossed. She does not smile. She wears no expression at all; even her eyes are blank. My arms hang at my side. I’m having a little trouble breathing. My skin’s prickly. I want to cry but something won’t let me. I stand as still as I can and wait.
“Well?” she asks, and now her eyes are like lasers; boring into me.
I won’t let myself look away. “Well, what?” She wants me to be scared, and I am. But I’m not going to let her see it.
“You have something to say to me?”
I press my lips together. I shake my head no. She wants me to ask her forgiveness. But for what?
“Nothing??”
She wants me to beg her to let me come home.
“I don’t get it, Jason. You make that cop drag me out of bed at this ungodly hour of the morning and you have nothing to say?”
“No.” Nothing she wants to hear.
“Has anything changed?” Her eyes flash, worse than the night she put me out.
“Like what?” I match her tone, best I can.
“Are you still a fag?”
It’s like being punched where it makes you not able to breathe. I can’t talk. My mouth drops open. I have to let the word hang there. I need time to fully take it in. Finally, I take a deep breath and speak.
“I’m still gay, if that’s what you mean.”
This is when it happens.
This is what I will forget.
My mother too takes a long, deep breath. Her head jerks. She steps away from me, puts a hand on the doorknob, turns again to stare. Her voice drops deep into her body.
“No child of mine is a faggot.”
She waits. Is it a second or a year?
“Do you understand? You are not my son. I DON’T HAVE A FAGGOT FOR A SON.”
I think of dogs growling.
Of snails being crushed under shoes.
“Good for me then.” I make my voice every bit as cold as hers. “Good for me.”
“What did you say??” Deadly.
A blink. “I said—good.”
Our eyes lock, the world goes away.
“Fag,” she whispers.
“Fuck you.”
She expands like a nightmare monster, growing eight feet tall in an instant and swooping down on me. I see her hand swing back so I close my eyes. She slaps me so hard in the face, my head whips around and I fly into the wall behind me. I see stars and scramble up anyway. I try not to cry but tears come; I don’t know how to hold them back. She stares at me, her green eyes burning into my brain. As much as I want to, I can’t look away.
She blinks once, slowly, and just a hint of a smile flickers across her face. Suddenly, she’s a stranger to me, someone I’ve never even met. She turns, walks through the door, and gently closes it behind her.
It doesn’t completely shut.
Through the crack, I peek to the other room. She lights a cigarette, her hands shaking. Mine are too. She starts to cry. The therapist puts an arm around her, pats her shoulder. Officer Malone glances toward the door, then puts his hand on her other shoulder. They all start to talk, low and intense. I can’t hear the words, but I know what they’re planning. Malone glances again.
I know what I have to do.
I shut the door and quietly push the button to lock it. My whole body’s shaking now. I can barely crawl through the old sash window. I scratch my arm on a nail and see it start to bleed, but don’t feel the cut. I drop to the ground and move as quick as I can, staying in the trees alongside the road, making it harder for them to follow. I look for the railroad tracks we saw coming out. If I can find them, I can find my way.
How do I know this?
There they are! I fly along them and round a bend and in this instant, know exactly where I am: these are the tracks where Davy, Paul, and I used to play, they’re only a mile from the old house. I find the street. I go almost the exact path I took that first night, down to the train, to BART, passing St. Anne’s.
At the station, I stand in the shadow of the pillar over on the side where the train will stop. I pray I haven’t missed the last train. I stand straight, not touching anything. The rain’s stopped. I don’t know how long I wait. My legs tremble slightly from the running. Someone speaks to me, a guard? I stare at him; he shakes his head and blows air out of his mouth and moves away.
My body slowly disappears; my hands, my head, my face, gently drifting, like fog in wind. The train pulls in and I watch myself walk through the door, find a seat. I sit straight, upright, alone in the car. I don’t move. I don’t look out the window. I blink and we go down under the ocean. I feel? hear? the click-clacking on the tracks; it wraps around me, keeps me in place. I blink and watch myself climbing the stairs up out to the city.
Market Street’s empty, like the first night. I go a block and then, suddenly, my body returns and I cannot walk one more step. I’m too heavy with pain I have no way to describe except that it seems to have soaked into every cell. I duck into an alley to lean against the wall, stare into—what? There is no city anymore.
No sky.
No lights or trees.
No stars or buildings.
I am connected to nothing.
A cricket chirps.
A breeze touches my cheek.
I draw in air—once, then again. How long have I been standing? A stray
dog sniffs my fingers and I look down at him, scraggly and skinny. He dips his muzzle under my hand and peers up with his sad, dark dog eyes. I stroke his head a few times. He licks me once and trots off down the street. Somehow I manage to push myself up off the wall. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I put one foot forward, then the other. I don’t see what’s around me. I’m not sure when I end up at Dolores Park, or why I find a corner to huddle in. Why I take out my green sweater to wrap around my shoulders when I don’t feel cold. I blink and watch Tommy and Nick come across the grass. Nick says words but I’m not getting them. Tommy hunkers down and gathers me in, holds me, rocks me. He strokes my face with his hand.
I don’t feel it.
How could I? I don’t really exist.
I’m only the skin that binds me together and the bones that hold me up.
1979
ONE YEAR BEFORE
LOS ANGELES COUNTY
Definitely boys’ night out. Mark, Jack, and me are in Mark’s car with a shitload of guys, heading to Cathay de Grande in Hollywood, to see African Dogs. The lead singer, Tony, is a friend of ours. Rosie’s on a trip to see her dad in Sacramento and Stacie’s hanging out with some old friends. Probably her ex-boyfriend Carlos from Argentina is one of them. Maybe she is half-Mexican. She sure as hell doesn’t mind being around them. I don’t care—Tony’s probably going to ask me up on the stage tonight. I’m damn sure ready to sing in a club. The band’s okay, but we’re wasting our time doing yard parties. We need to move forward. I have to get my life going.
“I’m getting laid tonight,” Mark announces, passing me the O.J., which is, of course, half vodka.
I stare at his profile as I drink. He’s got to be at least twenty-seven now, if not older, and all he hangs out with are teenagers.
“That’s messed up, man.” I settle back and drink.
“You should talk.” He cranks up Black Flag.
“That’s way different. Stacie’s older.” And probably with Carlos right now.
“Yeah, well, what Rosie don’t know ain’t gonna hurt her.” The car pulls up to the curb. He yanks the brake, leers at me, climbs out.
I’m drunker than I thought and stumble when I get out of the car, go down to one knee. Mark laughs. I shove him into the bougainvillea along the sidewalk. He scratches his hand on the thorns and comes running at me, body slams me into his car, starts my hip throbbing.
“Fuck you, man,” I say, shoving him again. I hate how my goddamn hip interferes with everything. I stomp off down the street, trying not to limp. He tosses a rock that hits me in the back of my head and the cut bleeds a little onto my shirt. I flip him off without turning around, take out my flask, and down it.
“Sorry, man, you gotta be eighteen.” The bouncer at the door stops me. “Let me see the license.”
“Dude, it’s way back in the car. I never bring shit here.”
“Sorry. Need that I.D.”
Tony sees me just in time, writes our names on the guest list and ushers me in. He takes me backstage to meet the rest of the band. I wait for them to invite me to sing, but he rambles on and on about some guy that wants them to sign a record contract. He goes to finish unloading and I head back to the main room. Mark and them come in but now I don’t even care about them. I keep my distance. When the African Dogs get going, it occurs to me I could do as good as, if not better than, Tony.
“Animals walk on all fours—rending talons crushers.”
Stupid lyrics. I jump in the circle to skank. Skanking is second nature already, feels like coming home. I focus on the bodies in front of me, on staying up and taking the blows as they come. My head mellows as the music and my heartbeat amp up. Around and around we go. I am finding my place, knowing where I am. Dancing with my tribe, in sync with my soul.
From out of nowhere, Tony lands on my shoulders, holding the mic, singing away. I grab his legs to keep him steady. We wail around the place, swerving and knocking into people, going the wrong way, turning around. He does something—grabs the wall, or maybe hits the ceiling with his head, I don’t know—and he starts to fall. I hold on to his legs, too wasted to figure out why not just let go, so I fall with him. I split my chin open on the stage. Tony disappears. Mark pulls me up so I don’t get trampled.
“Where the hell is Stacie?!” I yell, forgetting she didn’t come.
Mark moves me to the side. He’s laughing like crazy. “Ah, man, what an idiot, dude, that was hysterical.”
I don’t think; I hit him. He hits me back. In seconds, this blossoms to a full-on brawl. Bouncers move in and the next thing we know, we land on the street in front of the club. Not just me and Mark, but all the people we came with, plus some. I taste blood.
“Don’t come back,” the bouncer says.
“Man, this is your fault, Doug,” Jack says. Mark’s bleeding from his mouth. Looks like he cut his lip with his tooth.
I lift my middle finger.
“We’re going,” Jack announces and starts toward the street with our car. Mark and the rest trail after. Not one looks back.
“Who needs you?” I yell, wiping my mouth and getting blood all over my sleeve. My chin’s got a gash down the side and there’s a hole where my tooth used to be. I stumble to the edge of a planter, still totally smashed. They turn the corner. I could catch up if I went now.
I don’t and minutes later, they drive past. Mark flips me off. I return the favor but now I’ve got no way home. I try to think when Stacie will be back so she can come get me, but then I can’t remember her phone number. So what. I’ll just sit here, see what happens.
A car stops in the middle of the street, the Dead Kennedys blasting from inside. A guy waves. I recognize him, but can’t call his name.
“Need a ride?” he yells.
I cross Hollywood Boulevard—not easy at this time of night—and climb in the backseat. We go down to Oki Dogs for something to eat. My chin throbs but it’s nothing compared to inside my mouth. The nerve must be exposed. I can’t eat anything, I can’t even open my mouth. Somebody has vodka and I chug it straight. My shirt’s bloody. I wish I knew where Stacie was. I wonder if I could get ahold of Carl. The guys are going out to Claremont to a party but I don’t want to. I know how to get home, I don’t need anybody’s help. I wait for the bus on the bench outside Oki Dogs. I spit a gob of blood and look around.
This street sucks. Too many faggot whores, walking around in their stupid tight pants and acting like they got a right to be here. Assholes. It’s got to be obvious that I’m no faggot, but cars still slow down and check me out.
“Fuck you, queer!” I yell at one of them; he speeds away.
A Mercedes pulls up. I’m ready to cuss him too, but when he rolls down the window, he doesn’t look gay.
“You okay, man?” he asks. “You need a ride?”
“No, man. I’m cool.” Talking hurts.
“Quite a gash you got there,” he says. “Want me to take a look? I’m a doctor.”
“Fuck off.”
“Bit of a bad mood, are we?” He chuckles a little. “Are you sure, now? It looks like a pretty deep cut. I’ve got my bag in the back.”
I don’t answer. He backs the car to right in front of the bus bench. “I’ve got something I can put on it, it might help.”
I’m trying to wrap my brain around this but I’m not doing so good and suddenly notice his pants are unzipped. His dick is sticking straight up. He’s holding himself, jerking off.
“Why don’t I just come over there and fill up that hole for you?” he says, yanking faster, starting to pant.
I bash in the side of his door with my boot and manage to bend his antenna straight back before he gets it together to drive. I grab the trash can to throw at him, but it’s chained to the bus bench so all I do is hurt my hand. A couple of faggots on the other side of the street start to laugh. I march toward them; they scatter. Now my hand hurts as well as my face.
Back at the bus stop, I won’t sit down a
gain. I pace until the bus finally shows up. I sit in the way back, across from a kid who reminds me of myself, two years ago, with his mean face on, looking stupid. We go down Santa Monica Boulevard and everywhere I look there’s some faggot whore. Young kids, old queens, like cockroaches spilling out of bars. They kiss right there, on the street, groping each other. Makes me want to puke.
This whole city sucks. The air’s poison, nobody gives a shit about anyone else. Everybody’s out for their own. Get in the way and you’re toast. The whole country’s going down. You barely see a white face anywhere.
The bus lumbers to the stop closest to Stacie’s and I hoof it over, my jaw hurting with each step. She’s home when I get there, alone with her sister, watching some old horror flick. She takes one look my face and goes for the Mercurochrome. Makes me rinse with salt water and finds oil-of-cloves for my tooth. She hands me something from a prescription bottle and I take three, then one more for good measure.
I am so damn tired of getting beat down.
1979
ONE YEAR BEFORE
SAN FRANCISCO
{1}
“Okay. You win. I’ll do it.”
“No shit?” Nick mumbles, mouth full of burger. “You serious?”
“Yeah. Why not, huh?”
It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about it for months, and the second the words are out, it feels right. It’s time. I’m tired of begging and digging through garbage. I don’t know why I’ve waited so long. Like Adam says—I do it for free anyway.
Adam shakes his head with amazement; Tommy grins; the new kid, Brandon, just stares. Was I ever that stupid?
“Let’s go, okay?” I stand up. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I want to get it over with, I want the first time behind me.
“Look sexy,” Tommy instructs, “and do not go anywhere with anyone until you see my signal.” I got the crash course on the way to Polk Street. Now he ducks into a doorway with Adam nearby and pretends he’s cleaning his nails.
I sit on the bench. I smile at cars. I drop my head slightly and peer up from under my long lashes. I’m cool until a car finally slows down, then I almost chicken out. The guy doesn’t even fully stop. Why didn’t he? What’s wrong with me? A couple of old ladies drive by just then, the tight-faced one shakes her head at me. I flip her off.
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