“But tell me about yourself, Peter. What do you do?”
“I work for a small nonprofit that supports independent filmmaking. But I’m kind of looking for another job. The pay’s okay and I like the people I work with, but the commute is horrible. It takes me over an hour each way.”
“What do you do for them?” He began to play with his necklace, running his fingers around the shells.
“Right now, I do marketing and publicity,” I explained. “But I’ve done about everything else—operations, office management, even tech. I recently created a website for them. And I’ve worked on a couple of film crews, too, but just small-time. I just like hanging around filmmakers, seeing things being put together. I’ve been doing that for about six years now.”
“Hmmm….” Kap grabbed a maraschino from the tray and popped it into his mouth, pulling the sword-shaped plastic pick out slowly while looking into the distance. “Well, you know, Peter, this might be the beginning of a whole new adventure for both of us.” He eyed someone in a red flannel shirt a few feet away and tossed the discarded toothpick at his back like a tiny dagger, snorting.
“What do you mean?” I asked, watching Kap’s target walk away.
“Well, I’m kind of looking for someone to work for me at my film company.”
“You run a film company?” I asked incredulously.
“You might say that.” He gestured to the bartender for another bolero. “It’s probably a little different than what you’re used to,” he continued. “But you sound qualified. And I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy it very much.” He gave me a wink with a slight nod, and an array of wrinkles skimmed across his face, conveying a roguish charm. A large gold earring glinted in the pinkish light as he turned his head to pay the bartender.
“So what kind of—”
“The best thing,” he interjected, “or one of the two best things, is the location. I know you would love it, Peter.”
“Well, as long as I don’t have to take mass transit for over an hour or have to drive down 101 during commute hours,” I replied. “But where is it?”
“It’s not so much where it is, it’s what it is.”
Time for me to order another drink, I thought, trying not to furrow my brow. I started to raise my finger to signal the bartender, but Kap immediately cupped my hand with both of his and bent toward me affectionately. The Calvados on his breath smelled as sweet and tart as freshly picked apples.
“Ever been on a houseboat, Peter?”
“A houseboat? No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“That’s where I work—and live. You’ve been to Sausalito, right?”
“Sure, plenty of times,” I answered. “And I’ve driven by the harbor, but I’ve never really looked at the houseboats there. I’ve heard a lot about them, though.”
“Well, they’ve got plenty of tales to tell. Especially mine.” He swallowed the rest of his drink and plopped the tumbler on the counter. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“I was just going to take the bus home, maybe pick up a burrito on the way and rent a DVD. I’m on this Errol Flynn kick right now. I like those old swashbuckler movies.”
Kap smiled and nodded knowingly. “Why don’t you come with me? I can show you my place and we can talk more about your new job.”
I licked the traces of coconut cream from my lips and thought carefully—for about ten seconds. “Sure, sounds good!” I had never been on a houseboat and felt giddy at the opportunity.
Matching my uncontrollable grin with one of his own, Kap escorted me out of the bar and up the sidewalk. He was much taller than me and broader across the shoulders, and his leather coat seemed large enough to envelop me like a small tent. With a swaggering walk, he nevertheless exhibited a slight limp, one of his heavy boots making an audible thump on the concrete. We got into a black SUV and headed up Franklin Street toward Lombard Street, the main route that cut through the Marina district toward the Golden Gate Bridge. As we drove onto the bridge, the fog that too often marred many San Francisco summer days dominated the sky, lending a slight chill to the air. But as we, after crossing over, approached the tunnel with the bright rainbow painted over the arch, I could see the clear blue sky of Marin at the other end of the wide opening. As we drove through, it was as if we were entering another world. The tips of evergreens lining the side of the highway ahead of us poked into view as a brisk breeze tossed them to and fro.
Once through the tunnel, Kap suddenly stepped on the accelerator as if we were being pursued. I instinctively turned my head to see if there was anyone on our tail but saw nothing to account for the unexpected increase in speed. The car began racing down the long, curving incline of the infamous Waldo Grade, giving me the sensation of flying. I glanced at the speedometer and saw that we were going past 70, then 80 mph. Were the tires still touching the asphalt? I wondered. We quickly passed a silver Mercedes, a white Lincoln, and a dark red van on the right, and then a green Audi and a jeep on the left. Other vehicles were quickly added to the list. I continued to clutch my shoulder strap tightly for almost a mile until we approached the Sausalito exit. I finally let out a breath.
“Sorry about the speed, Peter,” said Kap. “I’m used to driving on my own and usually forget what it’s like for a passenger.” Slowing down, he turned the car off the highway and onto Bridgeway, which led one toward the main part of town.
“That’s okay,” I murmured, tasting the slight regurgitation of rum and pineapple juice in my mouth. “I thought maybe we were being chased,” I jested.
“Well, if we were, they’d never catch me. You can be sure of that, matey.” He made a sharp left turn and lurched the car into a large parking lot that extended toward the harbor. Driving past rows of cars on each side, he pulled into a space between a shiny black Buick and a tarnished Karmann-Ghia. Overhead was a sign that announced “Waldo Harbor.” As I got out of the car, my attention was drawn to what looked like several houseboats scattered near the shore. Walking toward them, however, I saw that they were little more than wooden shacks, some more dilapidated than others, all needing paint jobs. I was startled to see what looked like a huge paddlewheel lying deserted on the dirt. On the water nearby was the near-wreckage of a wooden structure resting on the crumbling remains of an old hull, ready to collapse into the harbor at any moment.
“Don’t bother looking at those,” said Kap. “Those have been here at least since the ’60s, if not earlier, when anyone able to hammer two boards together made a floating home here. Let’s go up ahead.” He gestured toward a large wooden dock with hand railings. It led toward what appeared to be the wide entrance to a docked ferry. Getting closer, however, I saw that the archway was really the entryway onto one of the main docks at Waldo Point. Peering through, I could already see that this was indeed a different “neighborhood” than the area near the parking lot. It was a new world that Kap had taken me to! But instead of a rainbow painted overhead was a sign proudly announcing “Issaquah Dock.”
With his now familiar thump resounding on the wooden planks, Kap led me down the dock, which turned out to be the main thoroughfare that ran through an astoundingly beautiful and well-maintained assortment of houseboats. On both sides, resting on concrete hulls (instead of floating on the water, as I expected) were dozens of homes, all apparently made of wood but each displaying a distinct architectural design. Some reminded me of the charming Victorian and Edwardian houses found in San Francisco’s Noe Valley, with trim painted in contrasting colors and interiors likely decorated with wainscoting and moldings. Others seemed to derive their inspiration from modernism, using bold angles and clean lines to define their shapes, with windows and skylights placed in dramatic positions. A handful looked even more eclectic, drawing from several different aesthetics, sometimes melding Western and Eastern styles with uniquely constructed exteriors, suggesting ranches as well as ashrams, with tributes to both Frank Lloyd Wright and the Buddha. This was prime real estate, I surmised. There were others too, of
course, which were more modest in both appearance and expense. One that caught my attention looked little more than a tugboat, with paneled widows that almost encircled the entire exterior. Now that was one I could live in all by myself, I thought.
“I don’t believe any of this!” I blurted out as I came across a stunning multilevel structure done in a sweeping contemporary style that might otherwise be found on the steep hillsides overlooking Sausalito, as well as in the pages of Architectural Digest. “And the gardens, too,” I added, looking back at the length of the dock we had traversed. Along the edges in front of every residence were well-groomed pots from which grew flowering plants, small trees, prairie grass, or vines curling over trellised gateways. “This is like a real neighborhood!”
“It is, matey,” replied Kap, displaying his characteristic grin. “But you haven’t seen my place yet.” He gestured me around an unexpected turn on the walkway.
“Oh, there’s more!” I exclaimed in delight, seeing additional houseboats ahead as I turned the corner.
“Here she is,” announced Kap proudly, resting his hands on his hips. “What do you think?”
I gasped, frozen in my tracks. In front of me stood a houseboat that was no larger than most of the structures I had already seen but which certainly surpassed any of them in architectural outrageousness. With a façade that recalled the exterior of an old merchant ship, it looked exactly like the stern of a pirate ship! Two rows of paneled windows dominated most of the surface, separated by a row of balustrades painted in white and gold enclosing a shallow balcony that wrapped around both sides. Below this façade of windows and balustrades which indicated the upper floors, the ground floor’s exterior consisted of a broad and attractive swath of dark wood broken up by a pair of French doors in the middle, trimmed in black, and flanked by windows made of stained glass. Most of the surface of the ship (I could hardly call it just a houseboat) was also covered in the same dark wood, trimmed throughout with carvings of foliage and mythical beasts painted in contrasting tones of black, white, gold, and green, with touches of blood red here and there. I was tempted to step backward to see if there were masts and sails protruding at the top—or even a Jolly Roger flying from a pole—but I was jolted back into reality by Kap’s hand on my shoulder.
“A little stunned, are we, matey?” he asked.
“I’m in shock, Kap. I mean, how did you ever get this place? Did you do all of this yourself?” I paused to marvel at the carvings over the front door, seeing what looked like the image of Pan playing his flute, cavorting with some animals. He laughed, amused at my exhilaration.
“No, no, my boy. I sort of inherited this place. A friend of mine left it for me, after he passed away. And I inherited his business too. I wasn’t born a filmmaker, you know. Although I’ve been at it for a while, since—well, since I was about your age. Want to come aboard?”
Kap opened the set of French doors with a large key. We were immediately greeted by a loud “Squaawwk!” followed by an almost blinding flurry of turquoise and golden yellow in our faces.
“Tink!” yelled Kap, raising his arm. I jumped back as a brightly colored parrot flew across the foyer and embedded its claws in his sleeve. “Now be a good girl. We’ve got a guest.”
The bird looked at me cautiously, then proceeded to groom its feathers with its formidable beak, raising a wing of royal blue that tapered into a brilliant shade of blue-green.
“I inherited her too,” explained Kap. “She’s almost as old as I am—in bird years!”
I glanced around what seemed to be an enormous open kitchen and dining room, separated by a huge butcher block countertop, over which hung what at first looked to me like ladders woven of coarse rope suspended from the ceiling and stretched across in rustic canopies. I realized these were meant to look like replicas of a ship’s rigging, with hooks from which hung pots, pans, and baskets filled with fruits and vegetables. In the center of the dining room stood a large round table, constructed of an old ship’s wheel on which rested a round sheet of smoked glass, surrounded by a mismatched collection of wooden chairs. An assortment of breakfast bowls and spoons was strewn across, along with boxes of cereal—mainly Cap’n Crunch!—and a lonely plate of French toast, interspersed with splashes of milk and discarded banana and mango peels.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess, matey,” said Kap with a sigh. “Michael promised to take the boys to Muir Woods today, so they all dashed out early without cleaning up. Normally it’s a lot cleaner. I make sure of that.” He carried Tink over to her perch, which stood on the other end of the dining room near an elaborate stairway constructed seemingly of cast iron, then walked over to a coat rack near the front door to hang up his leather coat. As he removed it, I couldn’t help but notice the tightness of his pants, which shaped the contours of his buttocks adoringly. Nice butt, I thought to myself, especially for an older guy. And I could be working for him!
As Kap turned around, I quickly averted my eyes and surveyed a row of pegs on the wall behind him from which hung a wild array of knitted hats, baseball caps, hoodies, and jackets. At least three skateboards were piled on the floor, along with a jumble of backpacks, messenger bags, flip-flops, and sneakers. What looked like the results of a recent visit to Costco—cases of bottled drinks, snacks, and paper towels—were also stacked by the door.
“How many, uh, boys live here?” I asked, still trying to chase thoughts of Kap’s buttocks from my mind.
“Five,” answered Kap, “along with John and Michael, who take care of them and work at the company as well—they’re both great cameramen. But those boys can be a handful, that’s for sure.” He shook his head at the disarray at his feet, then looked up at the ceiling. “They’ve got free rein on the top floor. John and Michael have their rooms on the second floor, in the back. I’m in the front, next to the office. There’s also another guest room in the front, which opens onto the balcony, along with another one here on the ground floor.” He pointed past the dining room to an area behind a wall dominated by a mural of an exotic seascape with mermaids and dolphins. “So if you take this job, you can have a room here as well, to use whenever you want. Although you probably won’t want the one on this floor. It can get kind of noisy being next to the living room.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what to make of the situation. “Maybe we can talk more about the position. Do you have a job description?”
“A job description?” Kap looked at me with a wry expression. “Well, no, my boy. This isn’t something I’d have posted on craigslist. But you sound like the person who can do the job—a little bit of everything, kind of a ‘jack-off of all trades’, you might say.” He started to chuckle but stopped, noticing the wrinkle on my brow. “Peter! I hope I haven’t said anything wrong. You look kind of worried.”
“No, no,” I asserted. “I just wasn’t clear about the position. Usually employers want to see a resume and have a whole list of questions—that is, if you get chosen for an interview. And more often than not, they have more than one person present.”
Kap looked across the room as if making a decision, then turned back to look at me, nodding. “All right, matey. We can do that. In fact—” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, the boys should be returning home any minute now. If you don’t mind, let me get myself cleaned up a bit. Help yourself to a beer in the fridge—oh, I think there might even be some pineapple juice—and I’ll be back in a few minutes. You can relax in the living room.” He gestured again toward the back of the house and dashed upstairs, leaving me as confused as ever.
Did he expect me to have a resume to show him now? Was this really going to be an interview? Who was going to be joining us? John and Michael? The boys? The parrot?
I sauntered toward the living room, suddenly noticing how the ceiling sparkled everywhere. One point in the middle seemed to glow especially bright, like the North Star. This must all be really beautiful when it’s dark, I thought. The room was dominated by a huge flatscreen TV and an entertainme
nt center, which were encircled by two sectional couches and a pair of leather recliners. A board game featuring a treasure hunt, seemingly in progress, a tumble of video games, and stacks of graphic novels and comics covered a coffee table that looked like it was carved out of the bottom of a massive tree trunk, its thick roots gripping a moss-colored shag rug. A trio of palm trees, along with a tall banana tree, stood strategically below a row of windows high up on one wall, functioning like skylights. The late afternoon sun filtered across the room, its beams filled with what looked like pixie dust, and fell onto a row of photographs hanging on the opposite wall. Even from a distance I could see that they were scenes taken of a jungle or rainforest, perhaps the Amazon. In one photograph, indigenous warriors, looking stern and proudly adorned with elaborate feather headdresses and facial piercings, stood holding their spears. In another, a fierce crocodile lay in a muddy river, looking out menacingly toward the viewer. I could hear the faint but unmistakable ticking of a clock hanging overhead. Against the far wall stood bookcases stocked with books, DVDs, and video games. I wondered if I could find any of Kap’s films, I thought as I walked over.
I glanced at the expected assortment of action and adventure films featuring Johnny Depp, Matt Damon, and the like. Usual guy stuff, I thought… until I saw a row near the bottom.
Jesus! Was that porn? Gay porn? I pulled one off the shelf that featured two very young men, shirtless and barely out of adolescence, on the cover. Looking at the reverse, there was no doubt. Featured was a series of stills displaying the two men, sometimes with others, completely nude, sporting huge hard-ons, and engaging in sex acts—blissfully sucking cock and fucking and kissing. I reached for a few other DVDs from the shelf and saw that they were similar. These must be Bel Ami, I thought, the studio that specialized in gay porn with unbelievably handsome and well-endowed young males, all looking dangerously under-aged. Looking over the covers, however, I saw that all of them were released under a different label that I was not at all familiar with. I began to feel an unmistakable stirring in my loins and instinctively adjusted my cock, which was pushing itself relentlessly against the crotch of my jeans. Oh, if I were alone with these DVDs, I’d have endless hours of pleasure! I paused for a second to see if I could hear Kap upstairs in the shower. As I looked up, the sparkles in the ceiling seemed to pulsate like stars. I could almost hear the trees breathing in the room. The thick roots of the coffee table seemed ready to reach for my legs. Oh, take a long one, take a long one, I begged Kap as I grabbed my rebellious cock, which had now inched itself down my thigh. Make it long, please!
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