Russian River Rat

by Abramson, Mark

  “I don’t think he was heading straight home, dear. He said something about going for a drink somewhere, but I couldn’t exactly hear. He wasn’t expecting you…”

  “I didn’t plan to come down, but I changed my mind. I left him a message late this afternoon, but he must have already left for work.”

  “Gosh, Nick, I know he’ll be thrilled that you’re here. Scott, did you hear Tim say what he was doing?”

  Scott looked up from the drinks he was making. “I didn’t hear where he said, Ruth… something about meeting someone for a drink. I’d bet on the Edge or Moby’s, though… maybe 440.”

  “I’m sure he’s somewhere in the neighborhood, Nick,” Ruth said. “He wouldn’t have taken the car if he was going to be out drinking.”

  “Thanks, Ruth,” Nick said. “It’s good to see you, too. Don’t worry… I’ll find him.”

  Chapter 14

  Ruth and Scott had another rush at the bar after Nick left. When she got caught up again, a customer hollered, “Hey Ruth! Who was that number Tim left with? He was gorgeous!”

  Before she could answer, someone else at the bar slurred, “Yeah, but at that age they’re just like puppies. You gotta’ train ’em to do everything! The next time I bring one home from the pound, I want him already housebroken!”

  Ruth smiled politely, but she barely knew these men. Who do they think they are to talk like that? Do they even know Tim… or Nick? Are they even aware that Tim is my nephew? Ruth tried not to let them get her dander up. They were only drunk and trying to be clever. They hadn’t meant any harm.

  Then she felt a tinge of fear about the future. How might she feel about Sam on some distant day down the road… and vice versa? Was she too old to adjust to a new man in her life? Human beings weren’t pets. They couldn’t be so easily trained with bribery or punishment, and they couldn’t be ignored. And they came with so much history, especially when they got to be Sam’s age… or hers.

  On the other hand, Ruth couldn’t imagine a time when she might take Sam for granted. What on earth am I saying? I mustn’t rush things. Ruth was glad when James came up to the bar to place an order and distract her from her thoughts.

  …

  Nick began his search at Harvey’s on the corner of 18th and Castro Streets and worked his way through the neighborhood clockwise. His bed had felt so empty all week that all he wanted tonight was to find Tim, crawl into bed on Hancock Street and spend the night in each other’s arms. Nick didn’t have to go inside the bar. He could see through the windows that Tim wasn’t there so he moved on. The Badlands had a line out front, and Nick wasn’t about to stand in line except as a last resort. If he didn’t find Tim anywhere else he could come back here.

  At the Edge, Nick worked his way through the crowd to the video games in the back, but there wasn’t a soul he knew. He waited a couple of minutes in case Tim was in the locked toilet, but when the door opened a pair of guys in leather stumbled out together, apparently having just finished something, and Nick knew he was wasting his time here.

  Nick crossed 18th Street to where the Pendulum had stood for years, the only African-American gay bar in the city. Lately, it seemed to have been closed for years. As a businessman himself, Nick couldn’t understand why anyone would buy a place, put all the employees out of their jobs, remodel it and then let it stand empty.

  Nick spent so little time in bars in the Castro; he didn’t realize at first that the old Pendulum was open again. The sign on the awning said Toad Hall, which Nick remembered as a bar on Castro Street when he was a kid, now swallowed up by the ever-expanding Walgreens. Nick looked in the window where waterfalls changed colors behind glass above the back bar. The old interior was gone. A muscular young doorman asked Nick for his ID, so he fished his driver’s license out of his wallet, even though Nick was nearly old enough to be this kid’s father. The crowd inside was young, too, but Tim might be among them. Nick worked his way to the patio where throngs of twenty-somethings smoked cigarettes as if they would live forever. No, Tim wouldn’t be out there. The smoke would get to him.

  …

  Leonardo and Theodore bought drinks for Tim and Craig at the Midnight Sun, but it was too crowded for the bear couple to stay. Craig insisted that he wasn’t ready to go yet, that he could find his way back to their place, that he’d be just fine on his own, not to worry…

  Tim and Craig worked their way through the crowd toward the wall across from the bar. Tim noticed when the bartender asked Craig for his ID and wondered whether he should have carded him earlier at Arts. He had to be twenty-one, didn’t he? Tim couldn’t imagine that “Teddy and Lenny” would bring their underage nephew into a bar. When the bartender was satisfied with Craig’s driver’s license, Tim relaxed.

  Most of the guys in the bar were laughing at an ancient video of John Goodman in drag as Anna Nicole Smith. It must have been from Saturday Night Live. Was this the anniversary of her death or something? Then the VJ segued into a Michael Jackson video, and Tim loosened up a little more, but he still wished he had a joint. Craig was leaning on him now, and Tim realized the kid must be getting drunk. Craig couldn’t be that much younger than Corey was… man… that was a while ago.

  Other people in the Midnight Sun stared at them as Craig pulled Tim closer. Craig nuzzled at Tim’s neck, and the video changed from Michael Jackson to fast dance music, some girl in pink leather with half-naked boys backing her up. Tim had never heard this song before.

  Nick remembered when he was a kid; coming into the city to visit his grandparents, the Castro had a carnival atmosphere all year round. Even as a boy he noticed the sexy bare-chested men soaking up the sunshine on every corner whenever they could. The colorful drag queens bent down to tease him, and he thought of them like circus clowns. Nick couldn’t imagine back then what might happen on these sidewalks after the sun went down.

  It was nighttime now, and Nick walked on past the panhandlers on Walgreens’ corner. He stopped in front of Q-Bar on Castro. Tim never came here… or did he? Nick hadn’t been inside this place in years, not since it was the Castro Station. It seemed a lot bigger then. Now it was congested with a young clientele, very mixed in terms of gender and varied fashion-senses or lack thereof. A room in front was set aside for cigarette smokers. They seemed to overflow the space, coughing their nicotine fixes out onto the sidewalk. Nick entered the bar by way of the hallway where stale cologne seemed to seep from the coffin-like upholstery. No, Tim wouldn’t be in here either.

  Nick walked through the 440, up the steps to the back bar. He thought Tim might be here—hadn’t Scott suggested it? But there was no sign of him. Nick asked one of the bartenders downstairs if he knew Tim Snow. “Tim the waiter? From Arts? Sure, I know him, but I haven’t seen him in here tonight… sorry.”

  Nick crossed Market and then Castro Street, headed toward downtown. How far should he go, he wondered? There were gay bars and restaurants all the way to Church Street and beyond, but he didn’t think Tim would consider Marlena’s or Martuni’s as within walking distance. Nick peered into the place where the Detour used to be. It bore no resemblance to a leather bar anymore. Now it was called Trigger, and it was at least twice as big as the old place, with chandeliers, mirror balls and a projected aquarium on one brick wall, but no sign of Tim. The Café had a long line outside, another place Nick might come back to if all else failed.

  Tim wasn’t at the Twin Peaks either. He wasn’t at the Mix—Nick walked all the way to the top of the steps on the patio—nor at the Men’s Room, now renamed Last Call. Nick noticed the new sign, but it looked the same inside, the beautiful curved wooden ceiling. It screamed “cozy” and “romantic” at the same time, and Nick was glad to see they’d kept the old framed poster of Queen Victoria above the bar with the slogan “Even a queen can get the clap.”

  At Moby Dick on 18th and Hartford, Nick ran into a couple of guys he recognized from the Russian River. “Hey, Nick!” one of them called out to him. “How’s it going? Buy you a
drink?”

  “No thanks, Randy. I’m looking for someone. You remember Tim? The guy I was with at the Rainbow last week? Have you seen him tonight?”

  “Sure, you introduced us. We had dinner at Arts tonight, too. Tim was our waiter and we met his Aunt Ruth behind the bar, but that was a couple of hours ago. He’s not in here.”

  The only place left was the Midnight Sun. Nick worked his way through the crowd far enough to see a tall, well-built guy making out with someone about Tim’s size. He could only see him from the back, but it was Tim. It had to be.

  Nick froze in his tracks. This was the last thing he expected to find on a night when all he wanted was to see Tim, to hold him, to get naked together and spend the night in each other’s arms. It seemed right now that someone else had beaten him to it, and Nick was devastated. The tall young man had his arms around Tim, his hands firmly planted on Tim’s ass, and the two of them were standing there, only a few feet away, mouth-to-mouth in a passionate lip-lock.

  Nick felt as if his knees would give way. He turned around and walked out of the Midnight Sun and back down the street to Moby’s. “Hey, Randy… I changed my mind about that drink… in fact, let me buy you guys one.”

  “Listen, Craig,” Tim protested. “I’m flattered, really. You’re way cute, and there must be dozens of guys who would love to take you home with them tonight, but not me. I’m really tired, and I’m seeing someone kinda special these days.” Tim laughed as he pushed the boy away, but as he thought of Nick he felt the old longing return. Damn that stupid cousin from New Orleans.

  “Come on, Tim,” Craig whined. “My uncles already left, and I don’t know how to get back to where they live. Besides, you’re the one that I want. Come on…”

  “Craig, you’re loaded. What did you have… two martinis before dinner and then wine and now scotch? I’ll bet you’re not used to drinking like this.”

  “I usually just drink beer at the bars in L.A.”

  “Come on… walk me to my car and I’ll drive you. I’ve only been to their house once, but I’m pretty sure I can find it again. It’s way the hell out in the Mission, almost Bernal Heights if I remember right.”

  “But I wanna be with you, Tim. Take me to your place. Take me to bed.”

  Tim took Craig’s half-empty drink out of his hand and set it down on a table. “You don’t need any more of that. What you need is some fresh air. Maybe I’ll even put the top down. That might help sober you up and keep me awake.”

  Tim drove south past Army Street and took a left, then up and down the narrow hilly streets of Bernal Heights to find the house he was looking for. Craig let loose with the contents of his stomach. Tim slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The viscous liquid already covered the passenger door, inside and out, the front of Craig’s shirt and pants and shoes… even the floor mats. Craig’s head lolled over the side of the car as he spit and coughed.

  Someone had left the outdoor lights blazing from the front of the house, so at least Tim could see, but as he tried to get Craig out of the car and up the stairs, he was nearly dead weight by this time. Craig stumbled and fell, cursing loudly enough that Theodore and Leonardo both came running out in their robes and slippers to hurry him inside before the neighbors could see.

  It was well past midnight when Tim got home to Hancock Street. He pulled the Thunderbird into the driveway as far as the garden hose, turned on the spigot and walked around to the passenger side to pull out the floor mats and wash off Craig’s vomit as best he could. Tim was tired, and he supposed it could have waited until morning, but he didn’t want the combination of Craig’s stomach acids plus Dewar’s White Label scotch to take the paint off Jason’s old pride and joy.

  Poor drunken kid, Tim thought. His first night in the Castro, and he could have had almost anyone he wanted, but he picks the wrong guy and gets so drunk he makes himself sick.

  Tim pondered what Jason would have done in this situation, but he already knew. Jason would have brought the kid back here, let him pass out for a while or maybe try to sober him up with coffee. Jason would have taken Craig to bed sooner or later. He wouldn’t have wasted time pining for someone a couple of hours away. A bird in the hand…

  Tim started to climb the stairs but stopped short when he spied a piece of paper sticking halfway out of his mailbox. It was a note from Nick! He tugged it and sat down on the stairs to read:

  Dear Tim,

  I guess you didn’t get my message that I was coming down tonight. I feel kind of foolish writing this, but I thought you should know why I fell out of sight. I ran into you at the Midnight Sun, but you were already spoken for, so I left, had a couple of drinks and came back here. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  I’m old enough to know better than to expect you to wait around for me to show up now and then. I shouldn’t have hoped in the short time we’ve known each other that your feelings for me would be as strong as mine are for you. We sure had some fun though, didn’t we? I’ll always remember the good times and maybe I’ll see you around.

  Nick

  “Dammit, Nick,” Tim said out loud. “Nothing happened!” Tears rolled down his face so hard Tim could hardly get his key in the door. He pictured Nick driving north on 101 all the way back to Monte Rio at this hour of the night after a couple of drinks. Maybe he could catch him. Tim ran to the phone, punched in Nick’s number and waited to leave a message:

  “Nick! It’s me, Tim. Nothing happened with that kid. He was just drunk. I told him about you and nothing happened. You’ve got to believe me. I would never hurt you intentionally. Call me, Nick. Call me the minute you get this. Please! I’ll wait up.”

  Tim started to read Nick’s note again and stopped at the first line: I guess you didn’t get my message. What message? Tim ran into the bedroom and saw the light on his old answering machine. Nick’s voice sounded cheerful then, not like the tone of the note in Tim’s hand:

  “Hey, Snowman… sorry I missed you, but it’s early. Maybe you’ll still get this before you leave for work. I’ve been missing you so much I can’t get any work done around here, and I still haven’t heard from Nate, so I’m driving down tonight, after all. I’ll stop in at Arts if I get into the city in time and wait for you to get off work. Can’t wait to see you, man…”

  Tim waited until 1 a.m. and tried calling Nick again. He tried calling every fifteen minutes until 3 a.m. when he fell asleep on the couch in his living room. The television set was advertising some exercise equipment that would give him a body to die for in twenty minutes a day and still fit under his bed.

  Chapter 15

  Ruth’s first night back at work at Arts had been so busy that she wanted nothing more on Saturday morning than to sleep in late. She was glad she hadn’t agreed to work Saturday nights as well. Friday evenings and Sunday brunches would be plenty for the time being. And she was just around the corner if they needed her, in case there was ever some kind of emergency.

  Bartholomew kneaded his paws into Ruth’s neck and armpit, wanting to go outside. “All right, Bart, give me a minute. What time is it, anyway?” She yawned and pushed the cat back onto the bed to scratch his belly, but he wasn’t having it. “Ten o’clock already? Okay, okay, I’m coming…”

  Ruth left the back door open while she put on the coffee and then went to fetch the Chronicle from the front step. She was surprised at how thin it was. Even the Sunday papers were thinner than they used to be. Ruth was used to dividing those into two piles. One pile was advertisements. The other was news, sports, magazine supplements and the op-ed pages. It never failed that the two piles were nearly the same size. Ah well, if they didn’t sell all those ads, Ruth figured the paper would cost about twenty bucks. But this, the Saturday edition, was almost weightless nowadays.

  Ruth sipped her coffee as she flipped through the slim news section and was just starting to work on the New York Times crossword puzzle when the telephone rang. “Hello?”

  “Ruth, it’s Sam. Are you okay? I hop
e I didn’t wake you.” She heard a screech and another noise that sounded like gibberish in a foreign language. “Are you there, Ruth?”

  “Sam! How lovely to hear your voice. Yes, I’m fine. I’m right here… But it sounds like you’re half-way around the world.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you…”

  Ruth was wide awake now. “No, not at all, I’m just having coffee and reading the paper… doing the crossword, actually. It sounds like someone is speaking French. Where are you?”

  “I’m still in Chicago. It’s just a bad connection. There’s a lot of noise. I’m at O’Hare, waiting to board my flight to Munich. I thought it would be nice to hear your voice once more before I leave the country.”

  “And I’m delighted to hear yours, Sam. I’m so glad you called. The flowers are absolutely beautiful. Thank you so much. How did you know I loved yellow roses?”

  “It was just a lucky guess.”

  Ruth still held the pen in her hand and was doodling across a picture in the paper as she talked. “I had a lovely evening with you, Sam, and I am so looking forward to seeing you when you get home.”

  “No more than I am… they’re calling my flight now, Ruth, so I’d better be going, but I’ll be back in no time.”

  “Have a safe trip, Sam. And thanks so much for calling. You’ve brightened my day.”

  Ruth hung up the telephone, inhaled the roses and smiled. Then she looked down at the newspaper and her smile faded. She’d been doodling all the while she was on the phone with Sam. It was a police artist’s sketch of a bald man, and she’d been giving him hair. She drew the hair a little longer and the face began to look familiar. It was just below the fold on the front of the Bay Area section. Ruth spread out the paper and skimmed the article:

  Sonoma County authorities seek information… Caucasian male, 5’11” 185 pounds, aged 35-45… 3rd Russian River drowning victim this season… NO DIVING signs vandalized…