Destiny (Waiting for Forever)

by Mayfield, Jamie

  During those first few days, the size and noise of the city overwhelmed me. People crowded the streets, and I felt panicky and claustrophobic in the wall of bodies around me. Memories of Mosely and his friends dragging me into that room and blocking out the sun assaulted my mind. The second day, I stuck to the side streets where it was more open and there were fewer crowds. Once I started to remember and recognize different buildings and street names, the tightening in my chest lessened and I started to feel more in control.

  The job searches, the apartment searches, even the crowded streets of San Diego were easy compared to the next task on my list. Mitch Mayfield’s work address sat in the stack of papers and notes I’d brought with me from home. I knew which bus to take, had a map of the area around his building, and I had even called to ask the receptionist what their office hours were. If Jamie had gone back to his parents after leaving the center, I would leave and allow him to work on repairing his relationship with them. I wouldn’t stand in the way of their progress, even though I’d come to search for Jamie after his parents had forced him to move to California. His father and I had always been friendly, so I hoped he would tell me if he knew where Jamie was. Of course, I was relying on the idea that Mrs. Mayfield had been the one responsible for putting Jamie in the Sunshine Center. After the day we’d spent fishing, when Mr. Mayfield had told us how uncomfortable he was with his wife’s fanaticism, I had a feeling Jamie’s father had only gone along with it to make his wife happy.

  TAKING a deep breath, I stepped off the bus into a swarm of people, worker bees buzzing around. I looked around for a street sign, trying to orient myself. According to the map, I needed to walk two blocks north in order to find Mr. Mayfield’s building. Bars, restaurants, and stores lined the street, each sitting almost on top of the one beside it. The block was so big that all the stores and businesses in Crayford could have moved into the spaces and still have had room left over. As I approached the corner, I saw that a small open-air café took up most of the sidewalk. I followed the guy in front of me as he moved to the outside of the sidewalk, circumventing the railing that enclosed a group of bistro-style tables covered in white linen. My stomach growled as the scent of garlic and tomato sauce came from an open door behind the last row of tables. A server came out of the door with two plates of pasta and headed for two guys at a table just ahead of me. The men were older than I was, maybe in their late thirties, both in crisp business suits. What really caught my attention about them, however, was the way their hands lingered together on top of the table until the server left, almost reluctant to let go. My chest ached as I imagined Jamie and me in their place, and I forced myself to keep walking to the next intersection.

  As I reached the other side of the street, I looked up to see a building that dominated the entire next block. The huge, black structure was easily the tallest building I had ever seen. The trees and shrubbery at the base hid the doors and most of the first floor, making it that much more imposing. My plan had been to sit in front of the door until I saw Mr. Mayfield and then confront him so he couldn’t just send me away. If I didn’t do it around his colleagues or somewhere that could embarrass him, there was a much better chance he would talk to me. Unfortunately, I saw the problem with my plan: a building that size would have doors on all four sides, and I couldn’t watch them all.

  I would have to enter the building and find Mr. Mayfield.

  Crossing Third Street and then Broadway, I found myself in front of a large sign that read “NBC San Diego” with a colorful symbol I recognized from television. Following Broadway toward Second Street, I saw another section of tables in front of a Mexican restaurant across the street before turning onto Second. A line of news vans with the NBC logo sat silently on the curb, as if they were just waiting for some hot story to break. When I looked at the building again, I saw a door nestled in a large alcove near the vans and headed for the stairs that led to the doors.

  The lobby was cavernous, with leather seats and low marble tables throughout the space. I walked up to the security desk and signed a ledger, showing the guard my Alabama state ID before heading up to Mr. Mayfield’s office. Even though the elevator had to travel dozens of floors, it seemed to stop before I was ready and opened up onto the doors for his office. A huge, intricate geometric logo etched into the glass doors made the receptionist beyond it a bit hazy. With Jamie’s face etched into my mind in a similar fashion, I stepped off the elevator and opened the door.

  “Hello. How can I help you?” the woman behind the desk asked pleasantly.

  “I’m here to see Mitch Mayfield, please,” I told her, trying to be just as pleasant. She paused as if she wanted to make sure she’d heard me correctly. The article I’d read a few weeks before said he was a senior vice president with the firm, and they wouldn’t interrupt him for just anyone.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, turning to her computer monitor and making a few clicks with the mouse, probably to check his calendar.

  “No, ma’am, I don’t,” I replied, wondering what would make the most impact with her. As she opened her mouth, no doubt to send me on my way, I decided to tell her the truth.

  “Please, my name is Brian, and I’m a friend of his son, Jamie. He’ll want to see me.” Okay, mostly the truth; I had no idea whether Jamie’s father would want to see me or not. She looked at me for a long time, probably trying to decide if it was worth her job to bother Mr. Mayfield about some kid. “Please,” I repeated.

  “What is your last name?” she asked, reaching for her phone.

  “McAllister,” I told her, and then added quietly, “thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered and then smiled. Almost immediately, her attention focused back on the phone as someone on the other end answered.

  “Hi, Karen, it’s Nancy at the front desk. Is Mitch in his office? I have someone here to see him,” she said and then paused, listening. “I know, I checked his calendar, but he said it’s about Mitch’s son…. Yes, that’s what he said. Okay, I’ll hold.” Nancy looked up at me and offered me a tentative smile. Then she perked up and gave the phone her full attention. “Yes, Mr. Mayfield…. Brian, sir, Brian McAllister…. I… yes… yes, sir.” She hung up abruptly, and my heart sank.

  “Mr. Mayfield will be out to get you himself. Just wait right here,” she said, her eyes wide. I nodded as she pretended to go back to work, but her eyes kept flitting up to where I stood, too nervous to sit on any of the rich black leather chairs that were scattered through the subtly lit reception area. Trying not to pace, I shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, watching the door to her left, waiting.

  Finally, Mitch Mayfield opened the door and stepped through.

  It had been a year since I’d seen him, and I guess I expected him to look the same as when he was in Alabama, but he didn’t. He had lost a lot of weight from his normally thick frame, and his face was pale when our eyes met. He looked like he had aged ten years in the last twelve months. Holding his hand out to shake, I saw that his was trembling, and I understood.

  He was a man who was terrified for a son he could not find.

  “It’s good to see you, Brian,” he said and ushered me through the door behind the reception area into a small conference room before I could answer. When he’d closed the door to the little room, he turned to me, and his eyes were a little wild.

  “Please, tell me you know where he is,” Jamie’s father said, his voice desperate and hoarse. “I won’t let his mother put him back in that place. Please just tell me he’s okay.”

  I closed my eyes and pushed back the fear as I listened to his plea. “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “I came to you because I thought you would.” The words came out as an accusation, and as his face fell, I saw they had hit their mark.

  “I should have stopped her, I know that. I should have seen when she had to use you to get him there, that—”

  “What do you mean, ‘use me’?” I asked, and I could feel mys
elf starting to get angry.

  “She… she told him that if he didn’t go, she’d call the state on your parents. He thought they would take you away. He… he was devastated,” Mr. Mayfield said as his voice cracked and a tear slid down his face.

  Jamie had gone to that place to save me. It broke my heart.

  “Well, she needn’t have bothered. You remember the girl that Jamie was ‘dating’ before you guys came out here, the girl that Mrs. Mayfield loved so much because she came from such a wonderful family? Well, after you left and the whole town found out that I was a queer, her older brother put me in the hospital. He broke my ribs, my leg, and my jaw all because I love your son. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, his father called the state, told them that Richard was molesting me, and tried to have me taken from my parents,” I spat at him. If Jamie’s goddamned parents had just accepted their son for who he was, none of that would have happened. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go look for Jamie.” I started to push past him, but he grabbed my arm. I jerked away but stopped walking and looked at him.

  “I’ve… I’ve hired investigators, but I have no idea if they will find him. It’s killing me not knowing where my son is. You may not believe this, but I love him, more than anything.” Mr. Mayfield clenched the back of one of the conference room chairs.

  I glanced around and found a yellow legal pad sitting at one end of the table. I didn’t see a pen, but Mr. Mayfield reached into his jacket and handed me one. After writing down my cell phone number, I looked up and noticed he was staring blankly at the conference table. I couldn’t find it in me to comfort him, so I just left him to his guilt, more determined than ever to find Jamie and give him the love he should have been getting from his parents.

  Four

  I LOOKED around the hotel room, starting to feel a little claustrophobic in the confined space as the panic filled my lungs. I was running out of time. The newspaper delivered to my room each morning didn’t give me enough resources to find what I needed. I’d have to find someplace to get onto the Internet. I threw my duffel into the open closet and the empty coffee cup into the tiny garbage can before grabbing my backpack. After making sure I had my key, I left the room again.

  When I got downstairs, the clerk behind the desk looked slightly less bored than the person the night before. He was putting together some kind of bags with candy, bottled water, and other assorted treats. His smile was genuine when he looked up and asked how he could help me.

  “I was wondering where I could find an Internet café or public library,” I said, returning his smile. His gaze seemed to linger on my face before he set the bags aside.

  “Normally, we would have Internet access here in that alcove over there.” He pointed to a small desk that looked like the one in my room. On top of the scratched and battered desk, a steel cable locked down an equally battered desktop computer. A keyboard and mouse lay on the desk in front of the monitor. “The Internet is out, but we have a call in to our provider.” The guy picked up a battered phone book and said that the nearest public library was about two miles from there, but a trolley ran in that direction.

  “Just go out the front door, turn right, and walk one block. You can catch the trolley from there. The library is on E Street.” After giving me the exact address, he closed the phone book and put it back under the counter.

  “Thank you for your help,” I told him honestly.

  “Anytime, and hey,” he said, and I looked up into his eyes. “If there is anything else I can do for you, please just let me know. I’m off at four.” He put a heavy emphasis on “anything,” and I got the impression he didn’t really mean anything having to do with his hotel duties. Staring at him, I couldn’t figure out how he knew that I was… that I would even be interested. To be so open and brazen about it, he must have been really brave.

  “I… uuhm… thank you,” I stammered and hiked my backpack up higher. With one last glance at the guy, who was very good-looking with his warm California tan, sun-kissed, honey-colored hair, and friendly brown eyes, I walked out the front door. The bright light stung my eyes, and I shielded it with my hand, watching the pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. I stood back against the wall of the hotel and watched them for a minute. Again, the sheer number of people on the street staggered me, and I wondered how in the world I was going to find Jamie. The population of San Diego had seemed relatively abstract in the text of my computer screen, but the reality was overwhelming. How was I going to find one person in this sea of humanity?

  Turning right, I found the trolley stop a block over, just as the guy had said. Checking the map, I figured out that the next scheduled trolley would stop about two blocks from the library. The huge, red open-air trolley was like nothing I had ever seen before. It was interesting to watch the different buildings pass as I waited for my stop.

  What I was trying to do seemed so impossible. I kept telling myself that I had made it to San Diego, which was the first step in a very long list. If I kept breaking it down into a series of small steps and focused on just one step at a time, I could make it. So I focused completely on finding the library so I could look online for a place to live.

  The walk from the trolley stop wasn’t long, and I found the library without a problem, making sure to note the names of the streets that would take me back to the hotel. I walked in through the huge double doors and followed the signs to the front desk.

  “How can I help you?” The woman behind the desk reminded me of Carolyn. She was slight, with graying light-brown hair and glasses sliding down her nose. Immediately I noticed that her eyes were kind and her smile was warm.

  “I’m new here and looking for a place to live. I was wondering if you had public Internet access.” She was already in motion before I had finished my sentence.

  “Yes, you can access the Internet from the computers in the west room. We also have newspapers that you can use to check the classifieds. They may actually be of more use to you than the Internet. Some of the sites that people tend to use to rent apartments or rooms don’t keep their information properly maintained, so there are a lot of stale ads containing places that are already taken.”

  “I’ve been looking in the newspaper I get at the hotel, but I’m sure you have more. Are they in the west room as well?” I followed her to a huge rack of newspapers on wooden dowels. There must have been two or three dozen.

  “You’re only looking for local papers,” she said, pulling several dowels from their places and handing them to me. “I’d start with these, but you could probably find places in a few others.”

  “Thank you so much,” I told her, and as she went back to the front desk, I spread the papers out on a nearby table. I set my backpack next to me in a chair while I worked, finding available rooms in my price range and cross-referencing them with the map and the bus schedule. Most of them gave vague directions like “North Park” or “Hillcrest,” which made it harder to figure out if they would work for me. It was a long, tedious process, and by the time I finished, there were only half a dozen viable options on the list. Disappointment weighed me down as I put the papers I’d gathered back on their racks. I started going through the other newspapers, trying desperately to find more places to call. Most of the dowels contained national papers, but one near the bottom caught my attention.

  Gay and Lesbian Times.

  Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was around, I pulled the dowel from the rack and carried it back to the table I’d been working at. The paper was full of stories all about gay and lesbian news in San Diego and around the country. There were articles about things happening around the city and editorials by people who sounded proud to be gay. I had never imagined that kind of openness and acceptance of who I was. Quickly, I turned to the classified ads.

  Hillcrest—Room for rent,

  gay men only, $550 shared bath.

  619-555-1212 after 5pm

  The price was lower than the other rooms I had written down. I
was used to sharing a bathroom with Richard and Carolyn, so I didn’t really care about that. It was a room for rent to gay men only, and that sounded like it might be somewhere I would feel welcomed, not just somewhere I could stay. After writing the number down quickly, I looked at the time on my phone and was surprised to see that it was early afternoon. If I couldn’t call until after five, that would certainly give me enough time to get back to the hotel, pick up a pizza from the place next door, and maybe even watch a little television. I could always come back to the library if that place had been taken, but strangely, I had a good feeling about it.

  Putting the newspaper back on the rack, I gathered up my things, thanked the lady at the desk, and set off for the trolley station. The reverse trip was easy, and after fifteen minutes, I found myself back at the Roadview Inn. I saw the sign for the pizza place as I stepped off the trolley onto the sidewalk, and my stomach growled in approval. If Mexican was my favorite cuisine, then pizza was a very close second.

  I ordered a large sausage, mushroom, green pepper, and onion pizza with a big bottle of soda; any leftovers could just go into the refrigerator in my room. Looking around the tiny restaurant, I was surprised at the small number of booths clustered in front of the windows, and realized they must only specialize in carryout orders. The hot guy behind the counter told me it would be about twenty-five minutes before the pizza would be ready to go. I sat down in the first booth to wait, watching as he continually brushed his black, curly hair from his eyes. The muscles under his white T-shirt bulged when he carried a box to the back. As he rounded the corner on his way back to the counter, he caught me staring. I blushed and looked away. Rather than watching the clock or the guy behind the counter, I put my cheek on the palm of my hand and watched people scurry past the window.