by Arnold, Jim
“Are you sick? Now you do look nauseous,” Karen said, pausing in front of the window at an erotic cake store. Atop one angel food concoction instead of a rose was a giant vulva made of pink frosting.
“Oh, God. It must be Dinah Shore weekend or something,” I said.
“You can skip this one on my birthday,” she said. “And don’t dare puke on me.”
On another tray were breakfast pastries shaped like erect penises, with a healthy layer of chocolate where the “pubic hair” would be.
“It’s not that I’m sick, or that the reception the movie got was ho-hum,” I said. “I should be overjoyed that I beat cancer, but I’m not.”
Karen grabbed my arm and shook it. “You’re just not used to it yet!” she said, as I caught my reflection in an in-window mirror at one of the Russian dress shops that had sprung up on the street.
* * *
By the time the sun went down, we’d both had two of what Marix Tex-Mex quite literally called Kick-Ass Margaritas. We’d delayed ordering any food other than the salsa and chips the smiling help kept bringing. Karen put her watch on the table and glanced at it frequently.
This was probably the last screening I’d do with Hell no matter where it went after—there was no more money for travel. It seemed like a fitting conclusion to our partnership on this particular project.
“Somewhere you gotta be?” I said, a big, drunk smile plastered on my face.
She played with the salsa, avoiding my eyes.
“A friend might join us. I thought he’d be here by now.”
“I didn’t know you had friends in L.A.”
“I don’t; I mean, it’s not a friend from here. He’s from SF, just down for the weekend. Like us.”
The waitress left menus for us. The bottom of my wet glass stuck to its laminated surface.
I bent down to retrieve my napkin from the floor and heard Karen say “finally,” from under the table. She uncrossed her ankles.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jake said.
* * *
He just happened to be in L.A. the same weekend, and Karen knew about it. My head popped up over the tabletop. Nobody said anything. Permissible perhaps for Jake, but for Karen this was unforgivable.
“That is you, Jake,” I said, turning to Karen. “What a surprise.”
Karen took a hurried sip of her third margarita. “OK, I told him we’d be here, on the off chance we could all meet up in a strange city. What fun,” she said.
“Gosh, yes. I hope you can join us,” I said.
I stood and pulled out the extra chair for him. “It’s nice, Ben, real nice,” he said, with a vague hint of a smile.
“You can see I’m having a drink—this is also a chain restaurant,” I said.
He shrugged it off. Someone’s foot was unexpectedly on top of mine, and it wasn’t Karen’s.
* * *
Turns out Jake hadn’t gone into the coffee business as Karen recently told me. She’d gotten it wrong. He’d had some of his paintings—mostly beach scenes done years ago near Jenner on the coast at the Russian River—shown at Brewmaster, which was an independent coffeehouse on Valencia down in the Mission. He was in L.A. now to meet the cousin of the owner, who had a restaurant or a bar in Santa Monica and might want some “pictures for the wall.”
It took forever, but finally Karen went to the ladies’ room. “So…Greg… Graham?” I said. “Is he back at your hotel or something?”
The lights were low and it was dark outside now, but I swear he blushed. “That didn’t work out. It was flattering, but…he wasn’t you.”
There are points—only truly recognized in retrospect—that are significant. One can seize on them and make whatever course correction might be indicated, spiraling life into a new, possibly better and probably more exciting dimension.
I let Jake’s comment hang there. Honestly, the only thing I could think of to say was “Waiter!”
And I squeezed his hand.
* * *
Jake even had a drink with us, though he did give a small lecture to the waiter on the benefits of making a switch to organic limes. It was good there was substantial food in front of us now. Karen and I had let cocktail hour linger a bit longer than even I would have liked. The last thing I wanted was to fuck up this reunion.
“What’re we doing later?” I said, biting into a pepper-encrusted steak end.
“There’s a later?” Jake brushed my arm as he grabbed another soft taco.
“Not for me. Unless you consider watching TV in my bathrobe exciting,” Karen said.
My drink, even though I’d tried to sip it, pace it, was dangerously close to ice chips. There’d need to be more.
“We’re in West Hollywood, for Chrissakes, let’s be tourists,” I said. Something did cartwheels in the pit of my stomach.
* * *
Even though I’d eaten quite a lot, what with the chips and the guacamole and the salsa and at least the beginnings of fajitas, not too much came out as vomit, though it was colorful.
Jake—always the gentleman—waited outside in the lavatory hallway, still painted in a faded save-the-Alamo color wash, where one expected at any moment a gal called Rio would swish by breathlessly in dusty petticoats.
For all his chivalry in guarding the door, he stood there looking slightly embarrassed.
“You don’t have to wait here,” I said.
“You sure you’re OK?” he said. “That radiation all just ended, right—?”
I’d rinsed my face in cold water, then spread the remaining moisture back through my hair with my fingers.
“It’s just some shitty Mexican food. I’ll be fine.”
We walked Karen over to the Hotel Lautrec, and I made sure to be on my best behavior. No weaving, no outbursts, no stepping on sidewalk cracks.
It was so much like old times, it was scary. Switch out dirty Santa Monica Boulevard for San Francisco’s Castro Street, quieter Palm Avenue for Collingwood. That warm rush that only the best friends can give you washed over me, nearly causing me to lose my balance. I wanted this moment to last.
I think Karen was surprised and a little embarrassed by my good-night hug. It was too long; I didn’t let go at that preordained, socially correct moment. She smelled of exotic flowers and spice—the truth was, sometimes, even though I loved men, I got tired of the sweat and musk and other masculine odors.
At least I’d like to pretend I did.
“Promise me you won’t stay out late,” she said. “We have to drive back in the morning.”
* * *
Around the corner from the hotel was our first destination, the East-West Lounge. We stopped in there only because it was on the block and we knew it was a gay bar.
The bar sold “memberships,” which meant to the casual gay tourist that certain areas were off-limits: the best booths; the mezzanine, with its omniscient view. It was still too early to be crowded, and the exotic cocktails in everyone’s hands transfixed me while the clientele got to Jake.
“I’ve never seen so many guys with weird blond highlights,” he said, looking down at his shoes, which really weren’t shoes at all but the same modified boots he wore to work in the garden.
I got distracted by the nicely lit and exquisite wooden shelving in back of the bar, which held some of the finest liquor to be found anywhere.
Minutes later something called Julio’s Revenge was in my hand, which continued my earlier tequila theme with healthful additions of grapefruit juice. At least it wasn’t as bad as drinking it straight—which, come to think of it, was not a bad idea…
Definitely, we were out of place here. Jake had a beer, very pedestrian, and we stood rather stupidly in the middle of the floor, oddities at the zoo.
“I don’t know why you wanted to come here,” he said.
I raised my drink in a toast. “We don’t have to stay. It looked interesting from the street, and besides, I have good memories of this place.”
There was a time when I’d
rush to meet Wayne here after work and we’d sit at the bar before eating somewhere or going to the movies or, most likely, just heading back to his place for TV and sex.
But he was gone—well, mostly gone—and the place was different, and anyone else from that era was also missing. I had to agree with Jake.
“I know another place you’re going to love,” I said, reaching out to leave my drink on the edge of the bar. I missed and it crashed to the floor, shattering into a zillion wet pieces.
* * *
That little mishap garnered us the attention we’d missed. That and a polite “please leave” from the doorman, all very sotto voce, said with a smile.
“I’m taking you home,” Jake said, grabbing my arm and attempting to pull me up the side street toward the Lautrec. I wrenched my arm away.
“No! We’re going to this other bar; follow me.”
I ran across the street, a driver racing down the hill from Sunset Boulevard slamming his brakes to avoid hitting me.
“Jesus, Ben,” Jake yelled at me. “Come here.”
I ignored him and kept walking. The club was on a corner a couple of blocks away, but I could see its neon through the oncoming headlights and the squat palm trees lining the boulevard.
I kept a few steps ahead of Jake. I wasn’t about to let him drag me back prematurely to the hotel—who knew when I’d return to L.A., anyway?
* * *
The place was called the Gold Coast. Wayne used to take me here, too, when I’d first moved to the city and didn’t know where anything was. Gold Coast was not cool then, nor did it appear cool now, looming up ahead of me. In fact, a line of not-very-attractive men stretched from the front door around the corner.
Jake had caught up by now. “Looks like ugly night,” I said.
“It’s starting to look that way,” he said, taking me by the shoulders and getting into my face. “Don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. What the fuck is wrong with you, Ben?”
He’d never used this tone before.
“What’s wrong with you?” I said. If an expression could be angry and somewhat sad at the same time, Jake had it.
“You just got over cancer and you’re acting like this?”
“Like, let the world know,” I said.
“I don’t understand. I’m going back.”
He turned around and left me standing there on Santa Monica Boulevard, between a line of snickering men and gridlocked traffic. Shortly thereafter, a fire engine made its tortured way down the street, the siren deafening.
From that point on, it’s a little blurry:
The Spike Bar, up the street, where the prettier boys would be. Except it wasn’t the Spike anymore, but something called the Winston. A doorman in black, pretty boys and even prettier girls, and none of them gay.
Walking in the door, or trying to. My arm wrenched nearly out of its socket, my cheek scratching the pavement on top of a wet cigarette butt. More sirens.
Wallets, credit cards, handing them over, getting them handed back. Arms locked tight around my back. Loud voices, salty liquid on my face—blood or tears, not sure which—then bright lights, like a slap.
* * *
I don’t know how long I’d been sitting on the bench when it dawned on me that it was the fucking jail. The West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station, to be exact, which was apparent from a stencil on the wall over its phone number.
A holding cell. Cold metal benches on three sides, dirty beige walls, and a fourth wall of chipped painted bars. My wallet and watch were gone. My belt, too.
Fuck.
A woman who clearly had missed her color appointment was curled up into a ball in the corner. A large black man, wearing what looked like a medical uniform, sat between us. He wasn’t moving, but his head hung back against the wall at an odd angle. I wondered whether he was dead.
Wait. A woman—weren’t these jails segregated for sex? Her shoes were totally missing, which is when I noticed how large her feet were, and I got it. Right then the medical man snorted and heaved; he’d been asleep.
Though there were no windows, there was a clock in the hallway outside. The first time I looked at it, it was four twenty. A second later it seemed to have jumped to seven thirty. The drag queen—and using that term was Jim Arnold a stretch—had been wailing for what seemed like hours. My head felt like it was about to explode.
* * *
Sergeant Brenner was unduly kind. He smiled a lot—perhaps he was on the verge of laughing at me—and he was a peer, about my age. He was handsome, in a tight, militaristic, gray-haired sort of way, and I’d have been interested if the power dynamic was a little more evenly distributed.
Pretty much all that left my mind, though, once he started talking, once he started telling me what kind of awful trouble I’d have been in had I been driving, and what awful trouble I’d be in if he ever caught sight of my “sorry ass” in his town again.
He’d pulled me out of the holding cell—OK, the drunk tank—at about eight. There wasn’t a lot of explanation given as to when and how I’d arrived. Thank God I had my credit card.
The door to freedom opened with an electronic-metallic buzz-clang and I was given a plastic bag containing my “danger” items. The morning sun streamed through dirty windows in a waiting area, temporarily blinding me, but not before I made out the hunched figures of Karen and Jake.
They were the only people in the room.
24
The ride back to San Francisco was unfathomable—so much so that I skipped it altogether. For reasons known only to him, Jake gave his plane reservation to me, and he rode back up with Karen.
I had just enough cash for the required BART fare to Civic Center. My ATM card was missing even though my wallet wasn’t, a casualty of the Great West Hollywood Blackout.
It was inevitable that I’d be back in AA—the preceding events had showed me that much. I wondered how I’d spend time with my friends at the Slog without whiskey and what would happen to Dougie’s ecstasy—still unpacked in a secret pocket of my suitcase.
Anyway. When I got back to the flat, Karen was MIA. This might be reassuring; then again, it seemed weird to be there by myself now. That and the almost constant sensation that I wasn’t alone, especially in my room.
I hadn’t mentioned it to her, but at various times Wayne, Mark and/or Bernard were there, standing in the corners of the room, like columns necessary for holding up the ceiling. These had been fleeting, silent encounters. I’d catch a glimpse of one of them, then look again and he’d be gone. It may have been my imagination—really, the whole thing probably was—that he’d always be staring at the bulge in the wall, never even looking at me.
I didn’t dare move the mirror that still leaned up on top of the cracked lump. Just thinking about it gave me the chills. Escaping up the back stairs to Jake’s wasn’t really an option now, and it was a little too theatrical anyway.
My AA sponsor, Terry, was a fixture at a meeting that started soon, only a block away. It seemed like a good idea to go.
* * *
He sat there, like always, in the front row on the left side. His back was rigid, his arms folded against his chest, eyes downcast and lips pursed. To the casual observer, he probably appeared angry. Maybe he was. Terry always looked this way.
The chair next to him was vacant, another of his usual procedures. He left his keys on the ripped upholstery, an invitation to those of us in the know that this was reserved for no one in particular, so, by all means, sit down.
I grabbed the blue key chain. “May I sit?” I said, just to be polite.
Terry looked up, pushing his long brown hair away from his eyes. “Well, Ben Schmidt, you’ve certainly been missing in action.” He smiled, then took his keys from me. “That’s your chair.”
We didn’t talk much. The leader asked me to read something, and I raised my hand to identify as a goddamn newcomer again. It turned out not to be as embarrassing as I’d anticipated. On the contrary, it was like the
backpack of rocks I’d been carrying around just fell away.
My buddies David A. and David T. were there, too. One of them—I was never sure which was which, actually—waved at me.
Oh, and next to David T. was Mark—Deadboy Mark—who locked eyes with me, shaking his head, disapproving. During break I shouted over to David T., “Who is that next to you?”
He looked to his right and laughed. “You mean David, here?”
“No, the other side,” I said, pointing at Mark.
“What are you talking about, Ben?” He looked confused.
“Never mind.” I’d always just assumed others couldn’t see my Dead-boys or Connie, but I hadn’t actually asked.
Just as I thought the meeting would end with me slipping under the radar, the leader called on me to share.
Terry, in a rather uncharacteristic move, squeezed my hand.
“My name is Ben, and I’m an alcoholic,” I said. My face was hot. “A few months ago I found out I had cancer. Before I knew it, I was in a SoMa dive bar with a nice shot of bourbon in my hand. I hate to say this, but I didn’t think twice about drinking it.”
Actually, that was sort of a lie, as I considered calling Terry. It sounded much more interesting the other way.
I could feel the thrill even as I told my tale of woe. How would I ever resist the pull of the Slog and all that came with it—or the drugs, as close as my suitcase, or a phone call away with Eric?
As if reading my mind, Mark—who was there; he was definitely still there—smirked, like he wasn’t buying any of it. Looking him straight in the eye, I said, “I worry that attending this meeting is not nearly the end this time.”
* * *
Afterward, Terry and the Davids took me to coffee over at Tully’s on Castro, where I told them the best of the cancer and film festival stories, all about the Defendors and the Adrianos and my encounters with ecstasy and Caverject.
They were rapt. We lingered, though David A. hadn’t touched more than a pinch of his brownie when I began the priapism saga. He excused himself and didn’t come back.
Walking home, I noticed the lights were on up in Jake’s flat, unmistakable even through the light fog. I’d have to go up and apologize. Amends, we called them. He was owed one—at the very least.