by Arnold, Jim
“One could get used to this, I suppose.”
“And no mice.”
We laughed, which seemed to crumble the wall that had gone up during the disastrous trip to West Hollywood and my unfortunate experience in jail.
“I assume you’ve got a bedroom here somewhere?”
“Yes, and a kitchen—even a powder room—behind that chair over there.”
The place reeked so much of money and good taste that I momentarily forgot I had no job. “Nice reversal of fortune.”
“I can walk out of here every morning to my job at the library,” she said. “Not that much has changed.”
She got up and went into the kitchen.
“You going to fight those assholes at Safe Harbor?”
“I guess I could.” Cupboards and drawers opened and closed in rapid succession. “What’re you looking for?”
“Coffee. Treats. Something for us; I don’t know. So far I’ve just ordered room service,” she said, coming back into the room. “Hugely decadent, but I’m enjoying it.”
“We could do that, see what kind of person delivers it, the ‘intimate stranger,’” I said. “There’s possibilities.”
Karen frowned, opened her mouth to say something, then didn’t.
“What?”
“You know how I feel about all that.”
I expected a fresh lecture about Jake, but—
“I have something to show you, you’re not going to like,” she said. Karen pulled the paper, the San Francisco Chronicle, from a shelf beneath the ebony end table. “It’s an advance copy of the pink pages for this weekend. Mickey DuBois reviewed Hell for the Holidays in advance of the screening here.”
A wave of nausea passed over me as I took the paper from her. The San Francisco Spooling Society had chosen the movie for a compilation of short films in a local retrospective. For us, it had hardly been on the radar since we’d had all our test screenings in the city as well as a huge premier at Frameline.
I didn’t think anyone paid attention to this esoteric group. Apparently, Mickey DuBois did.
They even included a still from the film, a two-shot of the leads, Ron Frankhauser and Jake’s ex Greg Graham, staring at each other, over the caption “Misguided Middle-aged Lust?”
I felt sicker as I read: “Ben Schmidt’s flick shows none of the relationship insight you’d expect from someone who so consistently has made the point that he’s a ‘spokesman for the disaffected and forgotten middle-aged gay minority,’” he wrote. “The casting of Frankhauser—an amateur known for some dreadful community theater in Marin—while probably done for authenticity, has the opposite effect when your audience shudders…”
Karen sat back and crossed her legs. “Maybe you should call room service after all,” I said. “It’s not too late for Bloody Marys.”
“Oh, come on. It’s better I showed you this than someone else asking you about it, blindsiding you. Plus, I know you’re back on the program.”
* * *
The thing with Karen ended in an easy truce. I certainly didn’t want to fuck up a future that involved large sums of money, and it became increasingly clear to me her life would.
That and the simple fact I adored her.
I’d made up my mind to go upstairs and see about Jake. I hadn’t done this tail-between-the-legs thing with anyone else before, but I knew it was basically all my fault, no matter what rationalizations I came up with.
I wanted him back. Karen was right—I don’t know how far I’d pushed him this time, or whether there was any chance of it, but I’d do my best.
I’d just leave the unemployment papers on my desk and go out the back and up to his flat. Problem was, the desk was in my room, so I’d have to go back in there.
If I walked in and turned to my right sharply, I’d hit the desk—so this task could be done with eyes closed. Then I could just back out.
Before I got to the threshold, it was quite clear Bernard was in the corner opposite from where Mark had been. He smiled, though he didn’t look so good—rotting, in fact, just like Mark.
I pushed the door fully open with my foot, its previously innocuous squeak turning ominous.
Panting, waiting expectantly in the middle of my bed, was Connie. When she saw me, she got up on all four little legs and wagged her tail. “Don’t just stand there; doggie wants to play,” Bernard said. His blond hair was darkly matted at the point where the bullet had gone in. Dark blotches stained his shirtsleeves and collar.
“I should open the curtain,” I said, which only made Connie wag her tail more vigorously. “Or the window.”
“It’s better now in the dark, or at least a nicely shaded place,” said a voice from behind me. I wheeled around. Mark was back in his corner. “She really does want to play with you,” he said through his blackening teeth.
I missed Connie so much. Not running off into the bushes, or into the blackness of the desert night, she seemed content, for the moment, to stay on my bed.
“But Connie always runs from me,” I said.
“Play with her,” Bernard said from his corner.
I sat on the comforter, which still hadn’t been washed since the operation and aftermath, a tinge of sickroom lingering. I cautiously put my hand through her fur. It was a light breeze through my fingers, not really solid, but definitely there. Connie jumped to lick my face, but what I felt was a drop of soft rain.
“I’m so tired,” I said, a wave of fatigue overcoming me.
“She’ll stay; it’s OK,” Bernard said, as I lay back on the bed, pulling a pillow under my head. Connie lay next to me and put her head down on the covers, just like we used to do on Saturday afternoon naps.
* * *
My phone’s ringer had been turned off, so it was Soren’s annoying voice on speaker that woke me.
“Ben Schmidt, Ben Schmidt. You never pick up! It’s Dr. Kim’s office. Call us back, please. Today would be good; he’s in all day.”
Click.
I’d dreamed about Eric and me and Jake together in Sacra di San Michele. Adriano was way ahead of us in the dark, and we were on our way down to that secret ancient chapel, where we’d come across Dan Lau having his manly way with Billy Hewson from Surfer Paradise.
Connie was gone, and so were Mark and Bernard, although a shaft of fading light remained in Mark’s corner, as if a comedian would step out onto the stage at any moment.
I’ll call Dr. Kim back later, I thought as I climbed the back stairs to Jake’s. His door was open an inch or two, a habit I’d complained about over and over. Lamplight spilled out onto the kitchen tile from the dining room beyond.
“Jake?” We hadn’t talked since jail, the morning after in West Hell.
I pushed the door open and walked in. “Jake, you here?” Still no answer.
As usual, the flat, eclectically furnished though it was, remained immaculate. Perhaps he’d had Keith and Ralph up in mid-meth-fueled turbo-cleaning mode.
“Where are you?” I said, walking into the hallway.
The door to his bedroom was closed. I heard a bump from within.
“Jake?”
The door opened quickly and wide, and his frame filled the space. “What the fuck?” he said, much louder than his usual tone.
I stepped back. His curly hair was flattened on one side. I tried looking behind him.
“What are you doing here?” He blocked my way. “Asshole! There’s no one here. Not everybody’s like you.”
Ouch.
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did. Admit it. Be honest, for once in your life, Ben, be honest, OK?”
At times like this, I’d pretend to be in a movie, where my reaction shots on the screen were available for easy critiquing. This time the fantasy wasn’t necessary since the hallway mirror showed my mouth hanging open stupidly.
“I’d never think that about you.”
He sighed, ruffled his fingers through his hair where it had been compacted by—
“I was taking a nap.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to see what was behind him. “I felt weird downstairs. I know you don’t believe me, but the ghosts are there. I can feel them all the time now, even if I don’t actually see them.”
The look in his eyes had gone beyond concern to…what, disappointment?
“I’m back on the program. Ask Karen. Here, call Terry.” I fished the phone out of my pocket and dialed his number. “Talk to Nazi sponsor yourself.”
He took it from me. On the other end, I could hear Terry answer, saying “Hello, hello? Ben? You there, Ben? Talk to me!” while Jake held the phone to his ear, saying nothing.
Eventually, he lowered his arm and handed it back. We stood there for a long time just staring at each other in the hall, motionless with that four feet of polished hardwood—listening to Terry go apoplectic—between us.
I knew I had to be here. I lifted the phone to my ear. “Sorry, Terry, I’ll have to call you back.”
* * *
Over the next few days, I halfheartedly checked the Craigslist postings for dot-com executive marketing jobs. There were fewer of them every day. A Chron story reported on the sad fact that there were no rental trucks available for those wanting to leave the city and no fresh ones coming in.
I hadn’t called Soren back. The message was still on my desk, right there on the left side of the computer, burning a hole in the wood. I supposed Jim Arnold Mark could read it upside down—if he wanted to—from his corner station. He never commented on my work—odd for someone so pushy, who had nothing else to do.
They didn’t smell, though both he and Bernard looked a little worse every day. I’d often see Connie lounging on my bed, but whenever I’d go to her, sleep and the ghosts’ disappearance would follow. I enjoyed her quiet presence, her eyes following my every move.
Once the first unemployment check came, I abandoned the job search altogether, though technically the state wanted you to keep looking. I listed companies it might be fun to work for, if one didn’t have the life I did. I picked names from the phone book and made them managers at companies like Yahoo!, Bank of America, Levi Strauss.
If Karen and I could just use some of her money on a new film project, I might not have to do this kind of work. We’d become darlings at Sundance, get a good distribution deal, and that would be that.
The phone jolted me out of my early-retirement daydream. For an instant, Mark was in his corner, hands over his ears, feigning martyrdom.
“Yes,” I said.
“Ben? It’s Janine Fromm.”
I picked up the note to call Dr. Kim, then turned it over. “Berkeley’s own sperm queen.”
She paused. “You only get away with that because you had cancer and I feel sorry for you.”
“I was kidding. Really! Don’t get mad on me.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. We’ve retested your samples and—well, the sperm’s not viable. The count’s way too low for a pregnancy now.”
I turned the note right side up again. From behind the mirror against the bulge, I heard a cracking noise.
“Wait—you told me it was perfectly fine, healthy—in fact, quite a high count for a forty-five-year-old guy.”
“We must’ve missed something. And, not only that, when we added the cancer diagnosis to your profile all the prospective mothers pulled out.”
“Now what?”
Connie lay on the bed, wagging her tail. “In your case, I don’t think there’s a ‘now what,’” she said.
* * *
Jake—so yeah, we were hanging out again—thought it was weird, my desire to walk all the way up the hill to Grace Cathedral. It was good exercise, and besides, we could always stop at Glenda’s on the way.
Right.
Truth was, I had called Dr. Kim back. My PSA test had shown a slight increase from the one they’d taken immediately after the radiation was over. He’d even conferred with Davis Sternberg.
There was concern. If this was a trend, it wouldn’t be good. But we didn’t know. We couldn’t know, for a while. That’s how it was with cancer.
I tried listening hard to him, as well as to Soren, but Connie made noise on the bed, the wagging of the tail on the comforter, that swish, swish, swish. Wayne had appeared in yet another of the unoccupied corners in the room, the one closest to the mirror over the bulge.
At one point, all four ghosts were there. I could see Bernard and Wayne from where I sat, and the hot, prickly feeling on my neck made me certain that Mark was right behind me. And Connie did the thing with her tail.
“Just wanted you to know, Ben,” Dr. Kim said. “We’ll draw some more blood in six weeks; Dr. Sternberg concurs.”
* * *
Grace Cathedral, or at least the idea of it, dated from the gold rush days.
A gothic, postearthquake structure at the top of Nob Hill on the site of a former robber baron mansion, it fronted a stunning rose window to the east.
There were two labyrinths, one outside and one in the sanctuary. Jake wouldn’t go in with me.
“I’m going to sit, watch the sun set. I hope we can get dinner after this,” he said.
I left him on a stone bench and pulled open the giant door. My eyes adjusted to the dimly lit church, candles burning somewhere near, a hint of wax. An older woman, bent with osteoporosis, walked the maze in green socks.
I took my shoes off and left them in a pew close by. This was a church; no one would steal them, I hoped, though like everywhere else in San Francisco, the homeless were frequent visitors—
Oh, shut up, Ben. Get in the labyrinth. Turn it off.
So I walked, slow and measured, eventually passing the woman on her way out of the maze, twisting, turning into my future.
26
Three Months Later
There was a point on the 101 freeway, going south past the San Rafael exits, where my heart always raced in anticipation of coming back into the City. The Mercedes—if working—would easily climb the Marin headlands, as if it felt the same exhilaration.
Fog tumbled over the hills and filtered through the eucalyptus branches bordering the road like sentinels guarding treasure. We’d crest the ridge, and the highway began its wind down to the most famous bridge in the world.
As we got closer, Connie would jump from her position in the passenger seat, and she might dare lick my face, even though I’d scolded her dozens of times not to bother Daddy “while he’s driving.”
The sight of San Francisco in the distance took my breath away every time. It was unlimited possibility, no regrets, no past, even, timeless in that ever-present now, where, at least for me, there was no pain. Connie licked me, anyway, as I reached under her warm and hairy leg to grab the toll dollars.
Then, out of nowhere, it was a bus, loud and in the next lane, hurtling over the line, veering dangerously close…
The Muni 35, first of the day, turning the corner, groaning up the hill to Diamond Heights at five a.m. Connie was long dead, right? Just a ghost dog now, and it was Jake’s tongue on my neck; all around, a much better proposition. (Sorry, Connie.)
“You awake?” I whispered, but nothing changed his deep, steady breathing against my shoulder.
It had become the most natural thing ever—an imperative, really—that I spent my nights with Jake. We’d succeeded in alternating venues, and it didn’t always have to be the stylish upper.
He’d forgiven me for Davis. I never told him about Adriano, though I kept Eric close to my heart. Jake and I had made it through the year, through the operation, the radiation, Paul’s unfortunate denouement at Safe Harbor. Through Jake’s own challenges at Sloane & Bradford and the occasional street fair sales of his beloved paintings.
So now it’s on to whatever’s next, I thought, lying there, his arm around me, one of mine pinned under his left leg. I turned to look at him. This was still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
But th
ere was something I needed to remember, something to worry about.
It had to do with that dream of driving into San Francisco, Connie and the rumble of the wayward bus before I could make it over the bridge. I’d had the dream before, but always forgot, until it happened again.
The thing was, I never made it home.
I couldn’t put my finger on it. As always, I got up, made the coffee, then forgot I was supposed to be afraid.
I tiptoed back in and quietly switched on the computer. Whenever Jake was down at my place, the Deadboys and Connie were scarce, or they’d be just fleeting images on the periphery of my vision.
Karen had sent me an e-mail on Hell for the Holidays’ DVD sales. We’d sold forty-three units on Amazon. She was encouraged.
“At this rate, we’ll make your money back in about thirteen years,” she wrote.
“When can you meet?” I typed back. We had to sit down and finally decide on that film project. She had her eye on Who Needs Him, Anyway? the feminist sensation selling out in bookstores all over town. The sad news for me was that she could easily afford to option it with her dot-com divorce money, and I hadn’t figured out how to back out of my promise that she’d call the shots on this one.
It was a Friday, but since I had no job, there was no elation building for the weekend. Down at Safe Harbor, I suspected Kelly and Amy and even Jason took their sweet time in arriving. I’d turned out to be a pushover boss, but at least I wasn’t a criminal like Paul.
Turned out he enjoyed that ecstasy in New York even more than Dallas or I realized. He got arrested one afternoon on Folsom Street buying an assortment of drugs, including heroin and crystal meth—in addition to his X. Paul certainly wasn’t a pushover, but now he was unemployed.
I pictured him and Amanda at Los Gatos grocery checkouts nervously counting out their double coupons. Or, perhaps he’d found the Silicon Valley version of the Slog and now was an intimate of his own Dallas, his own Edmund…
Another message: a reminder e-mail from my sponsor. Terry had asked me to share at the Diamond Street meeting later on, to talk about all my experiences, particularly the slip, my relapse and how I’d found new and improved sobriety.