Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  You could hear the smug smile in her voice. “It’s called Let’s Just Be Me. I wrote all of the songs on it. We’re touring with a band called Havoc. Do you know Vicki Sheppard? She’s the lead singer. Aren’t you married to her ex-best friend?”

  The disdain in Geoffrey’s voice was thick. “You mean…Darla Madrid?”

  “Yeah…her,” Rebel sneered.

  Geoffrey’s tone was one of disgust. “She’s a…singer.”

  “She’s a pop tart,” Rebel countered. “Anyway, we’re on tour. Come see us.”

  “Do you perform with Havoc?”

  “No, I have my own band. But Havoc will be big.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” she said. “I have good instinct. Just like you used to when you had that column and everyone read it for—”

  “Well, enough about them.”

  “I agree,” she said. “Just check out the show. I’m the wave of the future.”

  “I hear you fired your manager.”

  “Nina Grey?” she said. “Yeah, I told her she needed to dry out for a while. She was throwing back too many cocktails at my expense. Last I heard she was living on some sheep ranch in Montana.”

  “Montana? Are you sure about that? Someone told me she bought the Geneva Recording Studios and is personally handling all aspects of Diego Delgado’s career.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “By the way, I’m dating Boston McMurray. He isn’t very bright and I keep him around for the sake of eye candy, but he adores me,” she said. “Just like everyone else in this world.”

  “You’re quite…humble…aren’t you?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Um, no,” she said. “Not really. So…before I congratulate you and Darla Madrid on your dysfunctional marriage and your dramatic divorce and her short-lived career, I’d like to offer this piece of advice to your listeners, Geoffrey,” Rebel said. She took a breath before finishing the interview with: “Nobody walks in L.A.”

  *

  I found Halo by accident. I was in Santa Monica on a business trip, helping a hard-to-please client launch a new ad campaign. By the fifth night, the walls of my hotel room felt like they were closing in on me. I needed some air.

  I strolled down the Third Street Promenade, stopping to listen to the street musicians I discovered along the way. I made my way over to the Santa Monica Pier, relishing the calming sound of the Pacific Ocean and breathing in the invigorating salty air. Immediately, I flashed back to the moment Diego and I had shared standing in the shadow of Navy Pier in Chicago. I wondered if I’d ever see him again. If I did, what would I say? How could I ever repair the destruction I’d caused?

  My stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten all day. I searched for an open coffee shop or an all-night diner. Not far from the beach, I spotted a golden neon sign twinkling and flashing the word “Pancakes.” I stepped inside the retro-style restaurant and immediately felt a sense of comfort. There was a down-home appeal to the place. It was simple and cozy.

  I slid into an empty booth and scanned the menu.

  Then I heard the voice. I looked up. I breathed deep.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “What in the hell are you doing here, lover boy?”

  “Oh my God,” I heard myself say. “Halo?”

  She shook her head and tapped the edge of her pink-and-white name tag. “I’m Brenda,” she said. “I’ve always been Brenda.”

  She looked exactly the same: the sexy smile, the wild hair, the not-so-subtle provocativeness. The only difference was the polyester pink-and-white waitress uniform she was wearing. She looked like she’d stepped out of a classic episode of the TV series Alice.

  She glanced down at the empty side of the booth across from me. “May I?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You look like hell, Justin. What happened to you?”

  I didn’t know how to answer her question. Was my heartache that apparent? I shrugged and mumbled, “I don’t sleep much.”

  “How long has it been?” she asked. “Since I last saw you?”

  “Just a little over five years,” I answered fast. I worried she’d assume I’d been counting each second that had passed since, so I quickly added, “I think.”

  “I heard you left him,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and gave me that interrogating stare of hers. “What the fuck happened to you two?”

  “Nina…” I began. “She told me…”

  Brenda held up a hand. “Say no more.”

  “I haven’t spoken to him,” I explained.

  “Neither have I,” she said. “To any of them. I miss those fuckers.”

  “I heard the band broke up.”

  She nodded. “The Jetsetters are dead. They’ve all moved on.”

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “Do you mean Diego?” she shot back. “He’s teaching inner-city kids how to play guitar, from what I hear. He started a school of some sort. He hides from the press the best he can. He always hated that. He never wanted to be famous.” I nodded, remembering. “And he’s single, in case you’re interested. He always has been.”

  “I don’t think he’ll ever want to see me again,” I said.

  We locked eyes. “You sure about that?” she asked. “We both know you were the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  I felt the tears rising. “Don’t say that to me,” I said. “Please.”

  “It’s the truth,” she said. “Otherwise it wouldn’t hurt like hell.”

  “You have no idea…” I stammered.

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “He’ll never be the same without you. We both know that.”

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Is everyone okay? Mary Jane? Athena?”

  “Athena started another band. Some all-girl punk project.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Mary Jane teaches yoga and lives in Santa Barbara,” she explained. “The fucking nut is a hippie vegan now and chants like a bad habit.”

  “Have you been here this whole time?” I asked. I glanced around the restaurant. “Working here?”

  She grinned. I realized in that second how much I’d missed her. “Don’t let the uniform fool you, lover boy. I own the place,” she said. “So, whatever you’re eating…it’s on the house.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “You don’t owe me anything, Brenda.”

  “Yeah, I do,” she said. I gave her a look. I was confused. What had I ever done for her? Put up with her crazy, drunken antics? “You were there for me, Justin. And I don’t know if I ever thanked you for that.”

  I closed the menu, ready to order. “It looks like you made a great decision,” I said. “To walk away from it all. To live the life you really wanted.”

  Brenda stood up. She looked down at me. I tried to decode the strange expression in her eyes. It was a bittersweet mixture of happiness and sorrow.

  “I’ve never been happier,” she said to me. “What about you?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  My heart began to race as the cab driver turned onto Sunset Boulevard.

  “Geneva Recording Studios, you said?” the old man asked.

  My mouth felt dry from the three martinis I’d consumed in the airport bar just minutes before. It hurt my throat to speak, but I did. “Yes. I think we’re close, actually.”

  The cab pulled up in front of the nondescript bungalow-style building a few minutes later. I leaned forward and handed the driver a fifty. “Will you wait for me?”

  “It’ll cost you,” he said.

  I breathed deep and replied, “It already has.”

  I opened the door and stepped out of the cab. Sunset Boulevard was an intoxicating daze of lights and billboards. I felt dizzy. I glanced up to the hovering palm trees and gathered my courage. I moved to the building, to the glass door.

  I entered the recording studio, gripping the shoulder strap of my computer
bag for dear life. The wood-paneled claustrophobic lobby was deserted. I heard music coming from farther down the hallway. I moved in the direction the jazzy piano music was coming from. I’d only taken a few steps when my path was suddenly blocked. Nina stepped into the hallway from an office of some type. Her nose was different but her hair was still frosted blond, just longer. She looked older, as to be expected, but her steel gray eyes still burned with an evil glare. She recognized me at once. It was as if she were expecting me.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Is he here?”

  She gave me a hard look and sighed. “Why now, Justin?” she asked. “After all these fucking years? It was just an affair, for God’s sake.”

  My voice rose. “Is he here?!” I demanded.

  Nina looked startled by my display of aggression, my urgency. “No.”

  I took a step toward her. “Are you lying to me?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Tell me where he is, Nina.”

  She shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “Tell me, damn it.” I struggled to maintain my composure. I looked her directly in the eyes and said, “You owe it to me.”

  She held my stare for a moment before answering. “He’s in Santa Monica. Try the pier. He likes to hang out there when he’s working on new lyrics.”

  I turned. I headed toward the exit.

  Behind me, Nina’s words hit the back of my head as she yelled, “Don’t fuck things up for him again! He’s making a comeback!”

  I tore out of the recording studio with a vengeance. I couldn’t get to the cab fast enough.

  *

  The ocean air felt like a much-needed hug wrapping around my body. I walked down the pier through the pools of multicolored lights cast on the ground by the massive Ferris wheel hovering above the passing crowds. I moved through the sea of strangers, searching. In the distance, the reflective surface of the moonlit Pacific Ocean seemed like a beacon of hope. It urged me on.

  Then I heard the guitar, the music: Bob Dylan’s distinctive lyrics from “I Want You,” sung in a voice that had haunted me for the last twelve years.

  I saw Diego. He was sitting on a bench, facing the water, the horizon. His eyes were lifted toward the moon as if he were singing directly to it. He was a little heavier, older, but still possessed that irresistible rebellious charm. I approached him from the side. The music suddenly stopped, as if Diego sensed my presence without even setting eyes on me.

  Then he turned.

  He blinked a few times. He breathed in deep. “Justin?” he said. “My God, where have you been?”

  My thoughts were moving quicker than my mouth. “I was at the airport,” stumbled out of my lips. “I came to find you.”

  Diego stood up, still clutching his guitar. “Why?”

  “Because…I wanted to see you,” I said. “I had to see you, Diego.”

  Diego lowered his head. He sounded broken when he spoke. “You just left.”

  I moved slow, cautious. I sat down on the bench. “I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry. And I’d like to explain to you why.”

  Diego turned. He looked down into my eyes. “You never came back for me. I was scared. Nina said—”

  I reached out. I took Diego’s hand into mine. I brought him back down to the bench to be next to me. “I want you to forgive me,” I said.

  Diego’s eyes swelled with tears. The emotion surprised me. “How could you leave?” he asked.

  I slipped an arm around him. “It was the biggest regret of my life. I convinced myself that you’d be better off without me. I didn’t want to stand in the way.”

  Our eyes met. “You were everything to me,” he said. “You still are.”

  “Even after…all this time?”

  He nodded. “I knew we’d find each other again,” he said. “When the time was right.”

  “Is it?” I asked, trying to hide the hope in my voice. “Is it the right time, Diego?”

  He looked away. “Things got really fucked up for me.”

  “I know,” I said. “I read all about it.”

  Diego’s jaw tightened. “A has-been. That’s what they call me.”

  I moved closer to him. “I think you’re brilliant.”

  Diego almost smiled. “You like the music?”

  I nodded. “I own every CD.”

  “Then you heard the song? The one I wrote about you.”

  “I know it well.”

  Diego wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “The record label—they made me change the name of it to ‘Justine.’ It wasn’t my idea.”

  I squeezed my grip on Diego’s hand. “It sounds like people have been making decisions for you for a long time.”

  Diego thought about it for a moment and then, he agreed. “Yeah, they have.”

  I touched Diego’s face, pressed an index finger against his lips. I looked deep into his tear-filled cinnamon eyes and said, “Maybe it’s time you make one for yourself.”

  Diego titled his head then, rested it on my shoulder. “Like what?”

  “Let’s start with coffee,” I said. “Would you let me buy you a cup?”

  He kissed my cheek and said, “I would really like that.”

  “Great,” I said. “I know the perfect place.”

  I started to stand up but Diego stopped me. “Let’s go in a minute,” he suggested. “For now, I just want to be right beside you.”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “We can sit here,” he said. “We can look at the water. The moon. Each other.”

  The words came from my heart. “I love you, Diego.”

  He placed his guitar on his knee and positioned himself, ready to play. “I love you, too,” he said. “I’d like to play a song for you, Justin. I really think you’ll like it. I wrote it just this morning. It’s about you. It’s about us.” He looked into my eyes and whispered, “It’s a love song.”

  About the Author

  David-Matthew Barnes is the award-winning author of the novels Mesmerized, Accidents Never Happen, Swimming to Chicago, The Jetsetters, and Wonderland (forthcoming, 2013). He wrote and directed the coming-of-age film Frozen Stars, which received worldwide distribution. He is the author of over forty stage plays that have been performed in three languages in eight countries. His literary work has appeared in over one hundred publications including The Best Stage Scenes, The Best Men’s Stage Monologues, The Best Women’s Stage Monologues, The Comstock Review, Review Americana, and The Southeast Review. Barnes is the recipient of the Hart Crane Memorial Poetry Award. In addition, he’s received the Carrie McCray Literary Award and the Slam Boston Award for Best Play, and has earned double awards for poetry and playwriting in the World AIDS Day Writing Contest. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America. Barnes earned a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing at Queens University of Charlotte in North Carolina. Barnes is a faculty member at Southern Crescent Technical College in Griffin, Georgia, where he teaches courses in humanities and theatre.

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