Foothills Pride Stories, Volume 2

by Pat Henshaw

  One of my drinking buddies had told me nobody’s really straight or gay, but we tend to lean more one way than the other. I’d laughed at the time, but I was beginning to believe him.

  “So what did Joey have to say to you last night?” Mitch didn’t look at me but asked the question to the backyard.

  “Uh, nothing. He came up and asked for money.” I shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do.” I turned to him. “You get kids panhandling outside your businesses often?”

  “No!” Then he shrugged. “Sometimes. This is a city. There are a lot of homeless, adults and kids alike. That’s one of the reasons I want to move out of here and into the country. Things aren’t so… so rough, I guess, out where you live.”

  My sour laugh fit in with the marine-layer mist hanging over us.

  “Don’t kid yourself. Plenty of homeless where I’m from. Stone Acres is no nirvana.” It was my turn to shrug. “Actually, the owner of the Stonewall Saloon, years ago when he was alive, opened up one of the bar’s storerooms to house homeless kids whose parents threw them out or abused them. In some ways, the country is the city with more trees and dirt.”

  We sat drinking our coffee and chatting about home repairs and employee problems until I figured out it wasn’t going to get lighter outside. After we cleaned up the breakfast stuff and Mitch showered, I asked him to take me somewhere I could buy a new suit. We wrangled about whether I needed one or not, but in the end, I convinced him I’d feel better if I was dressed a bit more like the natives.

  We spent the afternoon shopping and playing tourist. We even took the Alcatraz tour, which Mitch, despite having lived in San Francisco his whole life, had never been on. I told him he needed to be locked in a cell for that.

  After lunch, as we got into Rita, he got the twinkle in his eye that said he was up to something. Once he’d looked at me a few times in glee, I snapped.

  “Okay, what gives?”

  “You’ll love where we’re going next.”

  His half smirk made me wonder if I would.

  We drove through a golf course up a hill into some fog. Then we came out of the mist to a huge classical building and a full parking lot. Someone was backing out of a prime spot, which we jumped on.

  “We going into the building?” I asked, watching groups of people wandering toward a retaining wall or strolling to the edge of the hill to the right of the building.

  “Eventually. Why don’t we go this way first?” Mitch led the way to the wall.

  The city roofs spread out before us, making me think of a diorama. You could practically see to the Bay Bridge from here.

  “Nice,” I breathed.

  When a huge group of adults and kids clambered up next to us, we turned, strolled to the edge of the hill, and looked out over the Golden Gate Bridge. I took a deep breath.

  “Thanks for bringing me here. I need a breath of the country to appreciate the city,” I told him.

  “Oh, this isn’t what we came to see.” That damn twinkle was still firmly lodged in his eyes. “It’s just a perk.”

  He turned us back to the building. “This is the Legion of Honor. It’s an art museum.”

  Ooookay. So what was he waiting for me to say? Did he think I was about to run? I’d been to art museums before. My brothers and I were members of the Crocker Art Museum in Sacramento. Mostly, our membership looked good to our wealthier clients who lived in the resort areas around Stone Acres. So every once in a while, we showed up in suits, had drinks, mingled, and raced back to town as fast as we could afterward.

  But to have Mitch bring me to a museum, uh, well, now what?

  While I was thinking, Mitch started laughing. As we picked up our visitor tags, he leaned over to whisper, “C’mon. You’re actually going to like this.”

  Doubtful, really—wait a minute.

  I nearly bumped into a sign saying the current exhibit was The Art of Weapons. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  As we tromped down the narrow stairway, I could hear Mitch chuckling behind me. Evidently he’d seen me catch on.

  “Told you you’d like it.”

  The exhibit was spectacular. Intricately carved guns and knives, some ceremonial and some practical, were displayed in cases between battle dress from various centuries and cultures. I stood next to a full suit of armor that looked puny beside me. I even dwarfed the colorful Samurai outfit with its horned helmet.

  As Mitch and I toured the cases, we discussed the various battles. I’d always been struck in school by how cumbersome the fights must have been since the knights were dressed like turtles. We had a great afternoon talking, all the while dancing around our attraction.

  The more I was around him, the more I liked Mitch. He could be serious and businesslike one minute and impishly kidlike the next. We swaggered around, two overgrown men in a steady stream of smaller folks, as we laughed and talked and bonded.

  Through the joshing and friendliness, though, I tried to ignore the strong thread of sexual heat that made me want to haul him off somewhere and have at him. I squelched the urge and opted for acting like a civilized adult. Judging from his sideways glances and hands-on approach, Mitch felt the same.

  When we got back to his place, Mitch called the shelter and was assured Joey was doing fine. So we prepared for our last night of fun. Just as Mitch had tried to blend in with my life, I told myself I was going to go with the flow tonight and not make waves.

  After a day of being a good boy, and armed with my new suit, I was ready to visit Mitch’s other two clubs and get more serious afterward.

  9

  THE INSIDE of Fresnel, located in the theater district, looked like a stage set. From the tables to the costumed servers, the place shouted “there’s no business like show business.” An edge of fake and flimsy surrounded everything, which made me feel a little like a bull in a china shop.

  My inner construction worker wanted to stalk around the room and add substance to the scene in front of me. I was afraid to sit on a chair or put my hands on a table because all of them looked like they’d break under my weight.

  A piano player rolled through catchy but unfamiliar songs, the waiters and patrons sang along, and klieg lights pulsed in time with the music. Since I’m not a theater person, I didn’t know the lyrics, though everyone else seemed to. As Mitch nudged me to sing, I ended up shrugging and apologizing a lot.

  The night spot took bright and shiny to an off-the-charts degree. Dazzled, I had trouble keeping up. Mitch made his way from group to group, introducing me to everyone he knew before he sat us at a reserved table with a great view of the room.

  Last night’s clubs had been relaxed, with mellow couples enjoying jazz and a chance to unwind. This group bounced and clapped for the performers—and some patrons who clearly thought they were part of the show.

  Men and women occasionally jumped up next to their tables and belted out a song, some breaking out in dance steps or gesturing to their partners to get up and join them. Some danced with the waitstaff, being twirled and bent in elaborate moves. Everyone seemed born to the stage, but I sure wasn’t.

  I was so far out of my element that I was embarrassed about being such a dumbass. How’d I lived for over thirty years and missed all this music?

  “So what do you think?” Mitch’s voice and bright eyes begged me to lie.

  “Uh, it’s okay. I don’t know.” Before his face fell, I added, “But your customers are having a fine old time. You did good, buddy.”

  Mitch looked confused for a moment but ended up grinning. “Are you saying you don’t like it, but you’re happy that the others do?”

  “Sorta. But, you know, just because I’m not partial to something doesn’t make it bad or not worthwhile. Live and let live, I always say. I don’t have to like everything.”

  He mulled that for a moment. “Maybe if you knew the words to the songs, that would make a difference?”

  “Probably. But what I’m saying is that it doesn’t matter what I th
ink. Ben Behr is not the one to tell people what they should like or not enjoy—unless someone’s hurting someone else. As long as they’re adults and being honest, that’s all I care about. All right?”

  His face lit up. He fit right in with the clapping, singing, dancing, gleeful crowd. I could get used to this club given time and lyrics.

  “You’re a special man, Ben Behr. If it makes any difference, you make me happy.” His hand on my arm tightened like he was giving me a tiny hug.

  Damn. See? His hand hug made me question whether I was all that straight. Shit, I wanted to throw my arms around him and give him a real hug. Not a bro hug for fuck’s sake.

  While I was grinning and tapping my feet, Mitch leaned in and said, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  He gestured over my shoulder. One of the waiters danced up and plopped a piece of lemon meringue pie in front of me. I looked at Mitch and raised my eyebrows. Was the pie my surprise?

  “This is where your brother Connor is going to work!”

  Oh yeah. And who should appear but my brother. Dressed in elaborate chef’s whites. Suddenly everyone stopped singing and started clapping. Con, in true Con fashion, turned and bowed. Then he plunked himself down at our table, and the sing-along started up again.

  “Wow, Con. Look at you, bro. You’ve escaped from little old Stone Acres with a vengeance, huh?” I sounded as dumbstruck as I felt.

  “Well, not completely. This is just a trial. To see how I like it.” He leaned over and kissed Mitch on the cheek. “I have a patron who’s making this possible.”

  Now I was really confused. If Con was kissing Mitch in public, did that mean they were together? And if they were, what the fuck was I doing here? And why did I care if Con kissed Mitch in or out of the public eye?

  Con was watching me as he pulled away from the tiny kiss. His eyes were sparkling with mischief.

  What the hell? My confusion grew, so like I usually did when I don’t understand what’s going on, I shrugged it off. What did I know? Nothing, as usual. That’s me, clueless Ben. I ate my favorite kind of pie while they talked and sang a few songs.

  “Surprised?” Mitch asked after Con left to go back to the kitchen.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Good surprise?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Mitch looked disappointed, but he nodded and put an arm around my shoulders.

  We stayed at Fresnel for about an hour, most of the time talking. He told me the stories behind the music and songs we were hearing. Mitch got up a couple of times and sang. All in all, I took to the place much better than I’d thought I would when we first arrived.

  Still, I wasn’t sorry to leave when Mitch suggested it was time to go. We caught a quick dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant. Afterward, we didn’t drive very far and parked in an alleyway marked with private spaces. As we got out, Mitch turned to say this was his premier place.

  His boyish grin beamed like he had a real treat for me this time. I steeled myself for anything and everything and hoped my initial reaction would live up to his expectations.

  Hêlo sat on a corner in the midst of art galleries and bars. Its windows were completely blacked out, so nothing hinted as to what was inside. Even the tall gold letters spelling the bar’s name gave people passing no clue.

  As we walked around to the front door, Mitch stopped me.

  “Okay, this place is a little different.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “You’ll see.” He looked nervous. Was this another test? I took a breath, ready to be blown away.

  The interior of the rectangular room had been peeled back to its bare bones, and then everything painted flat black. Staccato sounds that might have been called music by someone who didn’t demand melody plinked and plunked away.

  When we walked in, the place looked like fluorescent paint had been used to draw windows on the floor and a doorway on the ceiling. A 3-D couch seemed to be suspended along one wall. Just as I was getting used to the topsy-turvy feel and the disjointed sounds, the lighting changed, and suddenly structures that looked like sculptures and buildings and even a roller coaster filled the room, along with the disembodied screams of riders and the screech of metal wheels on a metal track.

  The couples and foursomes at the tables around us talking and drinking didn’t even act like they heard the noise. Their conversations continued as if they were sight and sound deprived.

  In fact, nobody acknowledged our entry at this club except for the maître d’, who glanced at Mitch, then quickly led us to a reserved table. Everyone else was intent on their smartphones.

  As we navigated our way to the table, the lighting changed again, and suddenly we were in the middle of a thunderstorm, with muted booms and flashes of lightning. The patter of raindrops, joined by the pings of hail, underscored the steady drone of the drinkers’ conversations.

  Then some of the raindrops turned red, and we were caught in a bloodbath amid a series of anguished cries. I cringed and almost raised my arms to shield myself. No one but Mitch noticed my unease. His hand on my lower back gently guided me as we walked.

  After we were seated, Mitch ordered us drinks from someone clad in black who faded into the background. Meanwhile, the lighting leveled off, and a group of paintings were highlighted on the walls. I couldn’t tell if they were real or as fake as the rain. Some of the pictures were bizarre, but most were what I’d call normal images of objects I could recognize.

  I looked at Mitch, now that he was visible.

  “Wow. What the fuck was all that?”

  He threw an arm around the back of my chair.

  “Stay tuned. You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he whispered in my ear, eager excitement in his tone.

  The server put our drinks in front of us as the lights dimmed. I thought we were in for another round of what we’d seen before, but no, I was wrong. This time a train ran through the room, lights flashing and the sound of the wheels on the tracks wailing. The nightclub walls lit with window-framed images of people eating in a dining car, reading in another car, and God Almighty, even a quick sequence of couples fucking.

  The passenger train was followed by a freefall past clouds that ended in a bumpy landing. Then an underwater scene overtook us. Sharks roamed the walls, ceiling, floor, and seemingly the entire interior space. Then we were inside a popcorn machine.

  The images and sounds were so lifelike, I was shocked when Mitch took my hand and stuck it into a hologram of a naked woman shimmying next to our table.

  By this point, I was shaking and dizzy. Mitch’s arm wrapped around my shoulders. Or did it?

  “Look. I appreciate what’s going on, but I gotta get outta here.” I wasn’t positive my legs would hold me, but I’d had enough. I really didn’t want to upchuck all over him or the room.

  I felt like I was losing my mind. What was real? What wasn’t? I couldn’t tell anymore.

  Just as I staggered to the door, who should swoop in but Glen and his companion from the night before. This time they were dressed in multicolored suits like some kind of clowns, which pretty much summed up what I thought of them both.

  My patience had left the building. Not a good time to poke the Behr.

  “Leaving so soon?” Glen asked as he brushed up against Mitch’s side. “Too much for your bumpkin?”

  His smirk would have been irritating if I’d felt well enough to give a shit. Who the hell cared what he thought? Not me. It took all I had to back off from engaging and heaving on him.

  From the family groups and the homeless boy to the happy-go-lucky singers and whatever this place was, I’d had it. My mind was about as broad as it was going to get.

  “Yup. I’m done for the night.” I couldn’t wait to get outside, and even then, I knew I wouldn’t find serenity and peace in the middle of an urban downtown. If it weren’t for Mitch’s hand on my back, calming me, I’d have been running away. So much for the famous Ben Behr good–old-boy calm.

  Glen’s eyes n
arrowed, and he glared from me to Mitch and back again.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate a place like this.” He waltzed on by, pulling his companion with him.

  I tried not to run over them on my way to the door.

  “You didn’t like it?” Mitch asked, his tone soft and neutral as we left the bar.

  Outside, I turned to him, gulping big lungfuls of polluted city air. The sidewalks and streets flowed with people, and relentless activity boxed me in.

  “Nope. Too much of an overload. I like things simpler, more natural, not bombarding me. Sorry.” I felt bad I hadn’t appreciated the bar’s artistic concept because Mitch was obviously so proud of it.

  “Don’t be sorry, Ben,” he said with a short laugh. “It’s not exactly my favorite place either. But damn if it isn’t popular. It’s always filled, and if we hadn’t had a reserved table, we would have had to get a number and join the walk-ins.”

  “What walk-ins? I didn’t see a line or anything.” My breathing had slowed, but I still shivered and felt the aftertingle of panic in my throat.

  He took my arm, then his hand slid around my waist. He held me close for a moment as if he were protecting me from the people swarming around us. When I stopped shaking, he walked me to the building next door.

  “We have an alternative to a line. The people in here are waiting to get a table inside the main bar.” He unhanded me and opened the door.

  I half choked in surprise at the sight. A take-a-ticket machine dominated the foyer and two now-serving signs flashed on either end of the room. The plain, half-dim room held a collection of tables, all of which looked taken.

  Even with the walls covered in artwork, compared to the other bar, this one looked as spacious as a barn. A few people were talking, but as in a bus station, everyone seemed on edge, uneasily passing time.

  I scanned the crowd, not sure if Mitch and I were going to stay for the drink we didn’t get before. There, sitting way in the back near the far wall, were Glen and his twin. As I glanced at them, they scowled. Glen rose and walked quickly up to us.