Half

by Duncan MacLeod

  “Is that your wedding ring”?

  He glances at his hand and grins - “It’s just a ring. Wedding rings go on the left. But I used to be married.”

  I’m nervous if anyone else walks in the room they will sense our smoldering sexual energy, so I bow my head, willing it to go away. When I open my eyes, Chance is still right there and the fire is still burning. I hear the sounds of violins playing, but the stereo is turned off. Every Motown love ballad makes sense. What screwball comedy of errors has landed me next to Chance, with his arm around my shoulder? He’s straight, has an ex-wife, and now he will be my roommate. A recipe for torture.

  “Ethan, little buddy, I try to skip these house meetings if I can. They think I work late hours and I don’t want to lead them to believe otherwise. I’ll be upstairs in my-- our room. Knock on the door before you come in.” He gives a serious, mischievous smile meaning ‘...because I don’t want you to catch me doing anything indecent.’ Chance sneaks out the back stairwell as the first clients make their way in.

  Snapping out of my reverie, I see a cross-eyed red-head standing before me, “Hi I’m Kathleen. What’s your name"?

  “Ethan”

  “Ethan is Hebrew for strong. Are you strong"?

  Kathleen sits beside me on the couch without hesitation., making a tight sandwich. Kathleen is a piece of bread, I’m the lunchmeat and a somber, silent woman with a blank face and greasy hair is the other piece of bread on this loveseat. A kind looking Chinese man with coke bottle glasses shuffles into the common room with two Asian ladies in tow. He lights up when he sees me. “Hi you new, right? I’m Tony. Tony Ha.” He gestures to his entourage. “This Annie, and this Mei.” I stand and shake hands with Tony. He gives off a friendly vibe.

  “Ethan,” I offer. Annie and Mei don’t respond when I extend my hand to them. Tony shakes his head and whispers, “they are shy.” A few moments later, a massive Chinese bull dyke walks in and slaps Tony on the back.

  “Who’s the new guy"? She speaks perfect San Francisco English. She must have been born here, unlike Tony, Annie and Mei.

  “Bernadette, this Ethan.”

  “Ethan! Glad to have another one of us in here if you know what I mean.” She winks as she vigorously shakes my hand. How did she know I am gay? I guess the same way I knew she was a lesbian. We just know. There’s a shared sadness and fear in our eyes we cannot hide.

  Tony asks me if I play Mah Jong.

  “I don’t, but I’m always willing to learn.”

  “Great! We play every night right here - this room. You join us any time. I will teach you can play real good.” His English is easy to understand, bad grammar and all.

  “I would like that.” I squeeze my way back into my sandwich between the perma-smile Kathleen and the blank-faced piece of bread. The common room fills to standing room only.

  I am uncomfortable sitting wedged between Kathleen and the vacant stare of the woman on my right. To lighten the mood, I offer my hand to Blankface and say, “Hi, I’m Ethan.”

  At first she doesn’t respond. Her face is frozen in a waxen expression, betraying no emotion of any kind. No anger, no warmth. But then one corner of her mouth lifts a fraction of an inch into a lopsided smirkish smile. “Hi, I’m Vicki.” We shake. But then her mouth returns to a neutral frown. She drops my hand like a spoiled peach. She stares straight ahead, vacant as an abandoned motel.

  The four counselors toting clipboards enter the common area, and a hippy dude calls roll.

  *

  The object of the meeting is to pore over the circulars from Safeway and pick out meals we can make with the items on sale. Then once we have our shopping lists, the shopping committee will buy the ingredients. Kathleen and I form a cooking team with Vicki and some other zombies for Wednesday night’s dinner. I wanted to see if Tony and Bernadette would join us, but Kathleen set me straight. “The Chinese cook together and it’s really good. Same with the black people and the Filipinos. I like Chinese best.”

  “What about the Mexicans”?

  “There aren’t that many right now. Some of them are Salvadoran and they won’t cook with the Mexicans anyway. Too many arguments.”

  Hamburger is on sale, as is sweet Italian sausage. Kathleen says we should make spaghetti with sausage and meatballs. I don’t argue - she is experienced at this, and I am happy to let her lead the way. We build our shopping list, which includes breadcrumbs, salad and the fixings for Garlic Bread - enough for the 22 residents of the halfway house. I forgot meatballs are made with breadcrumbs, but Kathleen has the whole recipe in her head.

  “My mother is half Irish half Sicilian, and my Dad is Scottish and Roman, so I learned how to cook Italian. What about you, Ethan? What’s your background"?

  “Scottish and Jewish.” Kathleen perks up when I say “Scottish.”

  “Ta brae nacht na bricht"!! she shouts. “It’s a fine night tonight, in Scottish Gaelic.” Kathleen is studying Irish Gaelic on her own free time, and she has learned a few expressions in Scottish Gaelic, which is different from Irish but has similar words. “Camar ha,” she says, “is how you say hello. And Slainte means ‘cheers.’”

  Kathleen’s mind is a storehouse of obscure and eccentric knowledge. If it were a living room, it would need to be vacuumed.

  The meeting is over and all the shopping lists have been turned in. Janis removes my bag from lockup and walks me two flights to my room. “Number 6 at the end of the hall. I gotta get back downstairs for activity report. You can join next time.” and she leaves.

  I knock, as Chance had asked; I don’t hear anything. I poke my head into the space. The room is an attic space on the third floor with two small single beds. I drop my backpack at the foot of my bed and put items into my dresser while Chance rolls over in his bed and just stares at me, grinning and rubbing his hands along his legs…a probable side effect of the medication. I have to clear things up,

  “Chance, are you gay"?

  “Who me? Not really. I’m bi.”

  “Well if your gay part of you was in charge, would you like me”?

  “What do you think, Ethan"?

  “I think you’re straight. I don’t think you like me.”

  He looks a bit perplexed. “Well, we only just met. I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea there when I put my arm around you.”

  “N-n-no,” I stammer, “We’re sharing a room, so it’s good to lay all our cards on the table, right"?

  “This is an awkward and unnecessary conversation, Ethan.”

  “Sorry I brought it up.”

  Chance rolls away so his back is to me and he says, “Don’t be.” And he leaves it all mysterious. Fuck I hate that. Don’t be...what the hell does he mean?

  I don’t want to go to sleep without knowing more about him.

  “So Chance, you said you work late. What do you do?”

  Chance rolls back to face me. “I said they think I work late hours. I don’t. But I do work, early. I fix Vespas.”

  “I have wanted a Vespa ever since I saw Diva.”

  “That was a Motobécane Mobylette. I’ll bet you mean Quadrophenia.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I just know I want one. A friend of mine had one and he used to drive me around Berkeley. It was the coolest bike ever.”

  “Lambrettas are even cooler.”

  “What kind of bike do you have”?

  Chance frowns. “I don’t. I lost pretty much everything when I got hospitalized. But I’ll buy a Lambretta when I’ve saved enough.”

  “When you do, you’re taking me for a ride on the Great Highway.” I don’t know where the Great Highway came from, it just popped into my head. A romantic vision.

  “Deal.”

  Neither of us asks about what got us into the hospital. It’s just one of those things you don’t do in the Mental Health system. I’ll bet Chance has a story even better than mine.

  CHAPTER TWELVE - OBLIGATIONS

  Chance works a full time job, so he is already out of the
room when I wake and shuffle to breakfast. He isn’t at breakfast either, so he must have left for work.

  The awesome part of being in a halfway house-- you are surrounded by people who have reached a higher level of functioning. Many of us are getting better. Some of us are staying the same, but we are functioning. The reverse side of this coin is how they expect more from us. At Northeast Lodge, you just had to go on coffee walk once a week to satisfy the activity requirements. At Conard House, you have to do three activities a week, and coffee walk only counts as one. At breakfast, Kathleen clues me in on how to get away with the bare minimum.

  “If you go to Safeway on Saturday and do the grocery shopping, it counts as one activity; if you sign up for a cleaning chore around the house, it also counts as an activity. Then all you need is coffee walk, and you’re set.”

  Great, but they expect you to do an all day activity during the week, like Chance who works, or Kathleen, who goes to day treatment.

  Janis is my counselor, and she is tasked with assigning me to a full time daytime activity. If I could, I would choose “sleep all day” as my activity but it isn’t an option. I would rather be lobotomized than return to day treatment. Janis says I can volunteer somewhere if I want. “It’s a great way to gain new skills for employment when you’re ready to return to the work force.” Her words fall like raindrops on turtle wax. Considering how shaving and putting my pants on right way forward are major challenges for me, I distrust I can find a job requiring my set of zero skills. I do need money. With money, I can buy my way out of here. I know it would be good for my soul to volunteer at Tree’s house. I know. But not having money is terrifying.

  “Janis, if I can find a paying job wouldn’t that count"?

  “Of course, Ethan. You might want to start with volunteer work first, just to get your feet wet before jumping back into the workforce.”

  “But there are lots of people living here who work, right"?

  “Sure. Vicki works at the post office.”

  “Vicki has a job? She can’t even smile"!

  “Ethan, it’s a disability, and the post office can accommodate her illness. She is a mail sorter. It’s the same job she has had for twenty-five years.”

  Janis has a point; you don’t need much personality to sort mail.

  “How long do I have to choose my daytime activity"?

  “Well,” Janis strokes imaginary chin hairs, “technically you need to decide today. But I can give you until the beginning of next week. Will it be enough time"?

  It isn’t, but I say, “Yes. It’s perfect.”

  “And as for your three extra-curricular activities…”

  “I’ll do the shopping, a chore, and coffee walk.”

  Janis is disappointed with me.”You know, we have movie night at the Kabuki, sometimes we get free seats at the ballet and even nosebleed seats at the opera, so you may want to mix it up a bit. You choose your activities each week, so if you decide you want to go see a movie, just switch it up.”

  “Do you ever get Madonna tickets”?

  “Not unless she plays Symphony Hall.”

  Madonna plays the Cow Palace, not the Symphony. Oh well. “What about clubbing? Can I go to Das Klub as one of my activities"?

  “No, they serve alcohol. And no, you can’t go on coffee walk twice, just in case it was your next question.”

  It wasn’t, but I nod and look disappointed.

  “Your chore this week is to straighten the library. It can double as your daytime activity while you get yourself situated.”

  “Sounds great.” It sounds like torture, but it’s easy and I don’t have to think about it much.

  Dinner is lackluster, but home cooked. The best part of the meal is the Pillsbury biscuits. The chuck steak is full of gristle, and the oven baked fries taste like creosote. I look for Chance, but he is nowhere to be found. His job must pay well, so he eats out often.

  After dinner, I wind my way to the basement living room, where the TV is tuned to the news, followed by Magnum, P.I. Tom Selleck is supposed to be handsome, but I don’t see it. He looks gay with his thick mustache. Wouldn’t it be funny if Tom Selleck the ladies man were gay?

  “Ethan"! I hear Kathleen call from the top of the stairs.

  “What"? I shout back.

  “Phone call. She says she’s your mother.”

  A profound dread washes over me. My skin prickles and burns.

  At the landing at the top of the stairs is a payphone. Kathleen is talking into the receiver. “Camar ha means hello in Scottish, and ta brae nacht…” she trails off mid-sentence and hands the phone to me.

  “Mom"?

  “What the fuck took you so long? Who was that crazy bitch"?

  “Kathleen isn't a bitch. I was downstairs watching Tom Selleck.”

  “I hate his mustache,” she says. “Look, I got a place in the city and I want to give you my number. Do you have a pen and paper"?

  “No, but hold on.” I drop the phone and wander off in search of writing utensils. The door to the counseling office is open a crack, so I peek in. Gwyneth, the night counselor, sees me.

  “Can I help you"?

  “Yeah, I need a pen and paper.”

  “Sorry, we can’t give those out. House rules. You can go to Walgreens on California Street.”

  “My mom needs to give me her number and she’s on the phone.”

  Gwyneth sees my panicked expression and takes pity. She hands me a post-it note and one of those stubby pencils they use at the bowling alley or golf course. “I need you to return the pencil immediately.”

  “Thank you.” What a strange economy exists in the mental health system. Pencils trade like junk bonds.

  I return to the pay phone, and the receiver is back on the hook. Some misguided Samaritan hung up on my mom. Of course the phone rings within seconds, and I answer.

  “Hello"?

  “Ethan, what the fuck is going on over there? Did you hang up on me"?

  I roll my eyes and take a deep breath before answering. “I don’t know, I was only away for a minute getting something to write your number and when I came back, the phone was hung up.”

  “Yeah, well when I called back, whoever answered said you had gone to bed. Are you shining me on? Really, what kind of bullshit are you pulling here"?

  “Mom, it’s a weird place, okay? There are crazy people here. I can’t fucking help it if you had a bad customer experience on the fucking pay phone.”

  Her voice takes on the screechy tone that hurts my ears. “Watch your filthy mouth! Don’t talk to me like that"!

  “Can I just have the number"? I’m too tired to argue she started our conversation by swearing at me. In her world, she’s beyond reproach. If I call her on it, she denies it ever happened. Sometimes I wonder if she’s like Sybil with multiple personalities who don’t remember what the other one is doing.

  “Yeah, okay it’s 415-286-3299. Did you get it"?

  “415-286-3299. Got it. Where do you live now"?

  “It’s this cool apartment in the Mission District. You should come visit. Are you busy tomorrow"?

  “I have to organize the library and then a 3pm meeting. Maybe we can have dinner"?

  “Sure. Dinner would be fine. Shall I cook"?

  I hate her cooking, which she knows. There is only one correct answer to this trick question.

  “Yeah. Make pork chops.” I hate pork chops, but this is all part of the strategy.

  “No, I think I’ll make spaghetti. Is spaghetti okay"?

  I try to sound disappointed, rather than relieved. “Oh, okay. Yes. It’s fine, mom.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at six. Wait outside for me; I don’t want to have to find parking in your neighborhood. I want you outside waiting when I get there. Are we clear"?

  “Crystal clear. See you at six tomorrow.”

  “Okay, honey, I love you.”

  “I love you too, mom.”

  In the common room, there’s a loud persistent
clatter. I want to go see what is causing the noise, but I am enervated. I use the last of my strength to drag my ass upstairs to room 6. Chance isn’t home. It must be nice to come and go as he pleases.

  In the morning, I make myself scarce and go for a visit with Michael G. Page.

  “Girl, I know that look. You are sweet on somebody.”

  I want to deny it, but it’s true. I make a feeble attempt to change the subject.

  “He’s not interested in me. Hey, are those new pants"?

  “Bitch, you know these pants are the same filthy pants you seen me in at the Stud a hundred times. Don’t try and change the subject. Who is he"?

  “Uh, well he’s my roommate at Conard House--”

  Michael cuts me off, “No! You have to be careful with roommates!”

  “So let’s talk about your pants, then.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I want the tea on this roommate. What’s his name? What does he look like"?

  “Um, he’s pretty old, 35 years old or so. And he’s straight.”

  “Not what I asked. What’s his name and what does he look like"?

  I sigh, “His name is Chance. He has olive skin, pale green eyes, and he says he drives a motorcycle, although come to think of it I’ve never seen it.”

  Michael leans in. We’re at the counter of the Rolling Pin Donut on Castro. Two stools away from us is an old man, a legend, who always sits on the same barstool in loose white OP corduroy shorts. He lets his oversized dick and balls hang out for passersby on Castro. I figure when he’s not there on the stool, he’s off having sex with some size queen.

  “You’ve never seen his bike. Do you think he’s a liar? They got a lot of liars in there. And how do you know he’s straight”?

  I wish Michael weren’t acting like Chance was a possible boyfriend. Not a chance in hell. “Well, I asked him.”

  “How brave,” he pauses. “What was his answer”?

  “Okay, okay he said he’s bi.”

  “Oh my god girl! The bisexuals make the best fucking boyfriends. When are you making your move”?

  “I don’t have any moves. He’s nice, end of sentence.” But for some reason, I can’t wipe the stupid smile off of my face.