I can’t explain it, I felt lighter still as we passed through Fresno, California, and the scenery began to change a little, and the wealth of California became more obvious to me (the hillbilly from Hachita, New Mexico), I decided that our decision was right. Lance deserved this art schooling, thanks to Mr. Drummond, who had no doubt twisted a few arms to give the out-of-town kid one of the school’s precious scholarships.
Lance was darned good at the paintings and drawings he did, and so, as we were traveling down the highway, I got him to go through the brochures the Academy of Art College had sent him. I kept one eye on the ever-thickening traffic of the highway and another on the pictures in the brochures. “You’re gonna blow their socks off,” I said, tapping a picture in the brochure, which must have been an example of a student’s work. “You’re already better than that, and if you do as Uncle Sean says and paint some nude men, you’ll probably make a lot of money from the rich queers in Frisco.”
Lance snuggled against me, tossing the brochures onto the dash. “You think so, huh?”
“I know it, Lance. Just stay focused on why you’re there, and you’ll do all right.”
“I wish you were going to be there, though,” he said, and I felt the lump in my stomach stir.
“I will be.” I wrapped my right arm around his shoulders and hugged him to me, hard. Just think of me, and I’ll be there.”
Lance sniffled a little and wiped his nose. “Please, Will, please don’t forget me!”
Tears stung my eyes. “That would be impossible.”
* * *
I drove hard, trying to make it into San Francisco as soon as we could. I wanted to find a really neat hotel and dress up and take Lance to a great restaurant. I didn’t care what it cost. It would be our last night together, and it had to be something we’d both remember, something to sustain us for the months and months that would have to pass before we got together again. I was startled to realize that by the time we saw each other again (unless I came out over a holiday) we’d be twenty-one years old. It seemed like forever until then, even though I was nineteen, now.
* * *
I never was sure when we got to San Francisco, because as we got close, we just entered this endless city of streets, stop lights, buildings, freeways, signs that said one town or another—all without end, until we were driving up and down these steep hills and I was fighting to keep from rolling backwards, or getting honked at at stop signs. It was late in the afternoon and everything was wet and gray and foggy, and even though the sun wasn’t down (or at least I didn’t think it was) it was impossible to tell since the sky was just a gray roil of nothingness. Lights were on in the buildings, too. Through the water-dappled windshield, the red and green stoplights were distorted, and there were people everywhere.
Lance had the city map out and guided me through the streets until we came to Mason Street, and there, atop a large hill that looked out over the city, sat this gigantic building with a sign above it that read “Fairmont Hotel.” Earlier, we had stopped for gas and I had asked the long-haired attendant who took my money with impossibly pale hands where a nice hotel was. “I want something nice to remember San Francisco by,” I told him, and he mentioned the Fairmont.
I drove the pickup into the innards of a parking garage, which also amazed me to think that the city was so tightly packed they had to build such places. We moved as much of the stuff as we could from the back of the pickup into the cab and with our suitcases in hand, we headed into the hotel from the bowels of the garage, riding up to the lobby in an elevator. When the doors opened into the lobby, I was slack-jawed with surprise, and several times I had to shut my mouth, or risk stepping on my tongue. The lobby was probably the biggest inside space I’d ever seen, except maybe the cotton gin in Cotton City. But this place was brilliant with light from several chandeliers, each as tall as a house. They were dripping with thousands of raindrop-shaped glass, and beneath them the lobby seemed to go on in every direction, with rugs and carpet strips, interspersed with couches, marble-topped tables, over-stuffed chairs, and so much room, I couldn’t take it all in at once.
People dressed in suits and evening gowns and dripping with jewelry filled the lobby, and men and women dressed in spiffy looking uniforms like our high school marching band wore (maybe) rushed around pushing carts full of luggage, or carrying trays of drinks and food, or conducting other business I couldn’t even imagine.
But Lance seemed right at home as he led me through the crowd to one side of the lobby where other uniformed peopled waited behind a large and busy counter, which I figured was where we checked in. I also figured he had been in hotels like this in New Orleans with some of the men who had provided a room when he was hustling on the streets and knew what to do. So when it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter and found myself eye-to-eye with another impossibly pale-skinned man. Although he had long hair like many of the other men I had seen in the lobby, it was cut in what I can only describe as a woman’s hairdo.
But his eyes smiled in a way that made me smile back with relief. “A room for two,” I said, then waited for him to gather up some paper work.
“How long will you be a guest?” he asked, still smiling.
I told him we would be staying just that night. He finished filling out the information and, when I was told how much I owed for the room, I tried not to show surprise as I forked over the hundred-dollar bills, trying to keep Lance from noticing that my hands were shaking as I put my wallet away.
“Dinner is served until nine p.m.,” the clerk said, then looked askance at me. “Coat and tie, only.”
All I could think to say was thank you, and turned to leave, when he snapped his fingers and another uniformed man stepped up next to us. Lance picked up our suitcases. “We can manage,” he said to the man, then he cocked his head at me, and I followed Lance as we walked back across the lobby to a bank of elevators.
We traveled up several floors and walked down these long halls with velvet wall paper and enough lights mounted to the walls every few feet to power the entire town of Hachita, and finally got settled into our room. By then it was dark out and I stood at the window overlooking the city. It was warm and stuffy in the room, but the view was indescribable. All I could think of was I sure would hate to be Santa Claus, looking out on all those lights, and the blackness of the bay, beyond. We were at the edge of the United States, and I knew beyond the bay was the Pacific Ocean. Lance and I were also at the edge of our being together, at least while he was attending school here, and that seemed darker and deeper and more frightening to me than the ocean.
I felt so far from home, so far removed from everything that was familiar, I caught myself crying a little, thinking I was going to leave Lance here, alone. But I did my best that night, as we dressed up in our suits and polished shoes and had dinner in the restaurant, to not let on to him that I was feeling frightened for him—and maybe even for us.
The dining room at the Fairmont was big enough to seat everyone in the entire town of Hachita. Every table had thick, white tablecloths, shimmering glassware, catching the gleam of glittering chandeliers. Again, everyone was dressed in suits—or maybe tuxedos, though I’ve never seen a tux to know the difference. The women’s jewelry glittered under the lights, and all over the restaurant was the music of laughter, frightening me in a way when I looked across the table at Lance.
He belongs here, I thought. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a blue tie. I’d seen it in his closet, but had never thought before now about the circumstances in which he’d be wearing it—certainly not at a dinner in an expensive hotel on the edge of the continent, where he and I would be saying our good-byes. Looking around and back at Lance, I could tell that his was an expensive suit, and with his longish hair, freshly washed and also catching the bright lights, he actually looked at home here, while I felt like I stuck out like Jethro of “The Beverly Hillbillies” might. I was wearing one of Daddy’s nice suits that Mama had thought
to keep out for me, but my hair was its usual short-cut style, and I felt like a dressed up hayseed, which made me feel even worse.
When the waiter brought the menus, I opened it and thought I was reading Greek, but Lance told me many of the entrées were French dishes. “Just like back home in New Orleans,” he said, and was actually able to translate for me. There were no prices on the menu and this frightened me, too, but I figured it was just food, so I let Lance order for both of us. The waiter hovered at our table while Lance ordered—and I thought the waiter could detect my discomfort, the way he kept smiling down at me, looking as if he was about to burst out laughing. Every time I looked up, he was staring at me and holding my eyes with his.
But as soon as he left, Lance said, “Told you.”
“Told me what?”
“That guys will cream in their pants over you! Didn’t you notice the waiter couldn’t take his eyes off you? Don’t tell me you missed that, Angel!”
“I thought he was laughing at me. I must look like I’m still wearing a straw hat and chewing on a blade of grass.”
Lance laughed at that. “Quit that, Angel. The truth is, you’re the most beautiful man in this entire restaurant, and they think so, too,” he said, nodding across the room where our waiter and a couple more waiters were talking. They were looking in our direction, so I quickly looked away.
“They can’t stop staring at you, either,” Lance said, still smiling at me.
I didn’t know about that, but soon enough, the waiter was back with our drinks. He fiddled with the glassware on the table, lit a candle, and centered it among the gleaming silver. I looked up at him, and he was looking at me as he continued to smile. Then, during the meal, he came back every few minutes, until I thought maybe Lance was right. But the waiter’s attention only made me more nervous.
I had to watch the others in the restaurant to see how they ate, not that I didn’t know about keeping one hand in my lap, unless I was using a knife and that kind of stuff. But I’d never been to a restaurant this nice. Lance seemed at home, as I say, and knew what we should do. When the waiter brought the bill, Lance glanced at it and told me how much I should leave for a tip. But when I saw the amount on the bill, my hands shook at the costs, which I tried to hide as I slid a fifty-dollar bill and some fives into the little leather notebook the waiter had left for us.
When that was over and the waiter had gone away, neither of us were quite ready to leave the table. We tried to make small talk, but looming in my mind was how quickly our trip out here had gone. This was our last night together for a long time, and I felt like crying, rather than smiling across the table at Lance. His eyes smiled back at me, above his beautiful hands, clasped together, as if this was the most natural place in the world for him to be. And I was frightened this time for myself, wondering what would become of “us,” because in a way, Lance was returning to a kind of place like I imagined New Orleans to be. All through dinner, and even now as we were talking, there was a kind of twinkle in his eyes that told me he liked being here.
I couldn’t help it. I had to ask. “You’re glad to be here, aren’t you, Lance?”
He smiled, then nodded. “In a way, Angel. Sure I am. I’m excited about living here, but that doesn’t mean what you’re making it out to be.”
“What?” I asked, feeling my heart pound because he’d seen through my question.
“It’s not going to be nearly as great as it could be, you know, if you were going to be here, too.”
Still, as we went back to the lobby and later out on the street for a walk, there was a lightness in his step and a secret smile on his lips, and I knew he liked it here a great deal, and that frightened me more than anything. How could I compete for his affection with all this city had to offer—me, a hick from the middle of nowhere?
* * *
Even though we made slow, deep love in our hotel room that night, the next morning as we got dressed, ate breakfast in the hotel, and left to find the Academy of Art College, I remembered a long time-ago feeling that came over me the next morning after Lance and I had met. He was a stranger to me, then; and here in this city, he was a stranger all over again. A side of him came out that made me feel small and inadequate. I might call it his sophistication with city ways, though I’m not sure if it was that, or if I felt inadequate to this city, while he seemed to fit right in.
We found the college administration building on Montgomery Street, right downtown, and managed to get him checked in. They were expecting him, already had his room assignment at the Sutter Apartments, and an assigned roommate. I hoped the guy would be ugly, if not deformed in some unspeakable way, but I kept that to myself, and felt childish at the way my mind turned on itself, because Lance was being as loving and attentive to me as he always had been.
I could feel the time slipping away quickly, however, and it seemed like the day was racing past. We walked around the apartment building and up and down the street, looking into the shops and cafes. The apartment building had a nice lobby and common room where all the men would be eating—all of them artists, like Lance. Again, I felt inadequate. And once we moved Lance’s belongings into his room, we were left trying to make small talk. It seemed to me that he was anxious to get settled in and, really, that he was a little anxious for me to leave.
I had to leave anyway, because I wanted out of the city and well down the road before I rented another room for the night.
“So…this is it, then,” I said.
Lance and I were standing outside on the street in front of his apartment. My hillbilly pickup was parked a half-block away.
“I guess so, Will,” he said, still with that twinkle in his eyes. I noticed he didn’t say ‘Angel,’ and that caused a sort of ‘twinkle’ in my own, from the tears that burned suddenly.
“You’ll write?” I asked, almost doubting that he would. I took a backward step.
“Of course I will, and I’ll call you, Angel!” he said, though already his voice sounded different to me, as if he were speaking rehearsed lines.
“I…uh…better call you, to…to save you money.” I took another step back, looking away, feeling a sob deep down in my chest, caught there in a wash of confusion. How could we be doing this? Yet we were. We were saying good-bye.
And then I turned fully and just waved. I couldn’t speak.
“Will! What are you doing!” Lance said, sounding surprised. “Wait up for me!” And then he was beside me. He took my hand, and I thought I was going to lose it and start bawling. “Don’t you even want to kiss me?” he asked.
So for a final time, right there on the street in front of passersby, I pulled him into my arms, and we kissed deeply, hungrily, not caring who might see us, and when we pulled apart, I saw that he was crying, like me.
“You will write, too, won’t you, Angel?”
I could hardly see him through the blur of tears in my eyes. I nodded. “And I’ll call and come visit when I can.”
Then it was my turn to be sitting in the pickup, and Lance was leaning in my window, touching my face, searching my eyes with his own. “This’ll be over soon, Angel. You will remember how much I love you? You won’t…you know…find someone else when you’re lonely?”
I looked into his eyes, too, seeing something of the familiar love, but also that distance I felt that had welled up here in this city. I held up my right hand and wiggled the ring finger. “This should ward them off.”
“Mine, too,” he said and stepped back. “You better get going, then, before I change my mind!”
Sixteen
At the Edge
The sun broke through the clouds as I was leaving and, in the rear-view mirror, I caught sight of the skyscrapers of San Francisco standing against the edge of the bay, and somewhere in the city Lance was doing whatever it was he decided to do, since he still had one more day before classes started. Then I glanced over to my right, where he had sat so many times as we drove to school together, and where he had been less than a
day before when we arrived in San Francisco.
“Oh, Lance! This is crazy!” I said to the empty seat.
But he didn’t answer me, and I tried to remember how his body felt against me, but it was just me, alone in the pickup, speeding along with the rest of the traffic.
I drove until mid-afternoon, passing up one gas station after another, one truckstop after another, until I had to stop or risk running out of gas.
It was sunny and cold, and I didn’t know if I’d ever warm up without Lance. I filled the tank and topped it off, paid, and drove some more until after dark, backtracking our route, filling up with gas again near Bakersfield sometime after midnight, and driving right on past the motel where we had spent the night, through Barstow, then Needles as the sun came up.
I felt like I was made of rubber and finally pulled into a truckstop, filled the gas tank, and wobbled into the café and dropped into a booth, looking across at the empty seat where Lance should have been. Crazy, I thought, and ordered coffee and eggs, without looking up at the waitress.
I bought a thermos and had it filled with coffee and went back to the pickup and stretched out, hugging myself, falling asleep and dreaming of Lance, waking up, blinking at the bright light of day, wondering if I’d slept through the night. But I saw that the sun was falling toward the west. I returned to the same booth, ordered a hamburger from a different waitress, drank more coffee, and hit the road again.
When I drove through Kingman, Arizona, I passed the motel where the old lady had refused us a room, threw her a mental finger, and turned southeast, and continued driving, sipping on the tepid coffee from the thermos. As the sun came up and I continued driving, I felt numb, and only the pounding of my heart reminded me that I was still alive. Somewhere northwest of Phoenix under a bright, cloudless sky, I pulled in at a rest stop, where I peed behind the building, rather than going inside, looking out over the desert toward the east.
Lance Page 17
