In my dream at Fontana West, the apartment is so large that the floors move like elevators. Andee calls, I say I was just singing a song: I miss him, I hate him, I miss him, I hate him. Andee says that’s not a song, it’s a broken record. Chrissie says I think I ate a fly, I didn’t know what to do—it was in my soup. Says she has an infected spider bite on her arm and it’s swollen up, maybe she was in the woods or something. Oh no—are you going to get an abscess on your arm again from shooting up, another week in the hospital?
Don’t work my nerves unless it’s working for you. If you’re working for my nerves, then you’re still working. Everybody hates work. If it’s you’re wife, then at least it isn’t your life, turn. It’s all about 11:37 p.m. Alex says I heard your walk and I looked upstairs—there she is!
Why do I always know when Rue’s going to drink? It’s not like I’m clairvoyant. If she wants to lie to herself, that’s one thing, but don’t drag me into it. At least tonight she doesn’t get totally smashed. She and Benjamin—who is smashed—ride the BART back with me and they’re having one of those earnest conversations that’s half as smart as it would be if they weren’t drunk. They’re saying: fags are so awful—no, people are awful. Benjamin needs a blow job and Rue is sick of sex.
We get back and Rue gets off with us, he’s going with Benjamin to some sex party—honey, why don’t you go home? She says she’s not going to drink anymore; she’s just going to get sex. I lose it—bitch, why are you lying to me? She starts to rationalize. I say will you stop arguing with me unless you don’t think I’m right. Rue doesn’t know what to say, Benjamin’s there so Rue sort of defends himself. We’re downstairs from the party, Jeremy’s upstairs so smashed that he can’t walk, and having sex with everyone around him. I say I can’t be seen here. We kiss goodbye and my runway is beyond high hypoglycemia, it’s pure solid polar ice. Before global warming.
Sure, I’m wired in bed at 4 a.m., but at least I have the most amazing orgasm ever—it’s all about my finger in my ass and running out of bed to turn on the lights and watch myself. I don’t eat my come because it’s too late at night to digest protein. Afterwards, my whole arm hurts from sticking that one finger in my ass. See, masturbation will kill you.
Every Sunday, I want mail. In my dream, my mother introduces me to Gretchen—we’re in Russian Hill or some San Francisco postcard, Gretchen lives in North Beach and pays $3,200. She shows me her book, it’s the same publisher that did Memories That Smell Like Gasoline, I thought they went out of business. I open it up—two dirty band-aids—is this part of the book? Gretchen says yes, pulls at the band-aids—AIDS—and there’s a whole tower that falls out, all the people who have died. Each of my cries is a cross between a shriek and a whine, my eyes like two water bottles upside-down and then squeezed shut. My mother goes to look at other books, I’m just downpouring salt water in gasps and then when I wake up, my throat is so dry, legs almost too heavy to walk.
Waiting in the lobby of the Emeryville Holiday Inn, I’m staring up at the ’60s chandeliers—upside-down castles, sixteen of them—or layer cakes. The hotel is playing really bad overwrought elevator music—I guess it’s lobby music because of the overwrought part.
Beforehand, Jaysen said what do you think he looks like? I said I don’t guess about that. Later, I tell her: he’s six feet and maybe 250, ruddy or drunk, receding hairline with a long brown ponytail, goatee and scratchy beard. There’s a sweetness about him, and I want to give him love and beauty and so many other abstract things like maybe even hope.
LITTLE HEART SHAPES
It’s all about Details. The cover story asks, “Can we ever forgive Justin Timberlake for all that sissy music?” The banner headline at the top reads, “Forget Feminism: Why Your Wife Should Take Your Name.” Inside, Justin poses in tight tan pants that could be Wranglers but they’re Dolce&Gabbana, seventies-style cowboy belt, and black 2 (x)ist underwear.
Justin’s growling, water bottle in hand, shirt off and six-pack tightened, hand grabbing his crotch. I’d fuck him, but then I do have a straight boy fetish. Not to mention a flamer fetish. In the table of contents: “American Idol—Justin Timberlake, boy-bandom’s reigning prince, is making a grab for Michael Jackson’s king of pop mitten.” And what’s he grabbing again?
Inside Details, almost at the end: “Jake’s a nice guy from Colorado. Has a girlfriend. Has a baby. Has a high-paying career. Of course, the career involves giving blow jobs and taking it in the ass, so that’s kind of a drag.” And the best quote of all, from Jake: “I always have it in my head that if my girlfriend finds out, it’s over, she’ll take the baby.”
I ask Rue what he thinks, would he recognize this guy with his head turned down, if he was the guy’s girlfriend? Rue says yes, but I’m ready for a survey. We’re in the magazine store and the first guy is the one who was flirting with me, curly hair with the hint of a fauxhawk, he’s not sure—but one thing I’m sure of now is that he was only cruising my fashion. Next guy can’t even answer, he’s so scared, out the door. At least the salesperson is amused; she’s talking to someone on the phone but taking a look at each of the details I point out.
At midnight, I’m about to go out for Thai food, but I don’t want to get sick from the oil, the MSG, the chilies, or whatever else might destroy me. I cook pasta, but what can I put in it? I throw in a bunch of scallions; tamari, rice vinegar, lemon; and then kidney beans—honey, kidney beans are the answer! It’s a vegan breakthrough, because it’s almost like meat sauce—it’s much darker than just tomatoes, staining the pasta the color of a gory movie.
Even with all the new lofts, South of Market is still beautiful, late at night. I do a tour of all the alleys I’ve had sex in, then I walk home. There are six cop cars in front of The Century, so I turn the corner at O’Farrell and this guy says: finally someone attractive out tonight. I like the attention, but he’s not in my dimension.
Right outside my building, this trannygirl yells for me: you don’t remember me, do you? I used to be more boyish. Destiny—she holds out her hand. She invites me over to her house for pot; well if you don’t smoke pot then I guess we don’t have anything in common. Unless you want to fuck. I go home, but then I’m thinking about Destiny. Maybe I should’ve gone home with her.
The NPR announcer asks: what was going through your mind when the car slid off the highway, and you were lying upside-down, trapped in the car with your neck broken? What a smart question. Rue says he hasn’t eaten yet today, except for chocolate cake. Benjamin says she had a night of threes—three bumps of coke, a three-way, and three orgasms. It was horrible, she says.
Every day, some new part of my body hurts. Right now, it’s the sides of my ankles—is that my shins? Why is it 4 a.m. again? The laundry machines deposit brown spots on all my favorite T-shirts, and I can never memorize the repair number long enough to call.
Zan flakes on me again and I’m through—when I call him, he says why did you take so long? I say I was too annoyed to call you. He says I had to get work. That’s what yuppies say to their freak friends—I have a job, girl—even if Zan is talking about porn. I say well, you’re always flaking on me. He says I can’t hear this right now. I say well, when you’ve been flaking on me for ten years, you’re gonna have to do something to regain my trust.
Afterwards, I feel so cold. Rue comes over and I’m upset, and then exhausted. We go on a walk, and then we’re both exhausted. On NPR, they’re playing Chanukah songs sung by a chorus like Christmas carols, how charming. More good news from the news: being Chinese still affects Chinese identity.
There’s a real mouse in my house—it wasn’t just big roaches, after all. Is the San Francisco Center really the center of San Francisco? Honey, of course it is—Abercrombie Abercrombie Abercrombie. I just love it when I open a cabinet and roaches come tumbling down, how biblical! But will I ever see the sun again? My straight boy fetish is out of control, I see them walking down the street from my fifth floor window and beckon them inside with my e
yes. It never works.
I figured out what’s wrong with the world: people get up too early; they go to take the trash out at 7 a.m. I realize it’s 11 a.m., and most people would call that late—but oh, people wake up to alarm clocks! Coffee. That’s what’s wrong.
I’m lying in bed with Rue, we’re hanging out but I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. I get scared like I’m little and I’m trying to tell Rue something, but it only comes out in a whisper, he can’t hear me. What I finally say is: all those cats and dogs and they were so cute and my parents made us watch them die, why did they have to die? When I close my eyes I see a ritual with a firepit and everything, faces obscured with dark masks and it’s so hard when everything gets even scarier than I’ve ever imagined. We were so young, what did those animals do wrong? And I’m sobbing and sobbing from saying it aloud, Rue’s hugging me and I’m sobbing. He says: you’ve been through so much. I think: no, you’ve been through so much. I guess we both have.
So that’s why I think Allison wants to become a veternarian. General Tommy Franks, on the war in Iraq: every time we go from Microsoft-something to Microsoft-something-else, I go through a new training process. Benjamin gets stopped by the cops for jaywalking outside her house: um, why yes, officer—I am black.
Everyone’s always holding something in, and I’m sick of it. I leave beans cooking on the stove when I go out, don’t remember for four hours. It would be fine if they were in the expensive pot, but the fire department comes, the building manager climbs up the fire escape so that they don’t bust down my door. That way I don’t have to pay for it. She’s in my apartment with her girlfriend when I get back—I’ve never met her before; I actually didn’t even realize we had a new building manager.
At Cala, they’re playing Christmas carols. Two fake cable cars turn the corner, full of screaming drunken yuppies in Santa outfits. Then they’re back, they just went around the block. Jeremy flakes on me ’cause he doesn’t want someone else to think he’s a flake. Tragic mixed with tragique—how’d you know that was my favorite cocktail? Damage control: I come with a trick so that I don’t go to the Power Exchange. Afterwards, I feel just lovely.
I haven’t seen the sun since the ’80s, but there are so many interesting stories on so-called public radio. There’s this one about selling Christmas trees, and how the market is really tough this year, sales are up for artificial trees. This one place sells live trees, meaning you can pick your own tree to chop down—then you know it’s fresh. Another place gives out free candy and eggnog. Afterwards, a reporter asks: when was the last time you prayed?
Hot sex with someone I met on the phone line—are you crazy? He’s from Austin, I ask him what to do when I visit my sister. Ice cream, he says. I don’t like ice cream, what about thrift stores? He doesn’t know of any cruising parks. He lives about seven blocks from where Jeremy used to live in Oakland; the Walgreen’s where Jeremy and I got harassed is his Walgreen’s too.
I test negative for syphilis, and they still try to convince me to take antibiotics: public health over personal health, how thoughtful! Jeremy and I are sick at the same time—it’s not fate, I swear it’s not fate. I’m in bed for thirty-six hours. In my dream, I’m trying to get the saliva out of my mouth—I’m pulling and pulling, it’s a solid object. I’m worried I’m going to pull out my tongue. Finally it comes out, straps at the very ends like what keeps a saddle on, or maybe the reins? I let the straps hang in my mouth, and I wake up to what sounds like sheets of glass shattering on the ground outside. Christmas? Never heard of it. If only Nixon were still in China, bringing on all that détente! My name is Luka, I live on the second floor. My name is Luka, yes I think you’ve seen me before. This tweaker calls, he says: are you part God? Stop soiling my corduroys!
What to say when Walgreen’s security catches you stealing a pen: I was just testing how it feels in my pocket. Ralowe says he watched the second Lord of the Rings and there was a walking tree, he can’t wait to get a Game Cube so he can play “Zelda”—the scary part is that Ralowe’s serious.
Burdock root for the birds, I hope they appreciate such delicacies. It’s hard to believe that I can do anything at all when I wake up feeling so awful. Watching the pigeons eat the burdock—they like it! My apartment still smells like smoke from the fire, which luckily only damaged the pot. I steam kale for way too long—more food for the pigeons. I just want to go back to bed—it’s so nice in there. More on NPR about prayer—the same program on two stations—I just love the holidays! South of Market: I can’t believe these people still exist, going to the same awful bars. Benjamin says she got so frustrated on the phone sex line that she called suicide prevention.
Finally something interesting on NPR: someone’s dog was drowning in the river, the owner couldn’t reach it because the tide was too high, then all of the sudden a seal emerged and pushed the dog to the safety of the riverbank. This trick calls, he says I saw your picture, and you look like the kind of guy who’d appreciate some herb I grew at my home in Lake County, so I thought maybe I’d swing by.
I get a real trick; he lives in that weird condo in the back of the Safeway parking lot on Geary. The doorperson says I’ve heard all about you. I say I’ve heard all about you. The trick’s cute enough, I push him up on the kitchen counter, I’m grinding against him and he says let me ask you a question: are you gay? These people. Later, he says: what do you do for a living?
During the previews, every movie looks like it has great cinematography and a horrible script—maybe I should move to LA. Sit by the pool and do line after line, cocktails to take away the taste and food on silver trays—just get me a hospital room with a view! Like in the one good scene in Boogie Nights, line after line and they can’t leave the room—why do I think that was Julianne Moore, was that Julianne Moore? Anyway, Rollergirl looks at the older woman; she’s not thinking about whether it’s Julianne Moore because her eyes are red and tears well up—MOMMY! So many nights like that, when one room is the world and you never escape.
In the new Almodóvar movie, someone says there’s nothing worse than leaving someone you love, and I think about Jeremy, who I’m sitting with. But I don’t feel dramatic about it. Jeremy asks if I’ve had any good sex. That’s when I’m more dramatic: I feel like there was a time, a number of years ago, when I felt a sense of so much possibility in sex, in sluttiness—and now it seems like everyone’s so compulsive about finding dissatisfaction, and it makes me so depressed that I stop thinking about sex. I don’t really have a libido, either—except at random moments when I’m on the bus or walking down the street and unfortunately it’s not those random moments that are scripted to lead to something.
I always think I’m going to get some amazing mail—today I get two credit card applications and a missing persons postcard. Remember: jumping out the window is not good exercise, exercise, exercise! Everything hurts, no not everything—just fingers, wrists, arms, shoulders, neck, jaw, head, feet, back. Zan goes to a New Year’s party in New York to check his email: no, honey—put that line back in the road where it belongs!
More bills, get me some pills. I want to go to Buena Vista Park, but I’m worried I’ll hurt my hands carrying my bag. Then hurt my feet getting down. But where else can I go to suck cock with the city below my lips? So that’s where I go, I suck cock; the guy tells me he’s the Mayor. Of the park. He shows me his favorite spot, which isn’t my favorite. Then he walks me down, so I don’t get lost—chivalry is still alive! At home, I feel less exhausted. As soon as I get out of bed, the fire alarm goes off.
Next Thursday, I’m getting on a plane to visit Allison in Austin, I’m worried I’ll get so drained from the plane that I’ll never get out of that dark DARK depression. I just need the answer. Zan calls my cellphone, why my cellphone? Neck, forearms, or wrist—which will hurt the most? Zan says you don’t want to talk to me right now; I’m an example of all the worst New York has to offer. Is she coked-out and waiting for the Gucci store to open in Williamsbur
g?
Illusions will only get you so far. Now, delusions . . . What’s the difference between blasé and bla bla bla? Parfait touché, farfait flambé, parfait with hay. Some guy on the bus says: engaging with this planet is essential. Zan goes to Steamworks in Chicago, she says: I was trying to stir up some action in the glory hole video room, and I walked into this hot torso on the screen with cock in hand, then the camera pulled back and it was your lovely face in full faux ecstasy.
While I’m waiting for the bus, this homeless guy asks: what’s the difference between murder and killing? My mood swings when this boy at Whole Foods keeps looking at me. He’s the hottest thing on earth. I thought he was straight, but then I always think the boys who cruise me are straight. Did I mention he’s the hottest thing on earth—shaved head but it’s growing out, and big eyes, maybe even chubby and that tattoo on his arm makes me swoon? Corporate health food romance.
Ralowe thinks he’s the only person who doesn’t relate to anyone else in the world. Keys, kikis, keys, kikis. The boy from Austin isn’t calling me back to give me the thrift store story, what a bitch. I call Jeremy ’cause he’s forgotten to call before leaving for Paris. It’s 4 a.m., no one answers the phone. Why are they cleaning the streets in the rain? Watching the cops harass the trannygirls from five stories above, I feel so powerless.
Wow, the cops let the girls go. I’ve already thought of what I’m going to write on postcards from Austin: Texas is Texas. But here’s what I’ll remember most, even though it could happen anywhere: it’s Monday, first day back for UT students. I’m on the main drag outside of the campus, giving high hypoglycemia runway drama—nothing out of the ordinary. I’m walking fast, getting all sorts of comments—are you gay?—intellectual sorts of things, outside the university. Though this one cute straight boy does look me up and down like he’s in awe of how many mismatching pieces of clothing I can throw together, transcending everything. Anyway, after a few blocks, I spot these two fags. I’m excited, I smile hello and these bitches start giving me shade. Imitating my walk, saying girl.
So Many Ways to Sleep Badly Page 12
