When the electric entry doors slide open he gasps.
“Let’s blow this popcorn stand, baby.” He nods across the street to Rex’s. “Carry me back to the ol’ saloon.”
I push him out to the sidewalk. It’s rougher than the slick floor of the building. Jim grips the arms of the wheelchair. We wait at the crosswalk for the light to change, Jim hunching in his wheelchair in the middle of a crowd of people standing. People glance at him then glance away. I look down at the top of his cap, the back of his neck, his shoulders.
When the light changes everyone surges across Madison. I ease the chair down where the sidewalk dips then push him into the pedestrian crossing. We’re the only ones left in the street when the light turns green.
“Get a move on, Silver.”
The wheels tremble, the metal rattles, the IV on the pole above him shakes. The liquid shifts. Jim’s hands tighten like an armchair football fan’s. His veins stand up. He sticks his head forward as if he could help us move. I push us to the other side.
We clatter into Rex’s. There’s the cafeteria line and a bunch of chairs and tables. I steer him to an empty table, pull a chair away and slide him in.
“Jesus,” he mumbles, “I feel like a kid in a high chair.”
“Coffee?”
“Yeah. And a packet of Benson & Hedges.”
“Jim.”
“Don’t argue. If God hadn’t wanted us to smoke, he wouldn’t have created the tobacco lobby.”
“Jim.”
“For god’s sake Tonto, what the hell difference will a cigarette make?”
While I stand in line, I glance at him. He’s looking out the long wall of windows to Madison, watching people walk by on their own two feet, all the things they carry in their hands — briefcases, backpacks, shopping bags, umbrellas. The people in Rex’s look away from him. I’m glad we’re only across the street from the hospital.
I put the tray on the table in front of him. He puts his hand out for his coffee, but can’t quite reach it. I hand him his cup and take mine.
“Did you get matches?”
“Light up.”
“It’s good to be out . . . So tell me, Tonto, how’s the wild west been in my absence?”
“Oh, you know, same as ever . . .”
“Don’t take it lightly, pardner. Same as ever is a fucking miracle.”
I don’t know whether to apologize or not.
When we finish our cigarettes, he points. “Another.”
I light him one.
“You shouldn’t smoke so much,” he says as I light another for myself.
“What?! You’re the one who made me haul you across the street for a butt.”
“And you drink too much.”
“Jim, get off my case.”
He pauses. “You’ve got something to lose, Tonto.”
I look away from him.
He sighs. “We didn’t use to be so bad, did we Tonto? When did we get so bad?”
I don’t say, After Scotty.
He shakes his head as if he could shake away what he is thinking. “So clean it up, girl. As a favor to the Ranger? As a favor to the ladies? Take care of that luscious body-thang of yours. Yes? Yes?”
I roll my eyes.
“Promise?”
“Jim . . .” I never make promises; nobody ever keeps them.
“Promise me.”
I shrug a shrug he could read as a no or yes. He knows it’s all he’ll get from me. He exhales through his nose like a very disappointed maiden aunt. Then slowly, regretfully, pushes the cigarettes towards me.
“These are not for you to smoke. They’re for you to keep for me because La Dottoressa and her dancing Kildairettes won’t let anyone keep them in the hospital. So I am entrusting them to you to bring for me when we have our little outings. And I’ve counted them; I’ll know if you steal any.”
“OK.”
“Girl Scouts’ honor?”
“OK, OK.”
The cellophane crackles when I slip them into my jacket.
“Now. Back to the homestead, Tonto.”
The Riding Days:
One hung-over morning when Jim and I were swaying queasily on the very crowded number 10 bus to downtown, I bumped into, literally, Amy. She was wearing some incredible perfume.
“Hi,” I tried to sound normal. I gripped the leather ceiling strap tighter. “What are you doing out at this hour? On the bus?”
“Well, the Nordie’s sale is starting today and I want to be there early. But Brian’s car is in the shop so he couldn’t drop me off.”
“Jeez. Too bad.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad. He’ll be getting a company car today to tide us over.”
“How nice.”
She smiled her pretty smile at Jim but I didn’t introduce them. She got off at the Nordstrom stop.
After she got off, Jim said, “She’s cute, why don’t you — ”
“She’s straight,” I snapped. “She’s a breeder. Now. She used to be the woman I used to live with. In the old apartment.”
“The one you’ve never told me about,” he said.
I stared into the back of the coat of the man squished in front of me. “Jim, shut up.”
“I’m sorry, babe . . .” He tried to put his arm around me. I wriggled away from him.
“Hey, she’s not that cute,” he said when I jumped off the bus at the next stop. It was several blocks from work, but I wanted to walk.
That afternoon, Jim sent me a box of chocolates. The chocolates were delivered to me in the xerox room. They were delivered with a card. “Forget the ugly bitch. Eat us instead, you luscious thang.” I shared the chocolates with the office. They made the talk, the envy of the office for a week. I kept the contents of the card a secret.
Jim sweet-talked my apartment manager into letting him into my tiny little studio apartment so he could leave me six — six — vases of flowers around my room when I turned twenty-seven. He taught me how to iron shirts. He wore a top hat when we went to see the Fred and Ginger festival at the U. He knew that the solution for everything, for almost everything, was a peanut butter and guacamole sandwich. He placed an ad in the Gay News for Valentine’s Day which said, “Neurotic lesbian still on rebound seeks females for short, intense, physical encounters. No breeders.” And my phone number. Then let me stay at his place and laughed at me because I was afraid the phone might ring. He brought me horrible instant cinnamon and fake apple flavored oatmeal the mornings I slept on his couch, the mornings after we’d both had more than either of us could handle and didn’t want to be in our apartments alone, and said, “This’ll zap your brain into gear, Mrs. Frankenstein,” and threw me a clean, fresh, ironed shirt to wear to work. He fed Trudy his whole-food hippie cookies to keep her quiet so he and I could sneak out to Jean and Ange’s porch for a cigarette and a couple of draws on the flask.
He wore his ridiculous bright green bermuda shorts and wagged his ass like crazy, embarrassing the hell out of me, at the Gay Pride March. He raised his fist and yelled, “Ride On, Sister, Ride On!” to the Dykes on Bikes. He slapped high-heeled, mini-skirted queens on the back and said in a husky he-man voice, “Keep the faith, brother.” I got afraid some guy might slap him or hit him with his purse, or some woman might slug him. When I started to say something, Jim stopped. The march kept streaming down 3rd Avenue beside us. The June sun hit me on the head and Jim glared at me. He crossed his arms across his chest like he was trying to keep from yelling.
“Tonto, what the hell are you afraid of anyway? You may like to think of us all as a bunch of unbalanced, volatile perverts, but every single screaming fairy prancing down this boulevard and every last one of you pissed-off old Amazons is my family. My kith and my kin and my kind. My siblings. Your siblings. And if you’re so worried about their behavior you should just turn your chickenshit ass around and crawl back into the nearest closet because you are on the wrong fucking ride.”
I didn’t say anything. He stared at me s
everal seconds. Then a couple of punky women dancing to their boom box dragged Jim along with them. I watched their asses wag off in front of me. I started to walk. But I was ashamed to march with him again. Then, when he saw the Educational Service District workers contingent in front of us, their heads covered in paper sacks because you can still be fired from your state school teaching job for being queer, Jim turned around and hollered, “At least you don’t have to keep your sweet gorgeous sexy face covered like that anymore, Tonto.” I stared at my pathetic, scared, courageous former colleagues. Jim pranced back to me and yanked me into a chorus line where everyone, all these brave, tough pansies, these heroic, tender dykes, had their arms around each others’ backs. Jim pulled me along. I felt the firmness of his chest against my shoulder.
“This is the way it’s gonna be, Tonto. Someday it’s all gonna be this great.”
He laughed at his own stories and he clapped at his own jokes. And he never, never, despite how many times I asked, told me which stories he’d made up, which ones were true.
And sometimes, when he’s holding court from his hospital bed, and he’s in the middle of telling us some outrageous story, making all of us laugh, and we’re all laughing, I forget. When he’s telling it like there’s no tomorrow — no — like there is — I just forget how he is in his body.
He gets over something, then gets something else. Then he gets better then he gets worse. Then he begins to look OK and says he’s ready to go home. Then he gets worse. Then he gets something else.
On the days they think he’s up to it, they let me take him out. A couple times both of us walk, but other times he rides. They call it his constitutional. We call it his faggot break.
I bring him a cup of Rex’s coffee and throw the cigarettes across the table to him. He counts them, purses his lips and says, “You are a good Girl Scout.” Then he leans toward me, gestures like a little old lady for me to put my ear up close to him.
“She’s just trying to make you jealous.” he whispers.
“What?”
“Doc-tor A-llen,” he mouths silently.
He nods across Rex’s to a table in the no-smoking section. Dr. Allen is having a cup of coffee with a woman.
“She knows we come here, she hopes you’ll see her with another woman and be forced to take action.”
“Jim . . .”
I’m sure Dr. Allen has seen us, Jim and me and the cigarettes, but I’m hoping she’s taking a break from being doctor long enough to not feel obliged to come over and give Jim some healthy advice.
“She likes you very much, you know.”
“Jim, I’ve probably had five minutes of conversation with the woman,” I whisper, “all about you.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s chemistry. Animal maaag-netism.”
He wants me to laugh.
“Come on, Jim. Give it a rest . . .”
He turns around to look at Dr. Allen. Then he looks back at me. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. He tries to sound buoyant. “Hey, I’m just trying to get you a buddy, Tonto. Who you gonna ride with when the Ranger’s gone?”
One time Jim told me, this is what he said, he said, “A lie is what you tell when you’re a chicken shit. But a story is what you tell for good.”
“Even if it isn’t true?”
“It’s true. If you tell a story for good, it’s true.”
I had had them twice and they were always great. They truly, truly may have been the best sour cream enchiladas on the planet. But that time, after two bites, Jim threw down his fork.
“These suck.”
“Jim, they’re fine.”
“They suck.”
He pushed the plate away. “I can’t eat this shit.”
I handed him the hot sauce and the guacamole. “Add a little of these.”
“I said I cannot eat this crap.” He lifted his hands like he was trying to push something away. I started to clear the table.
“Leave it. Leave it.”
I put the plate down. I looked away from him. Then at him. “Let’s go out for Chinese.”
He didn’t say anything, just nodded.
I ordered everything: egg rolls, hot and sour soup, moo goo gai pan, garlic pork, veg, rice, a few beers. He asked me to tell him a story and I did. A lewd, insulting, degrading tale about a guy at the temp agency, a swishy little closet case we both despised. I told about him being caught, bareassed, his pecker in his paw, in the 35th floor supply room by one of the directors. Jim adored the story. He laughed really loud. He laughed until he cried. He didn’t ask if it was true.
We ate everything. All the plum sauce. All the little crackers. Every speck of rice. But we didn’t open our fortune cookies.
On the way home, Jim put his arm around me and said, “You’re learning, Tonto.”
The enchiladas were a recipe of Scotty’s.
The door is half closed. I take one step in. There’s a sweeping sound in the room, a smell. The curtain has been drawn around the bed. I see a silhouette moving.
“Jim?”
“Go away.” His voice is little. “I made a mess.”
An aide in a white coat peeks around the curtain. He’s holding a mop. He’s wearing plastic gloves, a white mask over his mouth and nose. I leave.
I go up to the Rose. Rosie sees me coming through the door. She’s poured a schooner for me by the time I reach the bar.
“Jesus, woman.” She leans over the bar to look at me as I’m climbing onto the barstool.
“Shrunken body, shrunken head . . . gonna be nothing left of you soon, girl.”
I reach for the beer. She stops my hand.
“We don’t serve alcohol alone. You have to order something to eat with it.”
“Gimme a break, Rosie. I have one dollar and — ” I fish into my jeans, “55 . . . 56 . . . 57 cents.”
“Sorry pal. It’s policy.”
“Since when.”
“Since now. It’s a special policy for you.”
“Rosie, please.”
“Don’t mess with the bartender.”
I drop my face into my hands. “Please Rosie.”
She lifts my chin and looks at me. “If you promise to clean your plate, we’ll put it on your tab.”
“You don’t run tabs.”
She points to her chest. “I’m the boss.”
As I’m finishing my beer she slaps a plate in front of me — a huge bacon-cheeseburger with all the trimmings. A mound of fries. A pint glass of milk.
She writes out the bill and pockets it. “We’ll talk.”
“Thanks.”
I take a bite. She puts her elbows on the bar.
“How’s Jim.”
“The same.” My mouth is full.
She cocks her head.
I swallow. “Worse.”
“Jeez . . .” She touches my arm. “Eat, honey. Eat something.”
I eat. Sesame seed bun. Bacon. Mustard. Lettuce. Pickles. Tomatoes. Cheese. Meat. Grease on my fingers. I chew and swallow. It is so easy.
Jim on the drip-feed. Jim not keeping anything down. Or shitting it out in no time. His throat and asshole sore from everything that comes up, that runs through him. His oozy mouth. His bloody gums.
A hand on my back. “Hi.”
I turn and almost choke.
“You’re Jim’s — ”
I nod. “Yeah, right.” I swallow. “You’re Doctor Allen. Hi.”
I wipe my mouth and hands on the napkin.
She’s saying to the woman she’s with, “This is Jim’s sister,” as if her friend’s already heard of Jim. Or of me. Dr. Allen extends her hand to me. “Please, my name’s Patricia.”
I shake her hand.
“And this is my sister Amanda. It’s her first time here — I mean — here in Seattle.” She does this nervous little laugh. “She’s visiting from Buffalo.”
It’s the woman she was having coffee with at Rex’s.
“Oh Buffalo,” I say, “How nice.”
�
�I’ve come to see if poor Pat’s life is really as boring as she tells me it is. Doesn’t have to be does it?” the sister says with a grin.
I don’t know what to answer. I do this little laugh.
They both look around the bar. Not wide, serious check-out sweeps of their heads, but shy quick glances. They certainly aren’t old hands at this. And I think I see two different varieties of nerves here. I try to read which is the tolerant, supportive sister, and which is the one who wanted to come to this particular bar in the first place.
“Mind if we join you?”
“Uh, no. Sure. Great.”
I gesture to the empty barstool next to me, then I stand up and gesture to my own. “But I was just going, actually . . . here, have my stool.” I down half the glass of milk. “Gotta be at work early in the morning,” I lie.
They look at each other and at me. I feel like one of them’s about to laugh, but I don’t know which. Dr. Allen sits on my stool. Jim’s right. She is pretty cute.
I gulp down the rest of the milk, slap my hands on the bar and shout into the kitchen, “I owe you Rosie!”
I say to the sister, “Nice to meet you. Have a nice time in Seattle.” And to the Doctor, “Nice to bump into you. See you ’round.”
Then I’m standing outside on the sidewalk, shaking.
Because maybe, if I had stayed there in the bar with them, and had them buy me a beer or two, or coaxed a couple more out of Rosie, maybe I would have asked, “So which of you is the supportive sister, and which of you is the dyke?” Or maybe I would have asked, “So how ’bout it ladies. Into which of your lovely beds might I more easily insinuate myself?”
Or maybe I would have asked — no — no — but maybe I would have asked, “So, Dr. Allen, you are pretty cute, how ’bout it. How long ’til Jim goes?”
I bring him magazines and newspapers. The Times, the Blade, the Body Politic. They all run articles. Apparent answers, possible solutions, almost cures. Experiments and wonder drugs. A new technique. But more and more the stories are of failures. False starts. The end of hope.
Bob’s been coughing the last few times he’s been here. He’s still at it today.
Bob coughs. I look at Dale. He looks away.
Annie Oakley's Girl Page 9
