I decide I don’t need to. I pass St. Andrews and realize I’ll never have to see Fat Ralph Conifer or Hugo Leone ever again. I won’t have to wear stupid robes and carry a heavy gold candle, or notice Sister Mary Margaret staring at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
So maybe it’s okay, what’s happened.
Maybe it’s meant to be, maybe it’s all going to be fine. I’ll go to Castro Street and won’t be afraid to talk because I’ll live there too. I’ll hold hands with boys right out in front of everyone. I’ll smile and laugh and feel grand.
Night has transformed the train station. No cars in the parking lot, no people on the platform, only the bright overhead globes shining down in round splotches of light on the pavement. It’s like some huge science fiction city. I smile. I’m having an adventure.
I don’t see cops or security guys, but try out a story, just in case: My grandparents had an emergency and had to drop me off, but you don’t have to worry, both my parents are waiting at the station in San Francisco. I like the idea of my parents waiting, except no one asks. The one old guy sweeping up glances over once, but that’s it. I use the last token Mom gave me for going to Conservatory.
The train arrives and I get in a car. I’m all by myself. I sit on one side for a bit, then bounce over to the other. I go from car to car. I walk on the seats. I examine the lines on the map that say all the places that BART can take you. I wonder if I’m scared. I do dances like Davy, twitching my feet in combinations and playing music inside my head as the train zooms under the Bay.
I get off at the Civic Center station and head up toward Market Street. I plan to take exactly the same route I did when I discovered Castro the first time, except now, oh my God, Market Street is empty, quiet—no trolleys, no cars, no people, only a scruffy black dog behind a garbage can, wolfing down dinner. He glances over, stares hard a minute and growls, in case I was thinking of stealing it.
The bricks on the street sparkle with dew, like some secret army of cleaners came in the night to polish away footprints. The light posts gleam shiny black, their lamps like little suns glowing in the night. And me? I’m the bravest boy ever, a knight on a quest, the killer of dragons and the banisher of evil. I march alone down the center of the biggest street in all of San Francisco! I shut my eyes for a few steps, head back, arms out. Electricity hums from the streetcar wires above me. When I stand still, I can feel the vibration of the cables running underneath.
I make a vow—I will always look forward now, never back. I will go and live in my magical village and be myself and everything will be happily ever after.
I expect this same stillness on Castro, but people seem to be coming out of everywhere. They’re in the street, on the sidewalk. Voices talk and laugh, people hug and kiss. Two guys have a lovers’ argument and I put my hand to my mouth to keep from saying “oh!” because I never knew gay people argued like everybody else. My smile’s bursting, my heart’s happy. I tuck my bag under a bench near a bar called The Phoenix and settle in to soak it all up. I especially love the laughter.
“Hello, everybody,” I whisper. “I’m back. I’m home!”
The grand enchantment doesn’t last; cars drive off, people turn corners, doors close, and business lights go dark. The street empties and I figure it out—I got here when the bars were closing and now everyone’s going home. Soon, the only person I see is behind the counter in the 24-hour donut shop. I can’t go there, he’ll call my mother or the police.
I take a huge breath. The air’s turned frosty. Wisps of the fog that sits above Twin Peaks drift past like wandering ghosts. I shiver and dig into my backpack to see what I have. My birthday sweater’s right on top; I slip it over my head. I see my mom’s smile when she gave it to me and I’m small again. I see her eyes, as she shut the door. Too many thoughts hit at once. I don’t want them. I grab my backpack and walk.
Look forward, not back.
I go past the bar called Bears and the Castro Street Theater. They’re showing Whatever Happened to Baby Jane and I stop to look at the poster of the scary-looking doll with her head smashed in. “Sister, sister, oh so fair, why is there blood all over your hair?” Creeps run down my back, then I remember this is where I first smelled Paco Rabanne, the cologne I love. I sniff—nothing now, but still, I get that little tingle.
I’m going to be just fine. I will. I’m sure of it. People are sleeping now—when they wake up, the magic will return. I’m here and nothing can hurt me. No more secrets.
I walk to the end of the block. I like the fog swirling in, getting thicker. I like the streetlamps making bright little circles on the sidewalk, tiny lit-up stages. I tiptoe around the edge of one, humming “The Dance of the Flirt,” the solo Davy always got, the one I always wanted. I dance his steps (I didn’t know I knew them!) and finish with a perfect double pirouette. I land exactly placed in fourth position, arms up and out, head thrown back, waiting for my applause. I laugh with the glory of it.
Light shines into a space between two buildings, pointing out a narrow alley. No garbage, not even paper or trash. A nook. A nook where I might just fit.
I brush back the dirt and lie down on my side to try it out. I cross my arms. I scoot my back against one wall, pull my knees up, and stick my backpack under my head. It’s cozy. The walls of the buildings block the wind. The glow from the streetlamp is almost like the nightlight plugged into the wall of my bedroom. More fog is swirling but I’m okay here, safe. It doesn’t feel much different than being on the top bunk and staring at the ceiling, except here, the bed and the ceiling are sideways. I’ll be fine.
With a long, slow sigh, I close my eyes.
A few minutes later, they fly open on their own. What have I done? My heart pounds, my body trembles. I have to go home. Everyone will be worried. I can’t be out here all alone. I sit, pushing myself hard against the wall, clutching my backpack inside my knees. A wall of fog closes off the nook, wisps like hands reach in, tiny yellow spaceships float just feet away. I can’t see buildings, just gray and then darkness. Every scary monster I ever imagined waits out there. My muscles lock. I can’t find air. No one is coming to help.
There’s a pause, like the world takes a breath, and from down deep inside me, I yell, right out loud, “Come on then!” I drop my backpack and stand straight up, lift both hands out to the gray and yell out again, “You want me? Come get me!”
Nothing.
It’s just a street. It’s only fog.
{2}
What the hell’s going on?
A flash, I remember—my family, all together, eyes fading, last night’s fog. I’m in The Castro. I’m in my village. My stomach gurgles as I sit up. My right arm has pins and needles. I rub it and peer out—not too many people, but at least the street’s alive again. I stand and stretch, slip around the corner, lean on my building. I cross one leg over the other like I’m waiting for a bus, like I’m supposed to be here.
“Oh my! Hello.”
The voice startles me. I realize the wall to my right is a restaurant, with tables set up outside. Two guys are having coffee and croissants. They smell delicious, the guys do—clean and crisp. They’re both smiling. I smile back.
“Visiting friends?” Dark-haired guy glances at his buddy in that grown-up-knowing kind of way. I shake my head again and take a chance, point to my nook.
“You slept there?” Blond man asks, his smile fading. “Are you all right?”
I nod. “I lost my bus money.”
They chuckle a little. “Oh, honey, we all know that one,” dark-haired guy says, putting his hand on blond man’s arm. “Not to worry.” He hands me a ten dollar bill. “Get breakfast, then call home, all right? Promise? Your mom’s probably worried sick.”
“Thank you.” I smile.
“Ah! Look at those eyes,” dark-haired guy says, touching my arm lightly. “You have beautiful eyes.”
I blush. He winks.
* * *
“You have beautiful eyes.”
I stroll down Castro, backpack in place and ten bucks in my pocket. I get a seat by the window at the Twin Peaks, order a chocolate croissant and a cup of coffee. I feel very grown-up, sitting here on my own. I wonder what people are thinking? That I’m older than I actually am? That I’m waiting for my lover? I sip the coffee and make a face. It’s not at all like it smells—it’s bitter! I use all the packets of sugar and most of the cream, then sip and smile. People stroll past. Two guys jog by in shorts and tank tops. Across the street, a man is sketching another man at the table in front of a café.
I hear my mother’s voice: “It is the very worst sin, Jason.”
How can that be true?
She doesn’t understand. She thinks it’s like Uncle Bobby.
Suddenly, I know something. Marianne was telling the truth. My Uncle Bobby did take pictures of me. One time. That’s all. I was six. At the old house, up in the attic that my dad turned into a bedroom for us three boys. Uncle Bobby didn’t live there; he stayed at Grandma’s. But babysat us, a lot. Maybe that’s why I was alone with him. I remember him calling me over to show me pictures of Paul.
“This is what big boys do. See how much fun Paul’s having? Would you like to have some fun too?”
It felt creepy and I didn’t know what to say. He was my uncle, after all—and Paul didn’t look unhappy in the picture. He just looked naked.
“I have to go downstairs,” I mumbled.
“Okay. I guess you’re not a big boy yet, are you?” Uncle Bobby said, in a sad voice. “I thought you were.”
“I am too a big boy.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes I am,” I said and took off my clothes. He told me how to sit and then snapped the camera. It made that sshhhhh-ka Polaroid sound as the picture came out. He changed my position and did some more. He set it up so we could take a picture together, and started to take off his clothes. The back door creaked open, and Marianne yelled, “Anyone home?” Uncle Bobby zipped up his pants and got me into my clothes. His face made me think of creeping lizards.
“If you tell, Paul will get in bad trouble,” he said, and now his voice was scary too. “They’ll send him away and people will beat him up. He’ll never ever come back.”
What Uncle Bobby did—that was a sin. But that’s not being gay. Being gay isn’t about hurting people.
I glance up, can’t help it—I expect to see Jesus above me in the sky, with those eyes, watching.
“All those people are going to hell.”
I sigh and finish my last sip of coffee. The man who’s being sketched takes a look at the picture and laughs, loud and bell-like. They hug. I smile along with them. If those are the people who are going to hell, and if heaven is for people like my mother—then it’s simple. I know exactly where I want to be.
I try to picture what Mom’s doing now. Did she sleep well? What will she tell Davy and the girls? Will they miss me? Will she tell my dad? Will he come looking for me or did he mean what he said? What will she say to the nuns when they call to see why I’m not in school?
“I’m so sorry, Sister,” she’ll say, “but Jason can’t come to school anymore. He had to go to hell.”
“It’s about time!” Sister Mary Margaret will answer.
This makes me smile.
“Anything else?” the waitress asks, smiling too. Her eyes are deep brown. Did my mom ever look that young?
I shake my head no.
“Great eyes!” she says and winks as she takes my ten, brings me change. I leave a two-dollar tip and head out to my street.
The fog’s resting on the top of the hills but the sky is very blue—one of those beautiful San Francisco days. I glance at a clock in a store. I’d be in Madame Nevonski’s class right now—we’d probably be going across the floor. Did Davy ride on BART alone this morning or did Marianne have to go with him? She wouldn’t want to, I know, but if Mom said—
Stop.
I shake my head and push these thoughts away. I have beautiful eyes, great eyes, and this whole day to myself. Time to move forward.
When the stores open, I go into All American Boy and try on stonewashed Levi 501s and a white shirt. I smile at myself in the mirror and at the clerk who finds my size. He’s very cute. I use the rest of the ten for a Coke and two Snickers bars, then spend my usual Saturday, wandering. I tingle and I smile. I’m here—all of me together, just like with Jonathan Grant.
By seven, however, I’m starving and now, I have no money. What was I thinking, leaving that waitress two bucks? What do I do now? Can I use the same story? I check around to find someone who looks friendly, who might help—and spot clam chowder sitting all by itself on an outdoor table, in a round sourdough bread bowl. It’s almost full. No one’s paying attention, the people eating have obviously left— there’s a tip.
Should I grab the soup? A trickle of sweat runs down my left side. I reach over the bushes, pause a second to consider the spoon, then snatch that too. Hey—why not? I’m already going to hell.
I sit on a bench down the street, eat my soup, and watch the sun go down. The sunset is grand. Life is grand. I’m here in my village on a Saturday night, Paco Rabanne and tingles galore. I can stay up till I get sleepy, then crawl into my little nook. Things are already turning out fine.
Something wakes me in the night. Loud talking, and flashing red and blue lights. Did she find me? Am I busted? I hug one wall and peek into the street. A cop and a taxi driver are arguing; the taxi driver has an accent like Madame Nevonksi’s. A homeless guy sits on the curb nearby, cussing at something that’s not really there, moaning, holding his head. The taxi driver insists to the cop that he didn’t see the guy, didn’t mean knock him over the hood of his taxi. He’s mad because now it has a dent.
The faces of the people watching glow like my dad’s velvet paintings, which makes them seem not quite real. They talk about the man who sits babbling, laughing at him, even though blood oozes from his nose and one side of his face got mangled on the pavement. The cop makes the people leave, and helps the homeless guy, still cussing, into the back of the patrol car.
It’s hard to get back to sleep. I don’t feel quite as safe. I have to make myself think good things only—the way The Castro looks in early morning, the guys who gave me money. The laughter of couples. The freedom of being where it’s okay to be myself. My beautiful eyes.
{3}
“You told me the same story three days ago, little man.” The guy looked nice when I asked him, but not now. Now he’s pissed. He snatches my arm and pulls me close, leans down so he’s right in my face. “You want to hustle, do it on Polk. This is my street. I’ll call the cops.”
I yank away and run like hell. I hide in my nook for hours. I’m shaking; I can’t seem to stop. How stupid could I be? I told the same exact story in the same exact place every day this week. What if he does call the cops? I know about the electrical wires they hook you up to. My mom said.
How am I going to eat? I don’t dare ask anybody on Castro but I don’t feel safe anywhere else. I feel like I stand out now—my clothes are filthy, my underwear stinks, both pairs, my hair’s getting matted. I keep my eye out for food on tables, but my luck’s disappeared. I go the next two days without eating. Food is all I think about. I get dizzy when I stand up too fast; my stomach feels like it has knives inside. Then I stop being hungry. This, I know, is a bad sign. Should I go home? I can’t. Ask for help? I can’t do that either.
For the first time, I notice how people dump perfectly good food into trash cans—unfinished sandwiches, half-empty cans of soda. I could snatch something pretty easily, except what if someone sees me and calls the cops? I slip into the alley behind All American Boy. No one’s around so I check out the Dumpster. Busboys drop bags of stuff here all the time. I open the lid. The smell makes me gag, but at least I’m hidden. I climb up on a crate and peer down. A white plastic bag sits on top.
Holding my breath, I tear it open. Half a turkey sandwich appears in a goulash o
f other food; it’s wrapped up in paper and there’s only one bite taken. I bring it out with thumb and forefinger. The best I can, I brush off whatever’s sticking to it and pick away the part that’s bit into. I open my mouth, then close it. How can I eat someone else’s garbage? Then my stomach cramps and I double over with pain.
It takes me several minutes to talk myself into the first bite, but only thirty seconds to polish the whole thing off and go back in for more. I remember the scruffy black dog I saw when I first got here. I’d growl now too. That was the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten.
* * *
For almost a whole week now, not one word has come out of my mouth. It’s like at school, except I never go home and nobody fixes my dinner.
“Good morning, Jason, how are you today?” I say out loud, to see if I still know how. “Just fine, thank you very much,” I answer, making myself smile.
That evening, I follow a group of kids coming out of All American Boy. They’re around a lot, always looking like they’ve got someplace to go. Always laughing too, having a good time. I see them up in Dolores Park, sometimes with a bunch of other kids. Tonight, I trail them as they go over to Polk Street. Now I’ll see what that guy was talking about.
It’s clearly a “gay street,” but way different than Castro. There are kids on street corners. It’s loud, lots of traffic. A couple of boys get into a fistfight a little ways down, calling each other all kinds of “whore” and “bitch.” The other boys laugh at this too, then go their separate ways.
One of them climbs up on a bench. He can’t be any older than me. I notice there are other boys on other benches all around the street, maybe two to a block, in front of stores and bars. I’m wondering how this all works when, all of a sudden, the boy I followed jumps down and slips into a nearby alley. The other kids disappear too, so I duck into a drugstore and pretend to be looking at combs. A cop car cruises down the street.
Freaks and Revelations Page 8
