Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle

by Michael Thomas Ford

  As the only guests were myself, my grandmother, the Graces, and Walter's daughter from his previous marriage (a fat, sour girl named Candace who still resented her father for divorcing her mother twenty years earlier), after the ceremony we had dinner at a nearby restaurant in lieu of a reception. I found myself seated between Candace and Patricia Grace. Since Candace apparently felt I shared some of the blame for her father's remarrying, she ignored me, concentrating fully on stabbing the peas on her plate with obvious hostility and drinking far too much wine. That left me to converse with Jack's mother, a situation I found almost as uncomfortable as having to sit beside my new stepsister.

  "It's really too bad Jack couldn't come," Mrs. Grace said, immediately launching into the one topic I wanted to avoid.

  "He really wanted to be here," I said. "But he couldn't get the time off from school. He's really busy with his internship at the hospital." This was all a lie. Jack didn't have an internship anywhere. He was in the guest bedroom on Lower Terrace, where he'd been for the past six weeks, ever since the night of his attack. We'd brought him there after a week in the hospital, where he'd needed to stay while the doctors made sure there was no lasting damage from his injuries. When he was able to talk, we'd learned that while walking home he had been approached by three men who asked him for directions to the nearest gay bar. Finding it suspicious that they should be standing only a block away from an obviously busy one and not know it, Jack had ignored their question. Enraged by his silence, the men had encircled him and, before he could call for help, begun beating him. It had all been over in a matter of a minute, and no one had heard anything. The men had vanished into the night, apparently satisfied with claiming one victim. Such violence was not unheard of, even in unusually tolerant San Francisco. And it had increased since March, when the city's Board of Supervisors voted 10 to 1 to pass an historic anti-gay discrimination measure. The lone dissenter in that vote was Dan White, a former police officer and fireman who represented a heavily-Catholic and mostly conservative district. White frequently clashed with the more liberal supervisors, particularly Harvey Milk, and it was rumored that some of White's more ardent supporters were taking revenge for what they saw as a slight against their values by roughing up gay men. Whatever the reasons for his attack, Jack needed time to mend. With Andy going on film shoots and generally being at best a reluctant caregiver, Brian and I had decided to let Jack recuperate at our house. The arrangement had worked out well. While I was at work, Brian was often home, and when he had to attend to business for Kestrel, I was able to be with Jack. And once Jack was able to attend to basic needs for himself and didn't require full-time care, it was almost like having a house guest instead of a patient. I was enjoying having him around, although I wished the circumstances were different. Jack didn't want his parents to know what had happened to him, and so had avoided an appearance at my mother's wedding by telling them that he was doing a summer internship in counseling at a local hospital and couldn't get away. While it was an easy masquerade to maintain, I didn't like lying to his mother, and wanted to avoid talking about Jack as much as possible. In a desperate attempt at extricating myself from such a conversation, I found myself trying to make small talk with Candace.

  "How's the chicken?" I asked her.

  She glared at me. "Dry," she snarled.

  I excused myself and went to the bathroom, where I did a line of coke. Since Andy had introduced me to it, I'd been doing it fairly regularly. I liked the way it took the edge off and made me worry less about things. I also liked how it gave everything a crystalline sharpness, as if I was looking at the world through a lens that brought every detail into focus. Mostly I liked how it made me feel invincible, especially in the aftermath of Jack's attack.

  I went back to the table and managed to hold conversations without fear of spilling Jack's secret. Even Candace's glowering didn't dampen my spirits as I toasted my mother and Walter and told stories that had everyone laughing. Later, as we walked out to our cars, my grandmother took me by the arm and said, "You remind me of your grandfather. He was full of life, too." "It's living in San Francisco," I told her. "There's something in the water."

  "Well, you'll have to bottle some and send it to me," she said. "It seems to have done you a world of good." The next day, flying home, I thought about my grandmother and her imagined curse. If there truly was some cosmic whammy hanging over the heads of the men of her bloodstock, I was next in line to be crushed beneath its heel. I pictured my grandfather, grand uncle, uncle, and father looking down on me and taking bets on how and when I would go. Or maybe, I thought, as the only member of the latest generation, I played another role in the ongoing tragedy. If my mother had inherited the curse from her mother, couldn't I then be a carrier as well? Instead of facing death, maybe I was the one who brought death to others. Maybe it was my lovers who should be concerned for their well-being. It was an interesting possibility, but one I was loath to consider, particularly considering Jack's recent misfortune. The idea that the men I opened my heart to might die as a result was far too disturbing. But, I argued, was there not something to the idea? I had loved Andy, and he had nearly died in Vietnam. Now Jack, too, had come close. I was reminded suddenly of the dream I'd had years ago, in which I'd seen Jack lying in a hospital bed and been told he was dying of love. Is this what the centerfold-cum-angel had been trying to warn me about? Despite the ridiculousness of it, I felt myself shiver.

  I couldn't wait to see Brian again, to hold him and know that everything was all right. When the plane landed at SFO, I hurried off, weaving through the less-anxious passengers and running to the gate. I looked for Brian's smiling face, and found nothing. He wasn't there to meet me. Nor was he at baggage claim, where I waited what seemed like an eternity for my sole bag to appear, tumbling down the ramp long after most of the other suitcases had been picked up and whisked away. The cab seemed to take forever to make its way down the 280 and into the city, even longer to work its way through rush hour traffic and into the Castro. By the time we reached the house, I was beside myself with worry. I overtipped the driver and fumbled for my keys as I raced to the door. I saw Brian's car in the driveway, which only made me more concerned.

  Leaving my bag at the foot of the stairs, I raced up to the second floor. The guest room was the first room I came to, and I looked in, hoping Jack was there and would tell me that everything was okay. Jack was there. He was on his back, the leg with its cast stuck out at an angle. Sitting astride him, Brian was moving up and down, his hand wrapped around his own cock while Jack's filled him from underneath. Neither noticed me standing there. I watched, unable to speak, as Brian came, his cum shooting into the air and raining down on Jack's chest. Jack groaned and lifted his ass in a response with which I was well-acquainted. I waited until they had both ridden out their orgasms, then said, "I guess you forgot I was coming back today."

  Brian nearly fell off the bed as he scrambled to get up and cover himself. "Shit," he said. "I thought you were coming back on Monday." "Sorry to disappoint you," I told him. I looked at Jack. "Your mom says to tell you she loves you," I said before turning and going back downstairs. As Brian came after me, I picked up my suitcase, opened the front door, and walked out. "I'll be back for the rest tomorrow," I said.

  CHAPTER 40

  The stage was filled with gladiolas. The sign hanging across the back of the War Memorial Opera House said FLOWERS WHILE YOU LIVE . Thick clouds of pot smoke rose up from the orchestra section to our seats in the balcony. Not that we needed it. We were already high, soaring on the hits of coke we'd done not twenty minutes before. When the tall, skinny black man took the stage to the sound of disco music, accompanied by his two large female backup singers, we rose to our feet along with everyone else and cheered as Sylvester welcomed us to his show.

  It seemed that every gay man in San Francisco was at that show on March 11, 1979. Sylvester had been our resident diva for more than a decade, first as a member of the brilliant but doomed pe
rformance group the Cockettes, then as a solo singer whose hits, including "You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)" and "Dance (Disco Heat)," were staples in discos around the world. With his striking looks and unforgettable falsetto, Sylvester was an out gay man who had made it big. He often performed on Sunday afternoons at the Elephant Walk. We loved him, and he loved us back.

  Sylvester was at his best that night, moving from the dance energy of "Body Strong" to the lyric tenderness of the Beatles' "Blackbird," taking us on an emotional journey as he sang the songs that mattered most to him. The stage that was normally reserved for the grand spectacle of the world's greatest operas could barely contain the personality of one ferocious queen as she poured out her soul, accompanied by tuxedoed members of the symphony orchestra.

  Midway through the show, the music stopped and Mayor Dianne Feinstein came on stage to present Sylvester with the key to the city and declare it officially "Sylvester Day" in San Francisco. Seeing her congratulate Sylvester was bittersweet for most of us. Feinstein had assumed the position of mayor the previous November, when former supervisor Dan White, who had resigned his position weeks before, snuck into City Hall through a basement window and shot and killed first Mayor George Moscone and then Supervisor Harvey Milk. It was a stunning blow to the city, and particularly to the gay community. Earlier in November the Briggs Initiative that Harvey had fought so hard against had failed by more than a million votes, thanks in large part to the help of former California Governor Ronald Reagan, who urged voters to reject Proposition 6. While we were celebrating that victory, Dan White took it away from us by emptying five bullets into our hero at point-blank range. The pain of losing Harvey Milk was still fresh almost four months later. Watching Mayor Feinstein (whom Harvey had infamously referred to as the "Wicked Witch of the West"), I couldn't help but wish that it was Harvey up there with Sylvester. I'd lost so much in those last few months of 1978, and I wanted some small part of it back. Harvey was gone. Brian was gone. Jack was gone. Gone, too, was Burt, one of the 913 victims of the cyanide-laced Flavor Aid drunk by the followers of Jim Jones at his compound in Guyana. Burt had joined the Peoples Temple at the insistence of a new boyfriend. I'd teased him about what I called his conversion-for-cock, but I'd never seen him happier. I learned of his death only days before Dan White murdered Milk and Moscone.

  It seemed that the curse my grandmother believed had been lifted had in fact returned three times as strong, ripping from me everything I'd held close to my heart. Brian and Jack weren't dead, but I sometimes wished they were. After discovering them in bed together, I'd run to the first person I thought of. Andy convinced me to at least talk to Brian and Jack about what had happened, which I did during a tense meeting over coffee at Orphan Andy's. Brian said he'd grown bored with our sexual relationship and needed the freedom to sleep with other men. I understood that. Monogamy was the exception in those days, not the rule. (I suppose it may be now as well, but I don't think non-monogamy is currently practiced with quite the same level of enthusiasm as it was by us in those days.) I didn't begrudge him orgasms with other people; I only asked that he not have them with my best friend. He refused. He accused me of jealousy and insecurity. I accused him of cruelty and faithlessness. I moved out and back into the Diamond Street apartment, while Jack remained on Lower Terrace and moved from the guest bedroom into the master. Once again, he had taken something that belonged to me. We only spoke about it once, at his request. He said that he was sorry but he had fallen in love with Brian. I laughed and told him he didn't know what love was. I told him he would never know. I told him that this time I would never forgive him.

  San Francisco is a small city. It was impossible to avoid Brian and Jack, particularly as Andy was still making films for Kestrel, although fewer and fewer of them. I think he made two in all of 1978. How he made up the difference in his income, I didn't know. But he always had money for rent, for going out, for drugs. Especially for drugs. Our use of cocaine, pot, and various other mood-enhancers skyrocketed. I went to work stoned, stayed stoned most of the day, and came home hungry for more. I slept little. My nose began to bleed from time to time when I snorted coke, but I ignored it as I ignored Jack and Brian whenever I saw them on the street.

  It felt like the magic of the '70s was wearing thin. The ever-present smiley face that symbolized the decade began to annoy me with its relentless cheerfulness. I was tired of long hair on men and bell bottom jeans on anyone. Even disco had lost its charm, as bands who came late to the party raced to capitalize on the dying fad (even KISS released a dance single in "I Was Made for Lovin' You") or rebelled against the sound and turned out what DJs were calling New Wave. With bands like the Police and the Cars pushing '70s fixtures like Fleetwood Mac and Heart off the charts, it was as if the last crumbs of the decade were being swept under the rug in a giant cultural housecleaning. After it was all over, I would come to see the Sylvester concert as a farewell, both to the '70s and to San Francisco's innocence. The deflowering had begun with Harvey Milk's assassination. It ended in May, when Dan White went on trial. We all expected a quick and decisive conviction. White had confessed to the crimes, there was more than enough evidence against him, and there seemed to be no question that we would receive justice. The defense's argument that White had been mentally unstable at the time of the killings, as evidenced by his poor diet consisting largely of junk food, had resulted in the coining of the infamous "Twinkie Defense," the viability of which even the most lenient court observers found hard to swallow.

  On May 21 the verdict in the White case was handed down, and finally I waited for some good news. Instead, it was announced that White had been found guilty of the lesser charge of voluntary manslaughter and sentenced to only seven years in prison. I was stunned. Outside the apartment I could hear the sounds of people shouting angrily, and I knew that word was spreading quickly through the Castro. I went outside, looking for some way to vent the anger that was rising inside me. I found it in a group that had formed on Castro Street. There were perhaps only a hundred of us, but we were all furious and looking for an outlet. "Let's march to City Hall!" someone called out, and it sounded like a good idea to the rest of us. We began walking down Market Street, spreading out between the sidewalks and blocking traffic. As we marched, people joined our ranks, and within only a few blocks we had swelled to almost three hundred. Some marchers carried hastily-made signs proclaiming the injustice of the verdict. Others chanted, "All straight jury. No surprise. Dan White lives, and Harvey Milk dies," while some of us just walked, stone-faced and seething, toward the symbol of our betrayal. When we reached City Hall, the green was filled with more than a thousand protesters. Although police had been sent to keep an eye on us, they remained quietly in the background while we stood staring at the big glass eyes of the building where Harvey Milk had fought for our rights, and where he had died a martyr to the cause he'd spent his life representing. San Francisco's City Hall is a beautiful building, but that night we hated it. When some people at the front of the crowd began pulling at the metal grillwork covering the doors, a cheer went up. Soon the glass panes were shattered. Then someone slipped inside through a broken window and started a fire.

  Sensing blood, the crowd erupted. In the ensuing turmoil, police cars parked along the street were set on fire. Finally, unable to remain silent bystanders, the police attacked. They met fierce resistance, as angry protesters fought back using whatever weapons they could find. Many of us fled back down Market Street, where glass covered the sidewalks as escaping marchers smashed store windows. But our fury had been slaked somewhat, and mostly we just wanted to get back to our own neighborhood and mourn in peace.

  The police, however, had only begun. Angered at our refusal to back down, they came after us, waiting until we had gathered once more in the bars on Castro Street to talk about what had happened. Then, shortly after midnight on what would have been Harvey Milk's 49th birthday, they swarmed down the street. I was sitting in the Elephant Walk when the doors burst ope
n and police ran in, swinging their batons at anything that moved. We had no time to react as they swept through the bar, smashing the bottles of liquor and smashing the heads of the patrons.

  I tried to push my way through the oncoming stream, but took only a step before a baton crashed against the side of my face and sent me reeling. I collapsed on the floor, where the last thing I saw before I blacked out was the sneering face of a San Francisco police officer as he loomed over me. When I woke up, it was over. The Elephant Walk was a shambles, its beautiful etched-glass doors shattered and the tables overturned. Those who weren't too badly bloodied were helping those who were, and for a moment I thought I was back at Quan Loi as choppers unloaded the wounded and the dead. Then I remembered where I was, and I sat up, my head screaming in protest.

  "Are you okay?"

  I looked up to see the bartender kneeling beside me. I nodded, sending new bolts of pain through my body. "I think so," I said. He helped me up and I leaned against the bar, avoiding the pieces of glass and pools of alcohol. Through the broken doors I could see people picking their way through wreckage strewn across the sidewalk. It looked like a bomb had gone off or a tornado had torn through. Looking at it all, I couldn't help but remember that on the night of Harvey's murder, the Elephant Walk had been decorated to celebrate its fourth anniversary. The owner had instead closed the bar in honor of the Mayor of Castro Street. Now the bar that had paid homage to our fallen hero had become another victim of his killer. Our city had betrayed us twice in one day, and I'd had enough.