by Robin Talley
Ha—you just let out a big snore. Did you know you snore? Did you know I’m sitting here writing this letter a few feet away from you while you snore?
Anyway, let me know if you’re up for it, and please don’t tell my brother. He’d make fun of me for years.
Yours, Sharon
Tuesday, June 20, 1978
Dear Sharon,
This is the best idea I’ve ever heard. Yes, let’s keep writing to each other. It’s perfect—we won’t have to wait days for the mail to come anymore!
And for your information, you snore, too. Your snoring is kind of cute, though. I didn’t know snoring could be cute.
I’m about to fall asleep and you’re still downstairs, so I’m going to leave this on your pillow now. I’ll try to keep my snoring to a minimum tonight!
Yours, Tammy
Wednesday, June 21, 1978
Dear Tammy,
You’re right, about not having to wait for the mail. I hadn’t thought of that. Finding your letter on my pillow last night was awesome. I’m writing this one at work during nap time so I can give it to you to read before dinner, and that’s awesome, too.
Hey, I don’t know if you remember, but Gay Freedom Day is this Sunday. Lisa and Alex were talking about it again at the bookstore yesterday while you were in the back room with Evelyn. Want to go?
Uh-oh, Penny woke up early. Got to go!
Yours, Sharon
Thursday, June 22, 1978
Dear Sharon,
You’re kidding, right? Of course I remember. I’ve only been looking forward to Gay Freedom Day in San Francisco for years.
Do you think we’ll get to see Harvey? In person?
It doesn’t seem possible. It’d be like running into Charlton Heston or Grace Kelly. It barely seems real.
You and Peter probably went last year, too, right? God, we’d barely started writing to each other back then. Both of us were still keeping all those secrets.
Anyway, yes. I can’t wait!
Yours, Tammy
Friday, June 23, 1978
Dear Tammy,
Er, no, we didn’t go to Gay Freedom Day last year. Things were…different then. This year, though, everything’s going to be awesome. And you’ll be with us!
I’m writing this in the morning before work, so I’ve got to go or I’ll be late, but I won’t get another chance since we’re going out tonight. You’ll like the Avengers—their lead singer’s almost as good as Patti Smith. (Well, not really. But you’ll still like her.)
See you soon!
Yours, Sharon
P.S. Speaking of my brother…last night I finally told him about your aunt calling. He wasn’t actually surprised. He said he’d figured your family might have read my letters and found out about him, but that they were hundreds of miles from here and either way, getting to have you come here mattered more. He isn’t scared of your aunt the way I was, either—he said anyone who hates San Francisco as much as she does isn’t going to risk getting her shoes dirty walking on our streets. He made it sound so obvious that I feel silly now for being worried, but then…he didn’t have to hear her voice on the other end of the phone.
Friday, June 23, 1978
Dear Sharon,
It’s late, and…it’s possible I’m a little drunk. So, I’m sorry in advance if anything I write here is something you’d rather not hear. I’m going to try to stick with our honesty pledge and not cross anything out.
Tonight at the show, I was watching you dance, with your eyes closed and the music pounding. You were off in your own little world, a world I can only try to imagine, and I realized something.
Well, okay, I’ve actually known it for a while.
Sharon…I want to share that world with you.
I used to think that was how I felt about Carolyn. Back then, I didn’t understand how it really felt to want to be with someone.
I understand it now.
When I was watching you tonight, I felt something I never felt with her. Something I’ve never felt with anyone. I didn’t know I could feel it.
Anyway…I’m sorry. I know you’re straight. You wrote it in black and white and everything. If you tell me to back away, I promise I’ll never say anything about this again.
But right now…I want to be with you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Okay. I read this over and I realized there’s no way I can give this letter to you. I never would’ve written it at all if it hadn’t been for those drinks.
We sleep in the same room. Besides, you’re straight. There’s no way you can feel what I’m feeling.
Reading this will only make you feel terrible. If I give you this letter it’ll ruin our friendship.
Your friendship is the best thing in my life. I won’t give that up. I can’t.
Sorry. I guess I won’t bother signing this.
I… Sharon, I…
God, I wish things could be different.
Saturday, June 24, 1978
Dear Harvey,
I’m stupid. I’m so incredibly stupid, sometimes I can’t believe it.
First there was that ridiculous letter I started writing to Sharon last night. At least I wised up before I actually gave it to her. God, I can’t imagine how badly I almost messed everything up.
But what I did tonight might’ve been worse.
Javi and Rosa were out, and they left Peter and me in charge at the store. Sharon came over, too—we were planning to go out after we closed up. Until I fucked everything up.
The store was empty except for us for most of the night, and after I swept the aisles we were all hanging out by the cash register, waiting for closing time, talking about Gay Freedom Day and flipping through the L.A. Times. That’s what gave Peter the idea.
“Hey,” he said, holding out a page for me to see. “Isn’t that your uncle?”
I’d seen the ad before, for my aunt and uncle’s radio show, but I hadn’t paid attention to the date. It turned out the premiere was tonight.
Saved from the Wrath of God, the top of the ad read. Below it, a few lines of smaller text were printed:
Searching for faith during sinful times? Tune in to hear the Lord’s message, from the Reverend Russell Dale. Call in with prayer requests and points for theological discussion.
“Hang on.” Peter looked at his watch, then looked at the ad again. “Their first show’s on, live. Right now.”
“God, I’m so glad we don’t get the L.A. stations here,” I said. “I don’t know if I could handle hearing my aunt’s voice. I’d probably break out in hives.”
“Well, I want to hear it.” Peter stuck out his lip in a fake pout. “From your stories I’m expecting a fundamentalist cartoon villain. Like the bad guy at the end of a Scooby-Doo episode who talks about how they could’ve gotten away with it if only it weren’t for those meddling gay kids.”
“I wish my aunt was that easy to get rid of,” I said. “Then maybe I could’ve fought back instead of running away.”
“What do you think she’d do if an actual gay person called her show?” Peter tapped the ad with his finger. “Would she self-immolate from fear of tainted phone lines?”
“Probably. Or she’d pretend to faint and my uncle would pretend to revive her on-air.”
“You should do it,” Sharon told her brother, grinning. “Use the pay phone. Tell her you’re searching for faith in these sinful times.”
“Oh, my God, I should.” Peter’s eyes got comically wide, and he turned to me. “Can I? Please? I’ll tell her I’m having sinful homosexual thoughts and I need her to pray them away.”
I laughed. I can’t believe it now, but honestly, the idea sounded funny to me. “Sure. Just as long as I don’t have to talk to her.”
So that’s how the three of us wound
up gathered around the pay phone at the back of the store. We had to hunt to find enough dimes for the long-distance call, but we were having a blast, each of us psyching the others up.
Peter dialed the number, holding the phone out so we could all hear as it rang. I thought whoever picked up would tell us to take a hike, but when the voice answered and said, “Yes, caller, did you have a prayer request?” I got a sinking feeling in my chest.
I should’ve reached over and hung up right away. Instead I stood there, a rabbit in the headlights.
Peter didn’t notice. “Yes, hello, ma’am,” he said, using the same superpolite voice he uses when he’s on deliveries and hoping for a good tip. “I was hoping you’d pray for me.”
“Certainly,” my aunt said. Her voice was so smooth, and my heart was pounding so hard. “Could I get your name, please, sir?”
“It’s Paul, and no need to call me sir. I’m only eighteen.” Peter’s voice caught, as if he was embarrassed, but he was still grinning.
“All right, Paul,” Aunt Mandy purred. “Where are you calling from?”
“San Francisco. It’s hard, living here.”
“My, you’re calling from a very long way away,” my aunt said, her voice stuffed with fake sympathy. I’d heard her do this countless times before. “Tell me, Paul, my child, why is San Francisco such a difficult place to live?”
I could tell Peter was on the verge of cracking. He was enjoying tricking my aunt a little too much. “I suppose it’s because of all the homosexuals.”
Sharon clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Then her eyes cut to me. I don’t know how I must have looked, but the smile drained off her face in an instant.
“Ah, yes, your city is known for that form of sin,” my uncle said. He sounded gruff, but kind of bored, too. As though he had better things to be doing than talking to “Paul” about San Francisco’s homosexual problem.
“Yes,” Peter said. He was almost choking from trying so hard not to laugh. It probably added to his performance as far as my aunt and uncle were concerned. “Sometimes I get, um…urges.”
Peter burst out laughing as soon as he finished his sentence, but somehow he managed to slam his hand over the mouthpiece in time. It worked. My aunt and uncle didn’t hear.
“Oh, you poor young man,” my aunt said, her voice coming through faintly now that we were even farther from the receiver. “We’re very happy to pray for you. Please know that if you have faith in God, he’ll protect you from the devil’s temptations.”
Peter took his hand off the mouthpiece and said, “Oh, good. Because the devil’s been checking me out lately every time I go to the Elephant Walk, and I’ve got to tell you the truth, ma’am, because I know you’re a woman of God—he’s been looking good these days.”
That’s when I made my biggest mistake of the night.
Maybe I had a death wish. Maybe I just couldn’t handle the tension anymore, and I had to let it out.
Maybe it really was that funny.
But when Peter fell over laughing at his own joke, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece anymore, I laughed, too.
I couldn’t stop. I laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
My aunt and uncle definitely heard.
I was still laughing when I took the receiver. I meant to hang it up. Honestly, I did, but then my aunt said, louder than before, “Well, Paul, I suppose you and your friends in San Francisco think this is all very funny.”
And I—God, I don’t know what the Hell was wrong with me—I pulled the phone up to my mouth and said, “Yes, we think it’s absolutely hilarious.”
I reached up to drop the receiver back on the hook, and that’s when we heard my aunt’s voice again. She sounded different this time. Less smooth. More alert, as if she’d just awoken from a deep sleep. “Wait. Who was that? Where did you say you were calling fr—?”
That was the last we heard before I dropped the receiver onto the hook with a sharp clatter.
For a moment we all stood there, staring at each other. Sharon’s face was white. Peter tried to ask what was going on, but I couldn’t speak.
It was Sharon who suggested we go home after closing instead of going to the club after all, since tomorrow was going to be so busy with Gay Freedom Day. I nodded—I couldn’t trust myself with actual words—and even Peter agreed.
We didn’t talk much the rest of the night. Not that I would’ve known what to say, anyway.
I don’t know what’s going to happen now, Harvey. All I know is that I took a situation that already sucked and I made it a whole lot worse.
Yours, Tammy
Saturday, June 24, 1978
Dear Tammy,
Hey.
I don’t think I completely understand what happened when we called in to your aunt’s show tonight. I could tell you were upset, and I figured you’d tell me in a letter if you wanted me to know. Only…we’ve been home for a while now, and you haven’t given me any letters yet.
If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay, but if you want to talk, you know where to find me.
Yours, Sharon
Saturday, June 24, 1978
Dear Sharon,
You’re asleep already, so I’ll leave this by your bed for you to read in the morning. It’s been an hour since you gave me your letter, so I’m sorry I didn’t write back sooner. I didn’t want to think about it, but…there’s no point. It’s done.
It was so stupid of me to pick up that phone tonight. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe it was just that I was having so much fun. That’s new for me, you know?
I’d thought it would be awful to hear my aunt’s voice again, and it was, but for a second, it felt good, too. Hearing her right where I left her, getting totally taken in by a gay teenage boy on what was supposed to be the crowning achievement of her life. Maybe I felt so superior I genuinely thought she couldn’t hurt me anymore.
I should’ve known no one’s ever safe from Aunt Mandy. Especially not me.
She recognized my voice. She knew we were calling from San Francisco. She knows about Peter from your letters. That fake name probably gave us away as much as his real one would’ve.
And this means… Well. She knows I’m here, with you. She might’ve already suspected, but now she knows for sure.
I don’t know what’ll happen. I don’t know what she’ll do. Whatever she thinks will get her what she wants, probably.
I’m so scared, Sharon. I hate that I’m still so scared of her. Maybe that’s the kind of thing that never goes away.
I’m so, so sorry. Things were going so well, and now I’ve ruined it all.
Yours, Tammy
Sunday, June 25, 1978
Dear Tammy,
No, you haven’t.
I don’t have time for a real letter—I’m just writing this one fast while you’re in the shower so I can leave it for you before I go downstairs—but I wanted you to know you haven’t ruined everything. You couldn’t, not ever.
We’ll figure out this thing with your aunt. For now, it’s Gay Freedom Day. It’s a day to be happy. So please, try to relax and enjoy it, all right?
Yours, Sharon
Sunday, June 25, 1978
Dear Diary,
So that was my first Gay Freedom Day.
The house is dead quiet tonight. I’ve been lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling for the past two hours. Peter and Tammy are both who knows where and Mom is asleep, as usual.
The afternoon was amazing at first, being in the middle of all that energy in the air. It wasn’t exactly perfect—it was hard to shake all the fears that phone call with Aunt Mandy the night before had stirred up—but Tammy seemed to have taken my letter this morning to heart, because despite everything that had happened, she was so excited to be there for the parade, it was contagious. She
must’ve said the word “wow” a hundred times before it was halfway over.
“Wow,” she said again, beaming, as a dozen motorcycles revved their engines up ahead of us. Her face kept lighting up, over and over again. “Did you see that, Sharon?”
I grinned. “The motorcycles? Yeah, they were tough to miss.”
“That woman had a shirt that said Dykes on Bikes.” Tammy’s usual sunny smile had been overtaken by an all-out Cheshire cat grin the moment we’d reached Castro Street and gotten our first glimpse of the huge flag hanging in the distance, with massive stripes in all different colors. “That’s what they call themselves. They don’t think it’s a bad word at all!”
“They don’t? Really?” I hadn’t noticed the woman’s shirt. How would a shirt like that even get made?
“Nope,” Peter said from Tammy’s other side, grinning just as wide as she was. “Words mean different things when different people say them.”
“Wow. Okay. Oh, my gosh.”
“Oh, my gosh!” He laughed again and flicked a braid off my shoulder. He’s done that every time I’ve worn my hair in braids since we were little kids, and it annoys me as much now as it did then. I elbowed him back just as a drag queen in a one-piece bathing suit blew us a kiss from atop a tinsel-covered truck.
“I’ve wasted so much time being scared,” Tammy said, reaching out to catch the imaginary kiss. “But my aunt isn’t more powerful than all of this. She can’t be. There are thousands of us here! This is the world now, whether she likes it or not.”
“Exactly.” Peter reached out, pretending to take the kiss from Tammy and slapping it onto his own cheek.
He’d somehow maneuvered us to the front row of spectators, but the crowd was impossibly tight all around us. I knew Gay Freedom Day was a big deal, but I’d never imagined this. There had to be tens of thousands of people around us, and fifty feet away a cluster of TV trucks with cameras on their roofs was taking in the scene.
