GOLDEN GATE
Part 2: Riddles and
Games
Brian
Justin fell asleep in the middle of the movie. I'm wearing earphones too but
listening to classical music. I'd been sure that fucking fiddler had ruined
classical music for all eternity but recently I've been able to tolerate it
again, at the very least it's white noise and good to prevent distraction on
airplanes. I finished proofreading a large section of text and when I glance at
Justin to see if he's enjoying the film, I discover that he's slumped over
against the window, sound asleep.
The stewardess is passing by so I stop her and quietly asked for a pillow -
Justin's head is tilted at an odd angle and I'm sure he'll wake up with a stiff
neck and a headache. I manage to push the button on his chair to tilt it a bit
further back, then when the girl brings me a pillow, I carefully tuck it behind
Justin's neck and slowly shift his head to rest against the pillow. He doesn't
wake up, and glancing at his watch I see that it's almost midnight, we've been
flying about four hours. I'm sorry for the late-night arrival, Justin would have
enjoyed seeing San Francisco from the air but with the last-minute changes I
couldn't get an earlier flight.
Straightening up in my seat again, I realize that the stewardess is still
hovering in the aisle. "How sweet," she whispers, smiling. "Your little
brother?"
"No," I answer shortly with barely a glance at the girl, then I do a double-take
as I notice the cabin steward peering over her shoulder.
"No," he echoes me, with a wink and a sly smile. In a way I'm annoyed - I loathe
people who wink - but he's a looker, medium height and meatier than I usually
like, but with curly blond hair and thighs of death, outlined by his carefully
tailored uniform trousers. The girl glances at him over her shoulder, then back
at me, and shrugs.
"Figures," she whispers to me, "You're impossibly gorgeous." I don't acknowledge
their comments, just turn back to peer at my computer screen again, waiting for
them to go away. The girl does but the guy lingers in the aisle.
"Anything else you need, sir?" he murmurs, his voice seductively muted. I stare
at him for a moment, realizing that if Justin were not with me I'd consider
hooking up with the guy in San Francisco, he'll probably have a layover. But
Justin is with me so I can't do that. Well, I can. But I won't. Not this time
anyway.
"No thanks." I look away and ask, "What time do we get in?"
"Ten-fifteen local time, another hour or so," he answers, reverting to
professionalism. "We're going to start serving coffee in a few minutes."
"Thanks." I don't look at him again, instead I concentrate on my laptop screen
until I feel him move away down the aisle.
Justin's slept through the murmured conversations but I feel him stirring and
then he's sitting up, blinking his eyes and looking around. The movie screen's
blank now, the film must have ended. I think Justin was the only one watching
anyway, a quick glance around the first-class compartment shows most people
sleeping or reading.
Justin yawns. "Hi," he says, pulling off the earphones and shoving them into the
seat pocket. "I fell asleep."
"It's late, we'll be there soon. You can sleep in in the morning." I save my
file and close it, click off the laptop and fold it up, slide it under the seat
in front of me.
"Did you finish your presentation?"
"I'll read it over one more time when we get to the hotel. But I think it's
ready."
"Cool!" Justin yawns again, rubbing his right cheek, which retains the imprint
of the scrunched-up pillow. Then he asks, "Are they going to serve us
breakfast?"
"It's night-time, Justin. Coffee's coming soon though - maybe you can get a
croissant or something." I push the call button and almost immediately blondie
is beside my seat.
"Sir?" he says, then he notices that Justin's awake. "Sirs," he corrects
himself.
"Hi Robert," Justin says, turning sideways in his seat, "Can I get something to
eat?"
"It's not a restaurant," I remind him, but the steward cuts in.
"Certainly sir. How about a Danish pastry? I think we have a few of those
stashed away."
"Great!" Justin's really waking up now. "Would it be rude to ask for two?"
I'm ready with a sarcastic remark when I realize that Justin is talking to the
steward not to me. Justin's flirting with the guy. Robert. Christ, Justin always
knows people's names. Robert smiles, "For you sir, of course. You can ask me for
anything. Anything at all."
Justin laughs then and I remember all over again how beautiful he is. Of course
he's always been a beautiful boy, well he's a man now of course. But when he
smiles, when he laughs, there's something extra, something that takes him way
beyond mere beauty, something downright fucking dazzling.
Christ, hyperbole at thirty thousand feet, and from the world's greatest cynic.
It must be the late hour, I'm exhausted; my eyes are practically crossed from
staring at the computer screen for the past several hours. I need coffee.
"Coffee?" I suggest, hearing the frost in my voice. Robert and Justin hear it
too, they look at each other and laugh softly, they're laughing at me. Did I
sound like a jealous husband? I'm too tired to figure it out; too tired even to
pretend to be amused. Instead I stand up abruptly and when Robert takes a step
backward, I shoulder past him and head for the bathroom. Let them flirt and
giggle all they want, I'll take a piss and wash my face.
Justin
Brian looks so tired, I wish he could have slept a while on the plane but he’s
been working like crazy almost every minute since I met him at the loft. When I
arrived he had an empty suitcase ready for me to transfer my clothes from my
duffel bag and he watched me critically, making tsky sounds. Finally he
demanded, “Didn’t you bring your sports jacket?”
“No – why would I need that? We’re just going to do tourist stuff aren’t we?”
“Maybe I’d like to eat dinner someplace besides McDonalds. Never mind,” he
turned away, sliding open the door of his closet. “I’ll put your suit in my
garment bag.”
“Oops, Brian,” I stopped packing and spoke to his back, “I spilled butter on it
when I had the lobster, remember?”
“I had it cleaned,” he said without turning around. “We still haven’t had it
altered yet, you were supposed to remind me.” I watched him unzip the leather
bag and put my suit in with his – there’s at least two of his own already
inside. Of course Brian needs to dress up for his meetings but he likes to other
times too. I like casual clothes best.
“Sorry, I forgot.” I continued transferring my stuff into the suitcase and
added, “I don’t think about clothes most of the time, I’m not into fashion.”
“No shit.” He zipped the bag then walked past me and down the steps, going over
toward his desk. “Decide what you want for dinner, then call for delivery or go
pick something up. I can get a couple hours’ work done before we have to leave
for the airport.”
"Brian," I called after him, "What do you want for dinner?"
He kept on walking and without turning around he said ominously, "You're
bothering me. Don't do it again - or else." He was joking but I decided to
pretend he was serious. So I finished packing quickly and went into the kitchen
to find the take-out menus. I decided on Thai - it's practically his favorite
food, maybe it would put him in a good mood - and I called the restaurant from
my cell phone. Then I didn't have anything to do. Television or music might
distract Brian so finally I just pulled out my sketchpad and settled down on the
sofa to draw for a while, at least till the food arrived.
Brian took a break and ate with me, though he was quiet and I knew he was still
thinking about his presentation. I wanted to ask all kinds of questions about
it, about his client and what he was doing, but I decided that would be
classified as "bothering him" so I kept silent. I did put some soft music on
while we ate and when we finished, Brian said it was time to leave for the
airport; he wanted to get there early to be sure we wouldn't miss our flight.
Brian
“Pretend it’s three in the morning.”
Justin turns around quickly when he hears the rough edge in my voice. He was
peering out the hotel room window at the lights of Union Square, his forehead
pushed against the glass so he could look down six flights to the sidewalk
below. He's the picture of a pitiful caged bird longing to spread his wings and
fly. Realizing that he’s almost unbearably excited, I relent. “Go out if you
want to.” I shrug and continue unpacking my suitcase, all I want to do is take a
hot shower and fall into bed.
“Brian – “
“I mean it,” I glance at him over my shoulder. “It’s only midnight here – if you
want to go out, just do it. You can sleep in tomorrow.” I’m not being sarcastic;
I don’t even feel sarcastic. Just exhausted and thinking about tomorrow’s
meetings. In Pittsburgh and inside my body, it’s three a.m. It took forever to
get our luggage and get a taxi into the city from the airport, check in to the
hotel. And now I’m too tired to go over the presentation again; I’ll wake up
early and give it a final read-through in the morning.
Justin turns away from the window and grabs his suitcase, tosses it on the other
side of the bed and opens it up. “I don’t want to go out,” he lies, “Let’s just
go to bed, I’m really sleepy.”
He’s about as sleepy as a whirling dervish on speed but I don’t argue. We finish
unpacking in silence, then strip off our clothes and he follows me into the
bathroom, waits while I adjust the shower temperature and gets in beside me. The
routine of washing each other is soothing, and when Justin raises his eyebrows
in silent question and slips to his knees, I mutely lay a hand on his shoulder
for balance, close my eyes and caress his smooth wet hair as he sucks me off.
When I move to reciprocate, Justin pushes me away gently. “Too tired,” he lies
again, and again I don’t argue, just turn off the shower and reach for a big
white towel.
We get in on opposite sides of the king size bed and our bodies slither across
the cool sheets to meet in the center of the mattress, Justin slips into my arms
and lays his head on my chest, our legs pretzeling softly together. “Thanks for
bringing me with you, Brian,” he murmurs, and I feel my head nod, and keep
nodding and nodding and nodding as I drop off to sleep.
Justin
I've never seen Brian this tense, well not about work things. He must be really
uptight about his client meetings today. When I wake up he’s already on the
computer, his laptop open on the hotel desk. When I slide out of bed he glances
up quickly, nods at me and returns his focus to the computer screen. I tiptoe
into the bathroom to take a piss and I almost jump when Brian comes in behind me
a moment later.
"Will you call room service? Ask for breakfast in half an hour."
"Sure - "
"I want coffee, whole-wheat toast and one strip of bacon, well done." Then he
turns on the shower and steps into the tub. Apparently I'm not invited this
morning, so I move into the bedroom and find a room service menu in the drawer
of the desk. I order the stuff Brian wants - adding a glass of grapefruit juice
and remembering to tell them no butter on the toast, and order ham and eggs for
myself.
I'm being careful to keep my promise that I'd speak only when spoken to. I hear
him turn off the shower, and while he's shaving I sit by the window looking at a
binder the hotel compiled of all kinds of tourist information. You can see Union
Square from our window, it's a big park taking up a whole city block, surrounded
on all sides by hotels and stores including a huge Macys. Cable cars clang right
down the middle of the street below, I can hardly wait to ride one of them to
Fisherman's Wharf. But maybe that should wait for the weekend, so Brian and I
can do touristy stuff together?
Breakfast arrives just as Brian comes out of the bathroom wearing a hotel
terrycloth robe. I have the guy put down the tray on the round table in the
corner and Brian grabs his wallet on the desk and gives the guy a tip, then
says, "Let's eat." After he's drunk a cup of coffee and eaten a piece of toast,
Brian leans back in the chair nibbling bacon and watching me devour my
breakfast. "So," he says, "What's on your tourist agenda today? Going to make a
beeline for Castro Street?"
"Oh no - we should go there together, I want to save all the best stuff to do
with you. It's your first time in San Francisco too, isn't it?"
He shakes his head. "No, I've been here before, on business. But there wasn't
time to see much of the city. I've been in a couple of the bars on Castro
Street."
Swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs I wave my hand dismissively. "Well that
hardly counts, if you spent all your time in backrooms. That's not why I want to
go there."
Brian reaches for the grapefruit juice and drains the glass in one long swallow.
"Why else go there?"
"It's a cultural phenomenon!" I say enthusiastically, "It's part of our culture,
like Liberty Avenue only way bigger and way better."
"'Way bigger and way better' just means twice as many bars and clubs. Gay bars
are the same wherever you go."
"No," I insist, suddenly feeling deflated. "They can't be."
Brian sets down the glass and stands up, leans down till his face is a few
inches from mine. "You can decide for yourself. But maybe it's a good idea if
you do wait for me. There's some big bad bears in the Castro who eat little
Goldilocks twinkies like you for breakfast."
"I'm not a - "
He stops me with a quick kiss, then straightens up and moves toward the closet,
drops his robe on the bed and begins to get dressed. I love to watch him dress,
there's something sensual about the way he pulls on underwear and socks, and I
notice that he watches himself in the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. He's
always so critical of his body, checking all the time for any imagined bulge or
softness. Once he's dressed he wastes no time in logging off the computer,
shoving some thick folders into his briefcase and pocketing his wallet.
“I’m off,” he says then and I can tell he’s getting tense again.
Jumping up and walking Brian to the door, I put a hand on his arm. “Do I wish
you good luck or say break a leg or what?”
“I don’t need luck,” he scoffs, as he leans down to kiss me, just a touch of his
lips on mine. He’s said that before but this time I think I can see through his
façade of self-confidence.
“You behave yourself today,” he warns me, “And meet back here by six o’clock,
seven at the latest. We’ll go someplace nice for dinner.” I nod and he pulls
open the door, then stops and turns around again. “Here,” he says, setting down
his briefcase and pulling out his wallet, cracking it open and taking out two
fifties.
I back away. “I don’t need that, I have my own money.”
“Justin,” he says, “Don’t be stoobug.”
He knows that will make me laugh, it’s a word we’ve been using since Brian had a
swollen lip after the car crash and couldn’t talk right. It makes me laugh this
time too but still I open my mouth to protest when Brian shuts me up by saying,
“Justin, pretend this is Vermont, okay?”
“Brian – “
“Just shut up and take the money. Have a good time today, just don’t fall off a
cable car or do anything else terrible that I’ll have to explain to your mom,
okay?”
“Okay.” Reluctantly I take the bills and shove them in the pocket of my robe.
Of course Brian doesn’t owe me for Vermont, in fact I spent a lot of his money
there while I waited for him to come join me, which I should have known he
wouldn’t do. But I guess he means he wants to smooth over that bad time, make it
go away. I wish Brian would talk about things like normal people instead of
turning ordinary conversation into riddles and guessing games. He kisses me
again then walks out and down the hall toward the elevator, and I close the door
behind him, thinking about all the things I want to do today.
Brian
The offices of Barnhart & Blessing are on a narrow side street in the Financial
District, I’m glad I allowed plenty of time to get here as the taxi slowly
jostles its way through heavy morning traffic. Even so I arrive twenty minutes
early and find a nearby coffee kiosk to kill time and fortify myself with more
caffeine. It’s interesting to stand on the corner watching the crowded sidewalks
jammed with morning commuters rushing to work, and I make eye contact with
several good-looking men in beautifully tailored business suits who aren’t too
preoccupied to scan the crowd.
One in particular gives me an undeniably interested stare and switches his
direction, making a sharp turn and walking right toward me. At the last moment
he detours sharply, steps up to the kiosk and buys himself a cup of coffee. Then
he saunters over to my vicinity and gives me a nod and a smile. “Morning,” he
says, “I think we met at the Giants-Padres game last week, you were with your
wife and three kids.”
“No,” I correct him, shaking my head. “All six of the kids were with us.”
He laughs then and extends his hand. “I’m George,” he says. He’s about my age,
as tall as me, broad-shouldered and tan, with thick dark red hair and wide-apart
green eyes; he’s amazingly hot.
Taking his hand I tell him, “I'm Brian.”
“Brian, I’m late for work, but maybe we could meet for lunch today? We could
talk about the Giants’ pennant chances this year.”
Regretfully I say, “Sorry, I’m in meetings all day and I don’t know if or when
I’ll be free. Pity though,” I add, “I’d love to hear your thoughts about the
team.”
“Yes, a pity,” he agrees. “Dinner?”
Again I shake my head. “I’m in town only a couple days on business and I’m
traveling with a friend.”
“Bring him along.” George suggests, and when I merely smile regretfully (and it
is a fucking shame to miss having sex with this guy), he reaches into his jacket
pocket and pulls out a business card. Handing it to me he says, “If you break
free give me a call, maybe we can work something out.”
“Sure,” I agree, palming the card and slipping it into my pocket, then George
turns away and hurries off down the sidewalk, not without a glance over his
shoulder and a wave of his cardboard coffee cup.
I decide to wait another five minutes; it won’t do to appear overeager by
showing up before my appointment time. Finally I make my way to the Barnhart &
Blessing office building. It’s eight stories high, dwarfed by surrounding
skyscrapers, with a distressed-brick-and glass façade.
At the reception desk I'm redirected to the seventh floor, where I'm greeted at
the elevator by a tall man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair closely cropped,
wearing a suit especially tailored to minimize his considerable paunch front and
center; his florid complexion tells me he likely also overindulges in liquor.
"Mr. Kinney, I'm Chuck Hansen, welcome to B&B. We're very anxious to hear your
ideas. Come to my office and we'll get started."
Once we're settled in Hansen's large office, he explains, "As I told you on the
phone, we'll have a preliminary discussion, and the Specialty Foods boys will
join us later. This afternoon, if all goes well, you'll see Mr. Barnhart,
President of Barnhart & Blessing."
"Great," I respond, opening my briefcase and pulling out the thick manila folder
with my printouts and preliminary marketing outline that I've been roughing out
for most of the past week. The San Francisco trip is an expensive gamble - I've
spent so much time recently on this project to the exclusion of almost
everything else, and naturally Barnhart & Blessing have thrown out invitations
for marketing proposals to several top agencies around the country, so the
competition from other agencies will be fierce.
After about an hour, Hansen decides it's time for the others to join us, so I
know I've passed the first hurdle. He leaves me in his office and I stand up and
stretch, loosen my shoulders which despite myself are a bit tight, and stand at
the window taking in the view - which is mostly tall buildings and the shadows
they throw down onto the street, but if you look straight down one side street,
there’s a slice of blue sky and darker blue water in the distance. If I remember
the city map correctly, the Financial District stretches west and south from the
waterfront.
Justin
There's an information desk in the lobby of the hotel where I pick up an armful
of maps and brochures, and right outside the door on Powell Street I stand and
watch a cable car lurching up the hill. It's jam-packed with tourists but when
it stops on the corner I see that a few brave people surge forward and try to
climb aboard. Two of them make it, and that encourages me to follow their lead.
When the next cable car inches up the hill, I’m ready on the corner and when the
car stops, I throw myself forward, grabbing a pole in one hand and shoving my
body in between the already-cramped crowd of bodies on the steps of the cable
car. Somebody grabs my shoulder as we jerk forward again, and people laugh -
everybody's having a good time.
"Thanks," I exclaim to the middle-aged lady attached to the arm that grabbed my
shoulder, and she nods and warns me, "Hold on tight when we go around corners."
I nod thanks again and then twist my body around, trying to watch the passing
scenery. We go up and up and up Powell Street, which becomes a very steep hill.
We pass by Chinatown, barely visible down narrow side streets, then we go very
fast around a really sharp turn and I lose my hold on the narrow pole and feel
my body arching outward - when my guardian-angel lady and a man on the other
side of me both reach out and grab onto my jacket and pull me to safety.
Strangely enough we all laugh, and I thank them both and determine that I will
NOT tell Brian about this adventure. If falling off a cable car didn’t totally
kill me, Brian sure would.
A few people get off at the next stop, including the lady who helped me, and
then there's room to sit on the cable car's narrow bench facing the street. The
man who grabbed me slides over to make room for me to sit next to him, and it's
a relief to plop down and I let out a whoosh of air. "Having fun?" the man asks,
and I nod eagerly, turning to look at him for the first time, he's one of those
not very noticeable kinds of people, middle-aged, dressed very plainly with
close-cropped hair and large black-framed glasses.
"Yes," I tell him, "It's my first ride on a cable car!"
"Going to Pier 39?"
"I guess." Then I laugh and admit, "I don't know where I'm going, I just saw a
cable car and jumped on."
"You're on the car that goes close to Pier 39. The other one goes to Fisherman's
Wharf. Though everything's easy walking distance on the waterfront." He pauses,
then asks, "Meeting friends?"
"No, I'm on my own today. Oh look!" I exclaim, pointing down the hill at the
sudden view of ocean. Or I guess it's the San Francisco Bay. "Is that Alcatraz?"
"Yes. The island in the middle of the bay is Alcatraz, the bigger island on the
left is Angel Island. And Golden Gate Bridge is over to the far left, you can
see it when we get closer to the waterfront. Are you going to take the boat to
Alcatraz?"
"No," I hear myself sigh, wishing Brian were with me. "That wouldn't be any fun
alone."
"You wouldn't have to go alone."
That makes me glance quickly at the man again, and though I wasn't getting any
gay vibes from him - not that I was really paying attention – now I wonder.
Maybe he's hitting on me? Or maybe not, maybe he's just a nice man being
friendly to a stranger.
Brian
The ‘Specialty Foods boys’ introduce themselves: Rob Lexington, a tall brunette
with narrow black-framed glasses; and Paul Russo, a blond of medium height with
blue eyes nearly as intense as Justin's. I'm not sure what it is about blue-eyed
blonds that always seems to get my attention. Lexington starts right in. "Chuck
tells us he was impressed with your initial presentation, so we're expecting you
to really wow the second team - that's us. Is that intimidating enough for you,
Brian?"
Glad that I've graduated to first-name basis, I laugh and say confidently, "Not
at all - I love a challenge." Being aggressive has gotten me where I am today,
being aggressive and being brilliant of course, so I open up my folders and
spread some color-copied concept sheets around the table. After a couple hours
lively discussion, Lexington announces that he's going to recommend that the
company president take a meeting with me later today, after lunch. Then
Lexington invites me to have lunch with him - unfortunately (or maybe
fortunately) the delicious Paul Russo has another commitment. Naturally I agree
and we adjourn to a nearby sushi restaurant, which pleases me on several counts,
not least of which because traveling with Justin precludes eating in any
restaurant that serves raw fish.
After lunch we return to the B&B offices, to the eighth floor where Lexington
escorts me to the president’s office. I follow him down a hallway and wait while
he opens an office door, then he precedes me inside and announces, “George
Barnhart, here’s Brian Kinney from Vangard.”
The red-haired man behind the desk stands up and extends his hand across the
polished mahogany surface. With a flash of deep green eyes and a broad smile he
proclaims, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Kinney – although I do think we may
have met once before?”
As I shake his hand I try not to lose my smile, though I'm almost speechless
with surprise. Somehow I manage to murmur, “Why, yes. Yes, I think we have.
Perhaps it was at a Giants game?”
12/14/02