Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

days. At thirty-four, he still had trouble remembering that some of his contemporaries were the parents of teenagers.
    “He’s nineteen,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I’m fixing up Mary Ann and Brian’s old place for him. Perhaps later you could give me a hand with that twin bed in the basement?”
    “Sure,” he answered. “Yeah … sure … be glad to.”
    His antsiness must have been obvious, for the landlady smiled at him. “I won’t keep you,” she said. “I know you’ve got a busy, busy evening.”
    That extra “busy” made him wonder again.
    Back at his apartment, he took a quick shower and trimmed his mustache. Tonight especially, he was glad he hadn’t shaved his mustache when everyone else had. It suited him, he felt, so to hell with the fashion victims who found him lacking in the new-wave department.
    When it came time to dress, he dug to the bottom of his bottom drawer and found his oldest 501’s. The denim was chamois smooth and parchment thin, and the very feel of it against his legs filled him with exquisite melancholy.
    He left undone the middle button of his fly, just for old times’ sake.
    When he reached the Castro, he found a parking place on the steep part of Noe, then strode downhill in the direction of the music. On a platform in front of the Hibernia Bank, a gay chorale was already singing “America the Beautiful.” Hundreds of people, some of them crying, had gathered in the street.
    He wriggled through the crowd until he could catch a glimpse of the hostage/lovers. One was lean and blond and bearded. The other was also bearded, but he was darker and somewhat older, more of a daddy type. Michael could picture them together quite easily. He could see them on that hijacked plane, desperate when death seemed imminent, passing love notes under the murderous gaze of their captors.
    Then the gay band broke into the national anthem, and the crowd began to sing. Michael noticed how many couples there were, how many broad backs settled against broad chests as tenor voices filled the warm night. The world was pairing off these days, no doubt about it.
    The hostages took turns at the podium. They talked about home and family and the need for expressing love openly. Then they asked for a moment of silence for the sailor who’d been killed on their plane. When it was over, Michael wiped his eyes and checked his watch. He was already half an hour late for the JO party.
    He strode briskly at first, then began to run up Castro as the band blared forth with “If My Friends Could See Me Now.” At Nineteenth, he cut across Noe and completed his ascent to Joe’s apartment. The house, as he’d remembered, was a potentially handsome Victorian that had been hideously eisenhowered with green asbestos shingles.
    He caught his breath for a moment, then pressed the buzzer. Joe came to the door wearing nothing but cutoffs. “Oh … Michael. You’re a little late, fella.”
    “It’s over?”
    “No. Just sort of … Round Two. C’mon in.”
    Michael entered the dark foyer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sorry,” he said. “I was singing the national anthem and the time got away from me.”
    If his host appreciated the irony, he didn’t remark on it. “Take your clothes off out here. Stack your stuff on the stairs.” He slapped Michael’s butt and slipped behind the bedspread separating the foyer from the parlor.
    Michael stripped, piling his T-shirt, jeans and boots next to a dozen similar groupings on the stairs. He faced the hall mirror and checked himself briefly—for what? he wondered—before pulling aside the bedspread to greet his public.
    The men were slouched on sofas and chairs arranged in a crude crescent in front of the TV set. On the screen, two men in business suits were sucking cock in an elevator. A few heads swiveled in Michael’s direction, but most remained fixed on the movie, intent on the business at hand.
    He scanned the room for available seating. Nothing was left but the middle section of a sofa on the far side of the room. Heading there, he passed in front of the TV set, and it occurred to him—perversely—that someone might shout “Down in front!” just to embarrass him.
    No one did. He sat on the sofa, nodding gravely to his sofa mates, then glanced discreetly around the room at the other participants. This was Round Two, all right. As Teddy might have put it, there were very few members in good standing.
    In a La-Z-Boy next to the window sat Teddy