Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

Florida?” I said. “Two years, I guess.”
    “Have they met Ben yet?”
    “No, but they’ve torn up his picture.”
    Ben flashed his sexy jack-o’-lantern smile. “You don’t know that.”
    “Well, they aren’t showing it around, that’s for sure. Unless they’re praying over it at an Ex-gay meeting.”
    “Don’t be naughty,” said Anna. “You’re frightening Ben.” She turned to the object of her concern. “I’m sure they’re lovely people, dear. I’ve met his mother and she’s the salt of the earth.”
    “Salt of the wound is more like it.”
    “Michael!” This was Anna and Ben, scolding me in unison. Jake, I noticed, was leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, arms folded, chuckling manfully under his breath. He knew what I was talking about. He has a mother like mine in Oklahoma.

    The evening didn’t last much longer. Anna was getting tired, and Jake had to get up early to help me thin a clump of bamboo at a house in Parnassus Heights. Ben and I kissed Anna goodbye, and Jake, as usual, escorted us down the passageway to the street. It was a tight squeeze between the houses, but it was strung with colored lights year-round—a nod to the full-scale fantasia Anna once orchestrated at 28 Barbary Lane. This little studio in the flats with its lone datura and its two potted azaleas was a touching distillation of everything Anna had left behind. It seemed to make her happy, though; it seemed to be all she needed.
    “She looks good,” I told Jake, once we were out of earshot. “She’s over that flu, I guess?”
    “Pretty much,” he replied. “Notice her new nail polish?”
    “Nice,” I said. “Very Sally Bowles. I should’ve said something to her. Are you responsible for that?”
    “Yeah, right,” Jake snorted, reminding me that he was strictly the heavy-hauling dude in the building; the seriously girly shit was left to his flatmates.
    “Who’s Sally Bowles?” asked Ben.
    I turned and looked at my younger, less theatrical half. “She used to be married to Ansel Adams.”
    “You’re kidding?”
    “Yes, I am,” I said.
    Jake clapped Ben on the shoulder, brother to brother. “Don’t let him fuck with you. I don’t know who the hell she is, either.”
    “What is happening to queers?” I said.
    Jake chortled and opened the gate for us. “I’ll see you in the morning, boss. You guys take care.” He turned to Ben. “You’re the one doing the driving, aren’t you?”
    “Oh, yeah,” said Ben.
    “Good.”
    They exchanged a knowing look that, more than anything, made me feel loved.

6
    A Guy Without Trying
    T he night I met Jake at the Lone Star the place was almost empty. He was sitting alone at the bar, this sturdy little Shetland-pony-of-a-guy with a Corona in his fist. Every time he took a swig from the bottle, he’d set it down and regard it intently, as if about to say something terribly important to the lime wedge at the bottom. It was quite a brave show of independence, so I was fairly certain he was looking for company.
    I pulled out the stool next him. “You mind?” I would not have asked that in a crowded bar, but it seemed polite under the circumstances.
    “Nah, buddy, it’s cool.”
    So I sat down and ordered a beer. Jake’s little swig-and-stare ritual seemed to intensify, but he didn’t gaze in my direction.
    “Kinda slow tonight, isn’t it?” I said.
    “Yeah, I guess. I’m new to here.”
    “The bar or the town?”
    “The bar,” he replied. “And the town, too, more or less. I moved here from Tulsa a year ago.”
    I asked him if San Francisco agreed with him.
    “It’s okay.” He shrugged.
    “But?”
    “I dunno. The guys are either totally married or ordering each other like pizzas off the Internet. Or both. I’d like more of the stuff in between.”
    “Like?”
    “You know, just hangin’ and talkin’ and…takin’ it from there. I’m into buddy sex, I guess. It doesn’t have to be romantic or anything, just…you know.”
    “Intimate,” I said, providing the dreaded word.
    Those gray eyes were fixed on me now, almost lupine in the darkness. “Yeah.”
    “Nothing wrong with that,” I said. “But you can say all that online, you know. That’s the great thing about the Web. You can ask for exactly what you need.”
    “I know that,” he said, “but I’d rather not ask the whole world if I can help it.”
    I turned and smiled at him. “I know what you mean.”
    At the time, I thought I did.

    Ten minutes later Jake