“Yeah, later.” I hang up.
“What’s the matter?” Jordan asks, stopping.
“Josh told me to…‘uh… not… um… mention… the uh… you know….’ To not mention I’m gay. How fucked up is that? It’s not like I would even bring it up. He didn’t have to say it.”
“Maybe he’s just watching out for you.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going.”
“Ashley, maybe you should just go for an hour?”
“What? To be insulted? Fuck it.”
I go to Received Calls and press Send.
Ring. Ring. Answering machine.
“Hey, you’ve reached Doug’s party house. It’s the guys’ long weekend, so we may be too wasted to answer the phone, but leave a message. We’ll get back to you on Tuesday.” Beep.
“Josh, it’s Ashley. I’m not gonna be able to come, man. Sorry but I got other shit to do. Have a good weekend.” Click.
“You okay, Ashley?” Jordan asks, putting a beefy arm around my shoulder.
“Yeah. I’m fine. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
“You sure? I’m cool to stay with you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks.”
Jordan gives me a bear hug. “Hey, I think you’re great just the way you are.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you later, all right?”
“Later.” Jordan turns and heads back up the Promenade, strutting like a bulldog.
I meander to the pier and take residence on a wooden bench. There is a warm breeze gently rustling the palm fronds. The sun is setting on another gorgeous California day. I can see Josh’s perspective. He’s not used to the whole gay thing. We grew up in a small town filled with guys like that.
Fuck it. It doesn’t matter! It’s been a hell of a journey to where we can feel comfortable with ourselves. To be honest about who we are. Are we expected to cater to their ignorance? Some homophobic assholes don’t have the capacity to accept differences in their narrow perspective of the world, and we’re supposed to cajole and humor them?
Maybe he was just trying to protect me. He didn’t want anyone to insult me.
Well how does the world change, then? If I sit there mute and don’t speak against ignorance. Nothing will ever change if we don’t educate.
Okay, so how does that happen?
Speak up! When something is wrong, say it is wrong. Playing into antiquated notions of normalcy only perpetuates the problem. Why should one more person struggle with sexuality as a mental illness, a grotesque sin, or a forbidden and shameful part of themselves?
It hurts.
I know.
Why does it still bug me?
The world is changing. Equality and celebration of difference will come. We’re just not there… yet.
ONE, TWO,
skip a few… ninety-nine, one hundred. It’s been days, a week at least, and I haven’t heard from Chris. It’s like he’s disappeared. I’ve called information in Miami to find the production company, who couldn’t locate him. I’ve called his parents and friends at college. No one knows where exactly he is or how he is doing.
How am I supposed to feel?
I feel rejected. I have discovered the name of the ship he’ll be performing on and so I lay on my bed with a pen and glass of merlot. I feel romantically archaic and have tawdry hopes my message will actually reach him. But it’s worth a try.
Dear Chris—
Congratulations on your cruise line gig! You must be ecstatic to get out of college and start working. It’s bizarre that we left within days of each other. I miss you. Every day I think about us. I miss your smile, your laugh, and your big blue eyes. I am enjoying LA. They treat us really well and the other models are pretty cool. Our days consist of shooting, the beach, the gym, and clubs. I could get used to this. I am missing art, though. Real creation. Sometimes I think that cultures who believe the camera steals the soul are right. It takes. It’s not like the process of learning and singing a song, becoming a character, or writing. Just different, I guess. I’m not sure I want it to be my life, but I’ll ride it out. It’s better than digging ditches, as my grandfather used to say!
Sad we’re both staying at the beach but on opposite sides of the country. We’ll have to plan a vacation together. Do you know your schedule yet? Please call me when you get this. I’m dying to hear your voice. I miss and love you!
Ashley.
Stamped. Sealed.
Knock. Knock.
I get up and walk to the door, look through the peephole to see Fernando and Mikal.
“What’s up, boys?” I say, opening the door.
“We’re going to Pacific Beach. San Diego,” Fernando announces. “Come on, throw some stuff in a bag.”
“What? Right now? Tonight?”
“Yes, now. Come on, Ashley, we rented a convertible. But we gotta go now. The lines for the clubs start in two hours,” Mikal says, his stunning green eyes flashing at me. They make me wince. I have to look away.
“All right! Cool. Where’s Jordan? Is he coming?”
“No, Jordan found some freshman and they’re going dancing at the Factory. Just as well, we don’t need him causing shit for us in San Diego too.” Fernando laughs.
I throw stuff in a duffle bag, change quickly, and we are out the door. “Hold on, I forgot something.” I run back to the room and grab the letter for Chris off my nightstand.
“What’s that?” Fernando asks as we pack into the elevator.
“Oh, it’s a letter for Chris. I just want to drop it at the concierge on our way out.”
“Have you heard from him yet?” Fernando asks.
“No. It’s really strange. But I found this address, so we’ll see. I hope it gets to him.”
Mikal gives me an “I’m sorry, I’m here if you need me” smile. Slightly taller than both Fernando and I, he puts an arm around each of us. “We’re going to rock San Diego tonight! No worries. Just us boys out on the town.”
We pile out of the elevator, and I wish my letter good luck as I hand it to the concierge. The valet has our car waiting with the trunk open and ready for our bags.
“I love good service,” Fernando remarks as he tips the valet. “Thank you, sir.”
“Have a safe trip, gentlemen.”
The wind whips our hair as we cruise down the 5 Freeway. Mikal is driving, the epitome of cool, his white short-sleeved button-up undulating. I’m in the bucket passenger seat and can’t help but smile. Life is good, even when parts of it suck. This moment is perfect unto itself. Fernando, looking hot in a simple black T-shirt that accentuates every one of the muscles in his Brad Pitt body, is perched on the edge of the back seat. Hanging an arm over both bucket seats, he talks the whole way. Back seat doesn’t work for him; he needs to be in on the action. Flipping through the radio dial, I stop on the familiar first chords of one of my favorite songs: “Here I Go Again.”
“Uh—uh. You know Whitesnake?” Mikal asks. “This is great. Now I don’t feel so old.”
“Get over it. As if you’re old,” I say. “Wait, you’re like twenty-six…! Holy shit! You are old, man!” Fernando and I laugh.
What does this song mean to Fernando and Mikal? Are they just words or is it the same anthem that drives every man? Feeling that when it comes down to it, down to the wire, we’re alone. The heroes are, anyway. All true heroes have to step away from the pack. They have to risk something, maybe even themselves, in the pursuit of their dream. And somehow it feels the distance between Chris and myself is giving me perspective in preparation for an even greater adventure yet to come.
PACIFIC BEACH
is the epitome of California. The streets are lined with people as we drive through town. Mostly college guys and girls who look like they’ve taken just enough time to rinse the sand off from a day at the beach and to throw on some clean clothes. Tan, blond hair, laid back. It’s a dreamland. It’s a wonder how anyone makes it through college in less than eight years. The beach and nightlife are a dizzying distraction. Easy to see how time would slip away, how one glorious surfing day melts into a laughing night melts into one glorious surfing day melts into a laughing night melts….
“This reminds me so much of home,” Mikal says, expertly slipping the convertible into a tight parking spot. “Except the humidity kills in Miami. You need to change your shirt four times a day.”
“I love my beaches. I miss the white sugar beaches of Puerto Rico,” Fernando says. “I dig California, but the water is dark and the sand is brown.”
“Have you ever been to the East Coast, Ashley?” Mikal asks as we climb out of the car and head toward a club.
“No, I’d love to.”
“We’ll have to go sometime. After we’re done with this contract, the three of us should take a week and hang in Miami. You guys would do really well for work there too. I could introduce you to my son.”
“Little Erik? Yeah, I bet he’s a chick magnet, huh?” Fernando asks.
“He does work well for that,” Mikal answers.
“So what’s your type, man? What are you looking for?” Fernando asks.
Mikal’s eyes dart to me. “Well… I dated Eric’s mom for a long time but… I….”
“Hey, let’s go in here, guys,” I interrupt, pointing to a sandwich board on the sidewalk. “Three bucks a draft. Ferni, what’s your poison?”
“Anything to make me loose on the dance floor.”
We descend into the Wicket, a bar below street level. Funky paintings with price tags adorn the rich brown walls, no doubt by local artists. The fixtures are brushed silver mirrors and candelabra chandeliers hanging precariously low. We make our way to one of a few open tables and sit in a forest green booth around a table etched by countless keys, bottles, and fingernails. A green wine bottle three-quarters full of oil and a rag wick serves as centerpiece. The atmosphere is somewhere on the steep slope of yesterday’s “it” and tomorrow’s “shit.” A cute blonde waitress lights our wine bottle lamp and welcomes us in a voice that has to be at least an octave above her regular register.
“What can I get you boys?”
“Round of draft. Two apiece,” Fernando answers. “You work here long?”
“Second day,” she answers.
“How ’bout I buy you a ‘celebrate your second day’ drink after your shift?”
She flushes. It’s hard to resist Ferni’s deep brown eyes and bad boy smile. Never mind what’s under his shirt. “Um, okay. I’m off in an hour. You’ll be here?”
“Anxiously waiting.” Flashing that smile again. Bad. She rushes off to the bar, and I see her giggling with another waitress and pointing in our direction.
“Smooth, Romeo,” I comment, shaking my head. “Must be that Latin blood.”
“I’ll teach you the ways of the master, my son,” he says, pressing his hands together and bowing.
“I think Ashley has his own thing going on. I bet he doesn’t have to try,” Mikal says, smiling at Fernando.
“Oh, you think so? So what do you like, Mikal? Someone to be passive or aggressive?”
“Well, I wouldn’t like a cocky shit like you throwing lines at me.”
“Because I know what I want and go for it, or because I’m a guy?”
“What?”
“Would you not take the bait because you don’t like lines or because I’m a guy?”
“What are you getting at, Ferni? I wouldn’t touch you because you’re you.”
“So, not because I’m a guy?”
Mikal looks at me pointedly. Accusing. “Look, I’m not taking this shit from you. You got a problem with me all of a sudden? What are you trying to figure out? Maybe you’re the gay one asking all these fuckin’ questions.”
Whoa. I’ve never seen Mikal so on edge. There’s a sleeping giant in the hills.
“Relax, man. I didn’t mean anything. I was just screwin’ around with you,” Fernando says. “For the record, I don’t give a shit either way. What you do is your business. If you want to talk to me about who you do, that’s cool too. Now I’m going to see if I can do that waitress any favors and help with our drinks.”
Waiting until Ferni has left the table, Mikal turns on me, green eyes flashing anger and hurt. “Did you tell him, Ashley? Did you tell Ferni what I said at the beach last week?”
“No, Mikal. I would never do that. Never.”
“’Cause it sounded like he knew an awful lot. I know you guys are buddies, but I put myself out there for you. That wasn’t for you to tell anyone.”
“I know. I swear I didn’t say anything. Ferni is just intuitive. He told me one of the first nights I was down here that he thought you might like guys and that… that you looked at me differently.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said he was full of shit. That you couldn’t get straighter than Mikal, that you were just like an older brother, watching out for me.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing, he was whistling at a girl on the mechanical bull. Then I went outside to call Chris.”
Insult to injury.
“All right, I’m sorry I flipped out. I just went there in my head. You laughing with Ferni how ‘Mr. Straight’ Mikal hit on you.”
“I know. Forget about it. Ferni’s cool. Trust me. I told him I’m gay. He didn’t run in terror. He’s not like most straight guys. It doesn’t freak him out. He’s not threatened by it.”
“I know.” Mikal exhales audibly. “You probably don’t want to hear this but I… I meant everything I said on the beach. I don’t know what to do.”
I have a few ideas. To start with, we could ditch Ferni with the waitress, head to the hotel, and I could have sex with the most amazing-looking man I’ve ever seen.
“All right. Drink up, boys!” Fernando and our waitress have returned and clunk the drafts around the table. “Sorry, you guys okay? Did we interrupt something?”
“No, no. Right on. Cheers to Pacific Beach and our great-looking waitress,” I offer.
“Chelsea,” Fernando informs us.
“Cheers.” I clink glasses with Ferni and Chelsea and turn to Mikal, putting a hand on his knee as we clink. “To new friends.”
My hand is burning up, and I pull it away in an attempt to stop the roller coaster in my stomach. He lifts his eyes to meet mine and I’m suddenly sweating. I don’t know what’s going on. This isn’t like it was with Chris. This is something completely different. I know these eyes. I’ve been searching for them for a thousand years. The Wicket melts around us and all I see is Mikal. All I want to do is be with him. Forever and ever. Just like this. Just dreaming in each other’s eyes.