I am from...

I am from mud between my toes and river water in my eyes.
I am from German potato salad and sauerbraten and schnittlauch.
I am from cream of mushroom soup and Brady Bunch lunch pails.
I am from my mother’s beehive hairdo and my father’s Christian Brother’s on the rocks.

I am from leisure suits and merit badges and Sunday school.
I am from snowball fights and mosquito spray and curled up dogs.
I am from sidelong glances, discovery and closed doors.

I am from my mother’s voice; “You can do it. You can succeed.”
I am from my father’s indifference: his sleeping, waking years.
I am from my father’s death alone on the hospital bed.
I am from my mother’s death, my hand in hers, whispering “Mom, mom…”

I am from mirrors cracked, fogged, clear, shining.
I am from agony and rebirth, divorce and union.
I am from love of self, hatred of self, reconciliation.
I am from loneliness, despair, rejoicing
I am from dreaming of finding a man’s hand in mine and then looking down to find it there.

The Intruder

“I don’t kiss.” He turned his face away from mine.

I had gotten close enough to smell his minted breath. I faltered back, dragged my eyes away from his mouth, looked around the loft. All was decorated in the muted earth tones of interchangeable, catchall, some-assembly-required modern home décor: couch, coffee table, lamp, computer desk. Ikea, Target, Pottery Barn, Ikea, I checked off in my head. There were holes in the arrangement though: spaces where a chair should have been or a plant, no computer on the computer desk. The only exception to the uniformity was a bookcase that took up one whole wall. It was as tall as the windows from which sunlight poured and bounced off its greasy coffee bean surface. So tall its top shelves would take an expedition to reach. So imposing it dwarfed the rest of the room. The case was only one-eighth full; as if its owner had ambitions of making a literary world tour and then only made it to the first town.

I looked over at the guy. He looked to be about one-eighth literate. Oh well, I didn’t come here to read. Other than that, and the kissing thing, he was perfect. His hair was ___, his body ___, and his face___. You fill in the blanks. One of those guys you see at the bar, the coffee shop or the gym that never sees you.

“Nice bookcase.” I nodded to the wall.

“Yeah.” He backed up a bit. “I usually like to take care of business first.”

“Oh…Oh yeah…well sure, of course.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “It was two-fifty, right?” I dredged wadded bills out of my cargo pants: a couple of fifties, some twenties, tens.

I didn’t usually do this. That’s what they all say, right? But my alimony, oh sorry, spousal maintenance, payments had finished after five years. (Can you believe it? Five years of marriage and five more years paying for the mistake.) So, I had extra money, a reason to celebrate and a…need to celebrate with someone.

“Yes. Two-fifty.” With practiced nonchalance, his hand reached up under his snug, grey t-shirt to scratch his chest, exposing a slash of toned stomach. “That’s what the ad said.” He took the money from my outstretched hand and, not seeming to count it, but counting it still, folded it and slipped it in the back pocket of his low-rise jeans. The transaction completed, he looked up at me with an actor’s glint in his eye and a half smile parting his forbidden lips. He came up to me and put his hands on my chest and then moved them under my jacket, massaging my shoulders.

My head lolled back. Shit! I thought. I forgot to take the Levitra. Not that I’m that old, thirty-two isn’t old, but sometimes when I get nervous I need a little… reassurance. And when I’m paying I want to be reassured.

His hands were still working under my jacket. I eased it off my shoulders and dropped it to the waxed, distressed concrete floor.

“I guess I’m not going anywhere too soon.” I chuckled lamely. At least not for an hour.

The same crooked smile in response. He was two inches shorter than me. Funny he looked taller before. I lifted my hands to his arms as he rubbed my shoulders. My fingers traced the stubbly roughness of his shaven triceps. I brought my hands to his waist and pulled him to me. He pushed back.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he muttered. I tried to look him in the eye but he was staring over my shoulder at a spot on the wall. I turned to see where his eyes were fixed. There was an empty picture hanger on the tan brick wall. Cobwebs hung below it moving silently in a breeze I didn’t feel. When I turned back he had already picked up my jacket, draped it on the couch and was moving up the concrete steps next to the bookcase. I hurried to catch up.

“I’m Edward by the way.” I said to his ass as we climbed the stairs.

“Yeah, that’s what you said on the phone.” He didn’t turn his head.

“What…what’s your name?” No answer.

At the top of the stairs he turned and looked me in the eye. “You can call me Mike.”

Predictably, there was a bedroom at the top of the stairs. Or rather, the top of the stairs was a bedroom. Mike turned from me again and picked up a backpack lying next to the bed. From it he took out and threw on the bed a handful of condoms, a small bottle of what I assumed was lube. His actions were businesslike and excluded me. Funny, considering where those condoms and lube would be in a few minutes. I looked over my shoulder down at the rest of the unit. It was one of those lofts that were so popular at the time: a brand-new building made to look like it used to be a factory: a fulfillment of the present desire for new-old things.

The tops of the windows were even with my eyes now. I now saw dust-free patches on the bookcase – spots that objects recently occupied. There was a pile of five or six cardboard boxes next to the computer desk that I hadn’t seen when I entered the living room.

The bedroom itself was mostly queen size bed. A lace dust ruffle skirted the bottom of the bed and a fluffy duvet was thrown on top. The whole bedroom was a study in white. My brow crinkled. The dust ruffle and duvet did not match the macho image Mike seemed to portray. There was one grungy speck in the otherwise pristine environment: a battered steamer trunk shoved up against the wall next to the bed. What must have been a bathroom was in the corner, separated from the rest of the room by a wall of translucent glass bricks.

I cleared my throat. “I like how the bed is right there in the middle. Can’t be avoided.” I smiled biting my lip.

“Yeah.” Ever the conversationalist. Mike faced me and pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it next to the condoms on the bed. I held my breath as I stared at his torso. Sun from the skylight above sparked off of dust particles and cut an impressive swath across his chest and abs. He stood as if he knew the effect this illumination would have on me.

He reached out and pulled me into the light with him. His fingers unbuttoned my cotton short sleeve shirt and slipped it from my shoulders. I tried not to but I couldn’t stop myself: I sucked in my gut. His hand went to the back of my head and pulled my face to the nape of his neck. I nuzzled his smooth skin, waiting to be told at any second that his collarbone was off limits, too. But he didn’t say anything. He just stood with his arms at his sides and allowed me to run my hands up and down his muscled back. My tongue tasted the salt on his shoulder and my lips grazed the mole next to his left nipple. I brought my fingers to the button on his jeans. He grabbed my wrists with both hands. It almost hurt.

“That’s not your job.”

He kicked off his tennis shoes, slowly crawled up on the bed and knelt on the white duvet facing me. Sitting back on his heels, he seemed to sway to some unheard melody. Or maybe it was just the blood pounding in my temples. With both hands he yanked his fly open, popping all of the buttons on his jeans. My God! Did he shave everywhere? I almost giggled; the move was so stripper-like.

Then a door opened and closed downstairs.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a shadow move in the kitchen below.

“Shit!” Mike whispered. He jumped off the bed, put his shirt on and began throwing things back in his backpack.

“Who…?” A glare from him silenced me.

Picking up my shirt and his shoes, he grabbed my arm and dragged me into the bathroom in the corner. Once inside, he pushed the door closed behind me, reached in his back pocket and handed me back my cash.

“We’ll have to do this another time,” he said with low urgency. There was sweat on his forehead as he sat on the toilet putting on his shoes.

“What’s going on? Is that your roommate?” I knew from his example to keep my voice down.

“Listen. I need you to do me a favor. You’re my friend, OK? A friend that came over to help me out.”

“What? Why? I’m sure he wouldn’t be shocked.” I glanced at the door to my left. “Maybe he’d join us.”

He stood and looked in the mirror next to the commode. “That’s not my roommate” he whispered harshly. “It’s my fiancée.”

“Fiancée?” I looked at his eyes in the mirror. He looked down.

“Ex-fiancée” He mumbled, turning around. He leaned back against the sink and exhaled. “And this is her place…now.”

There was silence between us as I stared at him. His eyes danced back and forth between my face and the door next to me.

“She kick you out?” I couldn’t suppress a smile. There were ants crawling on the sidewalk and I was getting out my magnifying glass.

“Put your shirt on.” His nostrils flared at me.

“Why should I?” I leaned back on the glossy tiled wall next to the door. “Put my shirt on? Help you?”

His mouth opened and closed twice. “What do you want?”

His hands gripped the porcelain of the sink behind him, his index fingers tapping repeatedly. I crossed my arms and let my stomach relax to its full glory. “Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I just gave you that.”

“That was my money. I want yours.”

“I don’t have it. Not here.”

“That’s OK. Maybe your fiancée does.” My hand went to the knob.

“Wait!” He crossed up to me. “Wait,” he said more quietly. “Downstairs…” His eyes were flashing back and forth as if searching for something in the recesses of his mind. “Downstairs I have a first edition of Faulkner. It’s worth at least that.” He held out my shirt to me.

I had spent a lot of time on eBay. I knew what he was offering. I blinked at his unblinking eyes. “Yeah, it probably is.” I took the shirt from his hand.

A woman’s muffled voice came up the stairs and through the door. “Is there someone here?”

Mike continued to look at me as he opened the door. I stared right back. A smile was trying to break out on my lips again. A smile that revealed a part of me that I thought I had buried. He jerked the door open and stepped past me.

“It’s just me Deb!” As I turned he was leaning over the buffed aluminum railing.

“Christ, you scared the shit outta me! I was just about to dial 911!”

The voice coming up from below was a pinched alto - a voice that under other circumstances I could imagine humming a torch song or whispering in a child’s ear.

“Sorry. I just came over to get a few things. I brought a friend over,” he glanced back at me where I was buttoning my shirt. I nodded slowly. “He’s gonna help me carry the trunk.”

The voice floated up, caressed by uncertainty. “Oh…oh…that’s why. I saw that jacket on the couch…It got me worried.”

“We’ll be out of here right away.” He pushed off the railing, turned and nodded to the side of the bed. “It’s right over here,” he said softly.

I joined him at the side of the bed. He grabbed one of the leather handles on the end of the steamer trunk and jerked. It came free with a snap! and took a bit of the floor varnish with it.

“Damn!” he muttered, looking at the damage, then up at me. “Can you…can you take the other end?”

I picked it up. It was heavy but not heavy enough for two people, especially when one of those people was Mike. He went first as we started down the stairs, lifting his end high so that I wouldn’t have to bend. His biceps bulged – those biceps that I had been caressing moments before. As we came down into the living room I saw her. Pretty, I thought, and…and something I couldn’t pinpoint. Her arms crossed in front of her 32 D’s, she was leaning against the breakfast bar near the door where I had first entered the unit. She looked at me, looked away. Her raven hair swept over forehead and was pulled into a ponytail. She wore no makeup that I could see. As a couple, they looked like they had been pulled from the pages of Modern Living magazine. In better times I pictured them laughing under a volleyball net or lounging on a hammock. There was no possibility of laughter now.

When we were several feet from her, Mike nodded at me to set the trunk down. “I’ll get that book you wanted to borrow.”

I nodded to him. “OK.”

I threw a half smile at The Fiancée (that’s what I called her in my head: The Fiancée.) One of those smiles that said, “I don’t know you. I’m being polite.” She looked back at me, squinting in appraisal.

I turned to watch Mike, thankful for an excuse to avert my eyes from her. I could still feel her gaze on me though. No, I was really probably just imagining it. But, I mean, if I had been in her position, I would have been looking at me. Mike opened one of the boxes by the computer desk, took out books and began piling them on the floor. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he opened a second box and removed more books, all hard-cover. I glanced from the growing pile up to the bookcase and back. Finally he pulled out a leather-bound book covered in one of those Mylar protectors. He came back and handed it to me without a word. I glanced at the cover. Intruder in the Dust. Its yellowed pages gave off the musty odor of library stacks.

“You must be a really good friend.” We both turned our heads to her. “Michael never let me touch that book. He always kept it hidden…like so many things.”

“Deb, this is Edward.” Mike looked back and forth between the two of us.

Her darting eyes rested on me for a moment. Watching Mike shift back and forth from one foot to the other there, in the same spot where he had pushed me away earlier, I felt that alien smile start to bubble up from my chest again. I stepped forward with my hand extended. I had never felt so powerful.

“You can call me Ed.”

walls

when i was ten
i slept in a room where
lying in bed
i could touch both walls
with outstretched arms

imagine a room that ten-year-old arms measure
where i scraped my knuckles
on the sandpaper rough plaster
unintentionally while fending off monsters
intentionally while yearning to feel

it was my room
but it wasn’t
because it had no door
no fourth wall where a door should be
so i couldn’t turn the lock
on the world

ten-year-old's clothes don’t take much room
so they filled my drawers
with my brothers’ socks
and underwear and
they came to get them in
the dark hours of the morning
through the door that wasn’t there
“shhh don’t wake bob.”
he’s sleeping soundly
with his blanket and his bear.

but ten-year-old eyes see
and hands touch and ears hear
and ten-year-old boys have thoughts
these walls cannot contain, dreams
that if you knew
you would shut the door to
keep them inside but
you can’t
because there is no door
and
these arms will grow
longer and
stronger than
walls

Bob is Waiting

Bob could see their mouths move. His eyes followed the path of the baseball as it flew from Phil to Danny and back. It arced through the cloudless sky in the empty lot. Its path flowed in an intricate theme and repetition of high flies, line drives and grounders. Bob saw Danny push a sweaty mop of straight brown hair out of his eyes, watched him scratch his shirtless chest. He chuckled along with them as Danny bent over laughing at something Phil yelled and winced when Phil shook his hand in the air after snagging a fastball. But he couldn’t hear a thing. There was not a sound from where he stood, behind the spotless glass of the kitchen window two yards away. No noise except for Bob Barker’s voice coming from the TV down in the basement.

Bob’s parents were working as usual: his mom at the grocery store and his dad at the Ford plant. His brothers were both out somewhere. Probably driving around with their friends, hitting on girls up in Stillwater. So it was just Bob and Bob, followed by Samantha, then Jeannie on Channel 5 and finally Mel Jazz’s Matinee Movie on Channel 11. He had memorized all the programs on all four channels. If anyone ever wanted to know when something was on, they’d just ask him. A walking TV Guide, his mom said. Bob Barker was his favorite, though. They had the same name for one thing, and Bob reminded him of his father. Except Bob never hit you. And he was funny. And he gave you things. All you had to do was guess the right price. Even if you didn’t get it right, you probably got a t-shirt or something.

Bob pushed the faded, olive-green curtain out of the way to watch Danny throw one of his special curveballs, then run over and high-five Phil after he caught it. He remembered how one time last winter Danny had to sit next him on the bus to junior high because there was no other seat left. “How’s it goin’, man?” Danny had asked and their knees almost touched.

The dripping faucet in front of him brought his eyes downward. He noticed the forgotten glass of milk in his hand. He wouldn’t have known Danny and Phil were out there if he hadn’t come upstairs for another glass. He took a sip. Gross! Why did Mom have to start buying skim? He tugged at the binding waistband of his husky jeans.

Bob set his plastic glass down on the counter and pictured himself out there with them, shielding his eyes from the sun and forming a triangle with the other two guys. He’d throw a grounder to Danny, making him dive for it and roll in the grass in his cutoffs. But Danny’d scoop it up. He always did. Phil, in his perpetually dirty undershirt, would throw Bob a high fly right into the sun to blind him. But this time Bob would catch it. “Way to go, man!” Danny would shout and Bob would toss him the ball with a “Thanks, man!” They’d play all afternoon, getting hot and sweaty. Then Danny’d invite him to ride bikes over to Selma’s to get ice cream. Bob stood at the sink smiling to himself imagining what kind of ice cream he’d get.

The sound of the Showcase Showdown came up the stairs so he gulped down the rest of his milk with a grimace and put the glass in the dishwasher, remembering to rinse it out first. As he passed the front screen door on his way back downstairs, the boys’ laughter came to him.

He froze.

His pulse quickening, Bob turned and headed out to the garage. Kneeling on the gritty cement, he dug through the trunk next to the door. Unused tennis rackets landed on the floor. An old Monopoly set spilled its fake money at his dirty knees. Finally his hand touched leather. He pulled out the glove his dad had given him for his birthday last year. Slamming the backdoor, he huffed across the two yards; making an arc around the Bergman’s yapping Pomeranian. Stupid dog! When he rounded the lilac hedge framing the empty lot, Danny and Phil were walking away – going down to swim in the river at Phil’s house probably, or to spear carp in the creek behind Danny’s.

Standing there, slamming his right hand into his empty glove, Bob looked around at his feet. He picked up a stone about the size of a golf ball and threw it awkwardly and forcefully towards the two boys. It landed unnoticed ten feet behind Danny and rolled to a lazy rest under the dandelions. He picked up a second, third and fourth stone and wildly threw them one after the other with a force that made his arm feel like it was going snap off his shoulder and fly after them. His last stone was a jagged, multicolored agate that on another day he might have kept and stored in his cigar box of treasures up in his room. It burned through the air and quickly disappeared from his sight. From the other edge of the field he heard a dull thud. Danny’s head snapped forward and he stumbled to the ground. Standing there with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, Bob’s eyes shone and his lips formed a tight line on his face. He shook himself and darted behind the lilac bush. Through the leaves he watched Phil help Danny to his feet. Danny touched the back of his head tentatively, and then looked at his fingers. Both Danny and Phil looked towards the lilac bush and Bob flattened himself in the crumbling leaves and dirt at its roots. Through his watering eyes Bob could see Phil say something to Danny. Danny chuckled and he walked away, glancing warily around. He was still rubbing the back of his head.

Bob almost called out, “Hey Danny! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Really, he almost did. But he stood and slumped home. Bob was waiting.

His Voice

I remember my father’s veiny hands clutching the armests
...his watery eyes closed
...his head leaving a hair-oil stain on the recliner
...his eyelids illuminated by the flicker of the television set

I remember his long, long fingernails
...the few times he showed his white, white legs in shorts
...the knife he always kept in his pocket "just in case"

I remember his white mustache stained at the nostrils by tobacco
...the way he hugged his granddaughters close
...the way he dozed through my mother’s voice calling,
“Bill, Bill! Bill, come to bed!”

I remember his hair
when it was grey
when it was white
when it was matted with sweat on his hospital pillow

I remember all of these things...

but I don’t remember his voice.

Blue Tarp - part one

For the fourth day in a row Ahmad listened to the rain battering the blue plastic tarp over his head. He shifted his butt so that the water trickling down the wall behind him didn’t soak through his torn up jeans. This was his only dry pair left. Two other pairs in his cart were already soaked and he had traded his sweats to Sammy for a pack of Winstons. He was smoking the last cigarette of the pack now.

Time. That was the worst thing. There was so much time. It was worse than the rain. Worse than the smell. Hell, he didn’t really notice the smell anymore. But time passed so slowly. He shifted again and tried to force saliva down his dry throat. Soon he would have to go out and find something to eat. He cracked the tarp open to blow smoke outside, weighing the options: get wet or stay hungry. The spattering of rain against his face convinced him. He was staying put.

He watched a tiny spider crawl up on the seat cushion he was crouched on.

“Hi Eight Legs,” Ahmad smiled.

He put out his forefinger and let the spider crawl up on it. It crawled up to his second knuckle, and then turned around and headed back to the tip. Of course, by that time Ahmad’s brown hand was in the air. The yellowed fingernail was a dead end. Ahmad watched its plight as it circled his finger looking for an escape. Then, when it launched itself into the air trailing a thread behind, Ahmad grabbed the web with his other hand and kept reeling it in hand over hand so the spider remained suspended in the air. Finally he let it land on the back of his left hand. Ahmad chuckled and brought the spider up to his eyes. He stared at it, squinting in the dim bluish light.

“Hey, where’s your face, bud? Don’t wanna be talking to your ass.” He turned his hand this way and that. “Trying to stay dry, too, huh?” Just then, Ahmad felt a pinprick pain on the back of his hand.

“Hey! Watcha doin’ faggot?!” With a swift movement, he turned his hand over and smashed the spider against his thigh. “Little asswipe,” he muttered.

He stubbed out the cigarette, picked the ashes off the end and put the stub in his shirt pocket to finish later. He lay back on the cushion and closed his eyes. He’d sleep and maybe the sun would be out when he woke up and he could go get some chips.
…………………………………………………………

There was a rustling of the plastic outside.

“Ahmad! Ahmad, you in there?”

Ahmad recognized Marty’s voice. He contemplated being quiet so that Marty would go away. Nah, he’ll just come in away. He had done it before. Ahmad had come back a couple of times to find Marty in his place. Why he didn’t just beat his ass, he didn’t know.

“Yeah. I’m here. Leave me alone.”

“Aw, c’mon. I got water running down my legs out here!”

“That’s not my problem. You should’ve planned better. I don’t have room in here!”

Marty was always like that. Never thinking about the future. Ahmad thought about that old fable his second grade teacher made them read. What was it? The Ant and the… He looked down at the smashed spider on his leg and flicked it off.

The tarp parted and a thin, pale hand came in clutching a half empty bag of Doritos.

“I’ll share,” Marty’s voice said in a sing-song.

Ahmad put his hand on his stomach and sat up.

“OK,” he grumbled and grabbed the bag. “Don’t get my stuff wet!”

A blast of cold, humid air hit Ahmad’s face as the plastic parted. Marty crawled into the small space. Ahmad wasn’t lying. There really wasn’t much room. With the tarp tied onto the shopping cart behind him and the warehouse doorknob facing, there was barely enough space to lie down. Ahmad brought his knees up to his chest to let Marty pass. That didn’t stop that klutz Marty from stepping on him. On his sore foot at that.

“Ouch! Watch where you’re goin’, godammit!” Marty jerked his right foot back.

“Sorry man.” Marty flopped around and sat down leaning against the warehouse door. “Jesus! When will this ever stop? We’re gonna have to build an ark pretty soon.”

“Like you could build anything.” Ahmad shoved a handful of Doritos in his mouth and began untying his shoe.

“Hey, I’m good with my hands. I got that lock off of your cart’s wheel didn’t I?”

“Yeah, so why don’t you get one of your own?” He took off his shoe, peeled down his black sock and examined the sore on top of his foot. It had grown a lot since he last looked two days ago. Shit. He pulled the sock back up.

“Nah, carts tie you down too much. They’re for old ladies like you.”

“We’re the same age.”

“Dude, age has nothing to do with years,” he smiled a large toothy grin.

Marty shook his scraggly, dark hair like a dog, flinging droplets everywhere.

Ahmad wiped the water from his face. “You have no idea there is anyone in the world but you, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

“Hey. Do you have a dry shirt I could borrow?”

Ahmad looked at him for a second, huffed, turned and pulled a red, Coca-Cola t-shirt from the rack under the shopping cart.

“I know I’ll never see it again.” He tossed it at Marty’s face.

Marty grabbed it in midair. “Sure you will. I’ll show to you every time I wear it. Besides,” he smiled, “it’ll look better on me anyway.”

Marty shrugged off his windbreaker and pulled his wet undershirt over his head. “Here, you can have this one.” He tossed it at Ahmad.

“Like I want your gamy old clothes,” he said folding the t-shirt and putting it under his cart.

Ahmad kept his head down, glanced up to look at Marty’s thin, white chest, and then glanced away. Marty had gotten a lot skinnier than when they met last March. His tan, surfer boy body was gone. Now his jeans barely stayed on his hips. Didn’t look bad on him, though.

Marty stretched out his legs and leaned back. His wet boots lay between Ahmad’s feet. “Real nice place you got here. Real cozy.”

“Thanks.” Ahmad leaned back and closed his eyes again.

Marty’s foot tapped the side of Ahmad’s stockinged foot. “Hey.” Tap, tap, tap. “Hey!"

Exasperated, Ahmad snapped his head up. “What!”

“I saw him. He’s back in town.”

Ahmad narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“You know who.” A small smile played on Marty’s lips. “Said he couldn’t take the weather in Phoenix, so he came back here. Yep, said it was the weather brought him back. Just the weather. Bad mistake, if you ask me”

“Where is he?” Ahmad leaned forward.

“I think I’ll take a nap, too.” Marty pulled his jacket up to his chin and leaned back.

“Marty!” Ahmad shook his leg. “Marty!”

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll take you to him… Just as soon as the rain stops.” He chuckled with his eyes closed.

Continued...

Holding Hands in the Castro

When you hang around the Castro in San Francisco you notice any number of romantic couples holding hands walking down the sidewalks. Of course, you see guys holding hands with guys and girls with girls. And, yes, this is a heartwarming sight, especially for a Midwest boy like me. I remember holding hands with my boyfriend walking through the warehouse district in Minneapolis thinking that at any minute we could get the crap beat out of us.

But most of the couples you see with fingers entwined, couples strolling down Market Street or sipping lattes at Cafe Flore, are heterosexual couples. Yes, straight people. The number of sweaty palmed straight couples in the Castro far outstrips that of queer couples. It's not that there are more straight folks than gay folks around. No. I mean we're talking about the Castro. This is a place where the line to the men's room is longer than the line to the women's room. Where there are four gyms and not a single Gap Kids. No. It's as if heterosexual couples who walk through can't bear to lose physical contact with their s.o. As if, if they were just a man and woman walking next to each other, someone might think they were...gulp...gay.


One time, I saw a couple come out of a book store, and they were, omigod, without umbilical for a moment. He went blithely walking on, when she, with a look of panic in her eyes, came trotting up behind him and grabbed his hand. Grabbed it. Like it was the last life boat on the Titanic.

Now, I'm not against holding hands. And I'm sure het couples finger wrestle tons in their own neighborhoods too. It's just that a straight couple can't seem to walk through without clinging desperately to the other.

Is it fear? Are you afraid that if you appear unattached some strapping homo will come along and try to bring you to the dark side?

Is it insecurity? Do you think that if you let go of his hand he will suddenly be captivated by the thump, thump, thumping coming from The Cafe and you will lose him forever? Or a dyke on a bike will come and sweep her away and she will realize that you weren't that good in bed anyway?

I just want you to think about why you suddenly feel so lovey-dovey. Is it simply because your heart is warmed by the tenderness of his/her touch? Or is it because you are surrounded by a thousand fags?