Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (31 page)

“I'm almost afraid to ask. But what about your parents?”

“They're Quakers.”

“Quakers?” I asked, visualizing the man on the Quaker Oats box.

“Yeah, plain, decent, justice-loving folks. I went away to college in L. A. as a form of rebellion. But technically I'm still a member of Friends Church in Berkeley.”

“Do your parents know you've been with women?”

“Yeah.”

“Do they accept it?”

“My parents are gentle, tolerant people. They raise llamas up in Mount Shasta.”

“Wow, I've seen pictures of llamas.”

“They run pack trips. We'll have to go sometime.”

“Yeah, sounds exciting.”

After we cleaned our plates, Cynthia and I split a fried banana and coconut ice cream dessert. Cynthia sucked on her spoon. “You should've heard some of the comments the women made about their drawings.”

“The ones of their vulvas?” I asked.

Cynthia nodded. “One of 'em broke down in tears. She'd never even touched herself sexually before. She always felt dirty down there. Said her husband told her, he'd rather eat quiche than eat her cunt.”

I rolled my eyes. “Real men don't eat either one, huh.”

Cynthia shrugged. “Another woman shared that she'd like to be affectionate just once and it not have to lead to sex. And a third woman said her boyfriend always wants to have sex after a fight.”

“He hits her?”

“I don't think they fight physically.”

“When black folks say a fight, we pretty much mean physical. You folks don't distinguish between an argument and an ass-kicking.”

“You're right, most white people don't. I'll have to remember to ask Mindy if he hits her. Would you believe that half the women in the group don't even masturbate?”

“I'm sure they do now. After you've whipped them into shape.”

Cynthia laughed. “Masturbation is their homework.” She stroked my hand. “You masturbate regularly don't you, sweetie?”

I hesitated. No one had ever asked me if. I masturbated at all, let alone regularly. “I do occasionally,” I said sipping my tea. “You know, when I'm not with anybody.”

“Having sex with a partner is not a substitute for masturbation. You should masturbate at least once a week, whether you have a partner or not.”

I held Cynthia's hand and kissed it. “But it's more fun with somebody else.”

“It's up to you to make it fun with yourself,” Cynthia commanded.

I saluted her. “I promise to do better.” But not until I get my own place, I thought.

“Today is Lester and Poindexter's two-month anniversary!” Sterling announced as they walked into the kitchen. “Who says gay men don't have long-term relationships?”

I looked up from the newspaper. “Congratulations,” I smiled.

“Thanks.” Lester made it over to a chair. I sipped my coffee across from him at the table. “I hope he turns out to be the one for you.”

“So far so good.” Lester winked. “He treats me right. He's got a
J-O-B
and he's even cute without his glasses.”

“Right on! What's he do?”

“There you go getting all analytical.” Sterling frowned and leaned against the refrigerator and crossed his arms.

“I just asked what kind of work the brotha does. What's so analytical about that?”

“Lester said the ‘Negro' was working. Why can't you leave it at that? You ain't gotta scrutinize his occupation.”

“I think you doth protest too much. Lester, what's his real name and what does he do?”

“Winston, and he's a mortician.”

“A mortician?”

“Yeah, he's just starting out in his father's business out in Bayview.”

“Well, it's honest work,” I pointed out.

“Lester said he was looking to settle down,” Sterling reminded me. “And Winston sounds like the settled type.”

“Hope it works out.”

Lester sighed. “Me too.”

Sterling came to the table, and searched through the newspaper. “Gimme ‘Dear Abby.'”

“Here.”

“Y'all got anything to eat?” Lester turned his attention to the refrigerator.

“There's still some fried chicken left. And I can heat you up some greens, black-eyed peas, and a piece of corn bread.”

Lester's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

I handed Lester a full plate. “The corn bread will be warm in a minute.”

“Thanks, Stevie.”

“You welcome.”

“Honey chile, you sho' can burn!” Lester complimented me with a chicken leg hanging from his mouth.

“Thanks, cooking runs in my family.”

“Speaking of cooking, heard you got something ‘cooking' with Miss Ann?” Lester winked.

I rolled my eyes at Sterling, not that I really minded him putting my business out. He gave me an impish smile.

“We're mixing our spices, but sometimes I wish the flavor was deeper.” I sighed.

Sterling looked up from the paper. “There you go, Stevie, you just been up with the child for a hot minute and already you wanna get deep. You need to learn the importance of being superficial,” Sterling insisted as the doorbell rang.

“Hey, I know what you mean about wanting to connect on a deeper level,” Lester said. “I mean, lesbians don't usually have that problem as much. But you can imagine how it used to be for me dealing with these shallow-ass men. No pun intended.”

“On that note, I'll answer the door,” Sterling said sarcastically.

“And I'll see about the corn bread.”

I was surprised when Sterling returned with a slight, dark-haired white woman with an intense look and sharp features.

“This is Peggy, a neighbor, she's got a petition,” he announced.

Peggy nodded and ran her hands through her long, stringy hair.

“I told her I wasn't about to sign it. But she said she saw a woman coming in and out of here, and wanted to talk to you.”

Peggy gazed hopefully in my direction.

“What's your petition for?”

“It's about men having sex in the park around the corner. I'm afraid even to let my kid play there, even in the daytime.”

“That's too bad,” I answered. I couldn't get behind casual, anonymous sex, especially where kids might see it. My only casual encounter hadn't been anonymous or in public. Cynthia and I had at least known each other's names and occupations. And we'd both been interested in seeing each other again.

“Yeah, that's funky,” Lester agreed. “Kids oughta be able to play in the park,” he added, washing his corn bread down with a gulp of soda pop.

Sterling folded his arms and cocked his head to one side.

“I didn't know there were any real kids left in the Castro.”

The woman sighed. “This neighborhood didn't used to be like this.”

“Didn't used to be like what?” Sterling glared.

“There used to be a lot more families. Now that the rents are going up, who can afford to live here?”

“Well, now you know how it feels to be in the minority.”

“Be nice, don't act ugly,” Lester reprimanded.

“Look, gay men have fixed up these Victorians. We're the ones who turned this neighborhood into a showplace,” Sterling retorted.

“That's true,” I agreed “But she does have a point. Kids should be able to play in the park.”

“Why would anyone with kids want to live in the Castro, any damn way? That's what I want to know.”

Peggy's eyes narrowed. “We have a right to be here,” she shot back at Sterling. “I was born and raised in the Castro. My parents were Irish immigrants. This was a real neighborhood, with mom-and-pop stores and Scout troops before they turned it into a sex playground.”

“Look, we don't have anywhere else to go. San Francisco is a mecca because we're oppressed everywhere else. Shouldn't there be a place for us?”

“Sterling has a point,” Lester agreed. “Straight people can show affection in public and nobody says doodley-squat.”

“Affection, I don't mind affection. But my son saw two men groping each other's crotches on the street.”

“They got hookers on the corner in the Tenderloin who are just as outlandish,” Sterling countered. “Maybe, you're just anti-gay.”

“Maybe she's just anti—lewd behavior,” I said, defending Peggy.

“Right on, sister!” Peggy shouted. “Some of my best friends are gay men.”

“Some of my best friends are colored,” Sterling groaned.

“Now, Sterling, let's play pretty,” Lester polished off another piece of chicken. “Sounds like the woman is just against folks having sex in the park in broad daylight.”

“Damn straight, I am. My gay friends are not promiscuous. I know a couple who's been together for ten years. I support the rights of consenting adults behind closed doors.”

“Can't everybody afford no hotel.”

“Sterling, why can't they go into the privacy of their own bedrooms?” I asked.

“You don't want to bring everybody up in your place. You might not even know their names.”

“But yet you're willing to have sex with them?”

“Sex is one thing, bringing somebody in your crib is another.”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry, but I can't relate.”

“Me either,” Lester sucked thoughtfully on a chicken bone. “I'm a gay man, but I guess I have different values.”

“So, you'll sign my petition?” Peggy asked anxiously.

“Yeah,” Lester nodded.

Sterling sighed and began wiping crumbs off the kitchen counter.

Peggy turned to me. “What about you?”

“I'm presently looking for a place. I'm still up under his roof. But I'm gonna go ahead and sign it, too. Sterling, are you gonna put me out on the street?”

“Not because of political differences. Unless you plan to vote Republican.”

Peggy eagerly shoved the petition in front of Lester and me. There were only a couple of names on the page.

“You're looking for an apartment, did you say?”

“Yeah, and it hasn't been easy.”

“My husband and I rent out a cute little cottage over in the Mission.”

“Wow, you do?”

“Yeah and it's really nice. We haven't even put a sign in the window yet. Our tenant just gave notice. She's moving to Seattle.”

“What part of the Mission?” Sterling demanded. “Stevie doesn't want to live just anywhere. She's poor but proud.”

I cautiously awaited Peggy's answer. The Mission District was a colorful, mostly Latino area, with a growing counter culture. In addition to great Mexican restaurants, Catholic churches, and thrift shops, there were coffeehouses, a women's bookstore, a lesbian bar, and a movie house that showed independent films. But some parts of the Mission were rough and had a high crime rate.

“It's in the nicest part of the Mission. It's almost in Noe Valley. I won't have any trouble renting it. It's above Dolores Park.”

“That's a good area,” Lester agreed.

“I like it around there,” I added. I was beginning to get excited. “What's it like?” I asked.

“How much does it cost?” Sterling wanted to know.

“It's a studio, but it's got a separate kitchen and a nice backyard.”

“A backyard in San Francisco. You mean it's got a blade of grass,” Lester marveled.

“And flowers,” Peggy nodded.

“Well, how much does it cost?” I asked cautiously. “I don't bring home a big salary, but I'm very responsible. I'd be a good tenant.”

“Yeah, Stevie can't afford it if it costs an arm and a leg,” Sterling chimed in.

“Leslie was paying a hundred and fifty dollars a month. I guess I'd rather get a good tenant in there than raise the rent.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “I can afford a hundred and fifty a month.”

“If the place ain't falling apart, she'll take it,” Lester smiled.

“I'll want a fifty-dollar cleaning deposit.”

“What about first and last?”

“If you want it, you can give me fifty dollars to hold it and a hundred fifty when you move in. Forget about first and last, if you're willing to paint.”

“No problem,” Lester spoke up.

“Yeah,” Sterling agreed. “We'll have a paint party.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Sounds like a plan.”

“You saved me an ad in the paper. You saved me the hassle of talking to a lot of folks. And I really hate to reject people.”

I couldn't believe what might have fallen into my lap. But I wanted to see the place first, before I became a grinning fool.

Cynthia and I clapped enthusiastically in Berkeley's Black Repertory Theater. I was happy. I had it all, a job, a lover, and I'd just put a deposit on my cute cottage.

But I still cared what people thought, especially black folks. So, I was wearing a frilly blouse. Thank goodness, Cynthia's long hair made her look feminine despite her suspenders.

The executive director stood onstage with her cast in the old converted dry cleaners. “Thank you very much.” The attractive matriarch beamed. “Now, if you liked this play, tell your friends about it. And, if you didn't like this play”—the director raised her eyebrows—“tell them about it anyway. 'Cause, they just
might
like it.” She waved good night. “May God bless you.”

Cynthia and I walked down Shattuck Avenue toward her Chevy Impala. The cars were parked diagonally. “I'm really glad that we saw that play,” I said. I'd suggested it after reading a review.

“Yeah, me too,” Cynthia agreed.

“Thanks for driving.”

“You wanna drive back?”

“All the way across the bridge?” I gulped. I'd driven Cynthia's car a couple of times; once to take her home after she had her wisdom tooth pulled, and last week after a Gil Scott-Heron and Brian Jackson concert. I'd refused the joints being passed around, wishing to avoid all those collective germs. It was a good thing, because Cynthia wound up too high to drive.