Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (39 page)

Such was not the case with Cousin Sam. We were expecting him to come awaftin’ back. In fact, we dreaded it. That is, Sparkle, Sharon, and I dreaded it; Peter was counting down the days. See, he was the only one that ever visited my cousin, try as we might to dissuade him against his frequent trips to the shelter. Fortunately, visiting hours were only during the day, while we worked, and only Peter had the time to pop in on him. Sparkle would’ve just as soon swallowed tonic without the gin before he would step foot in that place. I mean, he’d never quite forgiven Sam for getting Peter to go behind our backs. (Yes, it’s childish, but I think I’ve clearly pointed out that Sparkle is petty, unfair, and callous, so why be surprised?)

Peter gave us periodic updates on Sam’s condition, promising us time and time again that he was getting better and that when he got out of the half-way house, he would be a new man. (Of course, new doesn’t necessarily equate to better.) And whenever we’d try to convince Peter that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, he would remind us that if we had had that same attitude with him, we wouldn’t have been together all these years later. Which is true, without a doubt, but we did have Peter’s best interests in mind when we lectured him about the pitfalls he had to look forward to. We freely admitted that we were simply being over protective. Still, Peter got pissed whenever we talked badly about Sam. And even though we knew it was pushing the two of them even closer together, we couldn’t help ourselves. It simply wasn’t in our nature to feign tolerance.

That’s why, when Sam was released with a clean bill of health, we weren’t surprised that the two of them decided to get an apartment together. And, for our part, as promised, we enrolled Sam in summer school right along with Peter. We weren’t the least bit happy in doing so, but we figured that it would keep the two of them busy and, hopefully, out of trouble. Plus, I knew it would make my family happy. I supposed I owed them that much. (Always the martyr. Or is that always the bridesmaid? Whichever, we let them have their way. They would’ve managed it without us, anyway, so at least, this way, we could hold it over their heads.)

As I’ve repeatedly mentioned, available apartments in San Francisco are about as rare as an honest politician, so, like it or not, Sam checked himself out of the shelter and into Chez Sparkle. (Yes, yes, I know; what were we thinking?) But we knew that if we separated them, they would find a way to be with each other anyway. This way, with Sparkle home most days, one of us could keep an eye on them. And let me tell you, Sparkle was none too happy for the company. The morning after Sam arrived, the three of them were already out of the house and off looking for small, relatively cheap apartments to move into.

Okay, you guessed it, that was about as easy as finding a straight man working in a… in a… (and that’s when we got the answer to our problem)… a beauty salon. After three days of looking and turning up no leads (who, after all, would want to rent a place to two college students with no references and no signs of support other than Sparkle?), we remembered that Kiki and Larry had a spare garage apartment. Meaning, it was finally time to cash in on the favor of working that drag show all those years earlier. Granted, the drag show was our way of returning the favor for them bailing Sparkle out of jail, but far be it from us to point out the obvious.

Anyway, we did it the smart way: we surprised them. On a beautiful Sunday morning, knowing they’d be home, the four of us showed up at their doorstep, feigning a post-brunch outing. They were thrilled to see us. (Suckers.) And I almost felt guilty for what we had in mind for them.

Kiki and Larry greeted us like long-lost family. Seeing as they rarely got to spend any time with Peter, and had never even met my cousin, they fairly rolled out the red carpet. Drinks were served (martinis for the adults, lemonade for the kiddies), snacks were rustled up (though we did actually come from brunch, that part was true), and we had no problem convincing them for a grand tour of their home. See, only I had been over before. Sparkle and Kiki had become, and I use the term loosely,
friends
, but Sparkle drew the line at making house calls. (To Kiki’s great relief.)

Larry led the excursion, with Kiki as our pointer-outer of interesting tidbits: what was new, what had been recently repainted, what was original to the house, and what had been added on, etc. He was busting with glee at having the chance to show it all off. I gathered that they rarely had company, and so we
oohed
and
ahed
our way through each room in order to keep them in good spirits before we reached our final destination: the basement.

It was to our good fortune that the bottom of the house was, shall we say, less manicured than the upper floors. Kiki quickly explained that they simply hadn’t had the time or energy to bother with the apartment beneath them, but they eventually hoped to make it rentable sometime in the near future. Why waste the space, as they put it. And that, of course, was my cue.

“Why wait?” I suggested. Their grins were replaced by puzzled expressions and, in turn, by ghastly looks of horror as they each realized what I had in mind. It didn’t take a brain surgeon (Larry was an Orthopedist) to figure it out. After all, Sam and Peter’s eager faces said more than mere words ever could.

“Now wait a minute,” Kiki tried as he looked from face to shining, young face. “I didn’t mean…”

I jumped in before he could finish. “Well, you just said that you planned on renting it out as soon as you got it fixed up. Now you don’t have to fix it up; the kids can do it for you.” The kids in question looked less than enthused all of a sudden, but knew better than to voice their opinions.

“But we…,” Kiki tried again.

“Oh, come on now. They’re two young men just starting out, and, besides, they’ll be in school or studying most of the time, and you’ll barely even notice that they’re here,” I argued.

“Please, Kiki,” Peter pleaded, all doe-eyed and pitiful.

“Yes, please, sir,” Sam joined in. I knew the sir part wouldn’t earn them many points, but at least my cousin was making an effort.

“Okay.” Larry caved first. “We’ll give it a shot.” And then he whispered into Sparkle’s ear, “And this makes us even, and then some, for that drag show.” Sparkle nodded in order to seal the deal. Sam and Peter caught on and jumped up and down with youthful exuberance. I, on the other hand, breathed a sigh of relief. I mean, I wasn’t the least bit happy having my cousin and Peter living together, but at least now we had two responsible adults to watch out for them. (Okay, one responsible adult and one hairdresser, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.)

And so, with the few personal belongings they owned, plus some crap Sparkle and I threw in, Peter and Sam moved in with Kiki and Larry the very next day. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but feel just a twinge of jealousy for them. After all, I couldn’t get a boyfriend to save my life, and here they were, dead broke, clueless, and ever so young, but still, they had each other. Plus an apartment twice the size as mine and just outside of The Castro. I could kick myself for never having the bright idea to move down there myself.

Our victory was bittersweet, however. True, we had Sam out of our hair, or at least out of our respective neighborhoods, but we had lost our shared roomie and virtual son, Peter. Those first few nights, Sparkle and I felt like the loneliest two people on the face of the planet. No amount of booze or pills could cheer us up. (Okay, you know us better than that. We were perked up a little by the booze and the pills, but just a little.) We did, however, put on a brave front when Peter would call one of us or drop by the store. We did want him to be happy, you know.

And he was. Or at least he said as much. Also, we called Kiki and Larry just about every day to check up on them behind their backs. We were told that they were the perfect tenants: barely home and helpful when asked. As a matter of fact, they were painting the place within days after moving in. I guess that I worried for nothing. So I had little else to do but get on with my life.

That’s just what I did, too. Now, I know that what I’m about to say may sound a bit pitiful, but remember, I work all the time and the bars suck around here. Okay, so what I did was… sigh… I ran a personal ad in one of the local gay rags. It sounded so easy, so foolproof, so… well,
sexy
.

I mean, really, I imagined having my pick of the litter. Little did I know how prophetic that little turn of a phrase would be. I suppose that I should start by telling you exactly what my ad said. It was, for the most part, truthful. At least truthful enough to land me a man. Or at least I hoped (dreamed, prayed, offered my soul to the Devil) for that much. So here goes:

GWM, young, fun-loving, attractive and educated
(so far so good, huh?),
seeks same for long-term committed relationship. Must be honest, caring, open, and sincere.
(Sort of like Sparkle in reverse.)
Not into the bar scene, heavy drugs, or partying the night away. You shouldn’t be either.
(That’s where I stretched it a bit.)
I love snuggling by the fire
(if I had one)
and long walks along the beach.
(I would if I had a car and could drive there.)
If you’re looking for that special someone, give me a call.
(Please, dear God, send me a man!)

That was it. Short, sweet, and to the point. Well, that’s what I thought, anyway. I left out a little something about
your recent picture gets mine
or something to that effect. Apparently, attractive is a subjective term, you see. As is educated, honest, and, most definitely, fun-loving. I also left out the part (I mean to you) that I neglected to let Sparkle in on my adventures in
PersonalAdLand
. I figured that I would tell him if and when I found a suitable man. I mean, I just didn’t want to deal with the harassment or embarrassment that would inevitably ensue should I tell him. Probably not a wise decision, but live and learn. (Okay, live, anyway.)

To my utmost surprise, within three day, I had over sixty responses. Most of them were purporting exactly what I’d been searching for. I had little reason to doubt the veracity of the claims that were being made, figuring that there had to be eligible, successful men like myself all over the city who had no time or desire to meet other men at bars and who were desperate enough to look for them in the back of a newspaper. (Fine, saying it out loud, it seems ridiculous, but, at the time, it appeared plausible.)

And so, I had a burgeoning project on my hands. For this I needed help, and turned to the logical choice, besides the obvious, and that was Sharon. As Sharon was almost always as desperate for love and affection as I was, I figured she’d be a compassionate aide de camp. I was right, thankfully. She was eager to help and immediately started rummaging through the growing list of responses I was getting. Certainly, there had to be one suitable boyfriend in the stack, right?

We quickly dwindled down the list to the top ten. Men over thirty-five, heavier than one hundred eighty pounds, and taller than six feet, were tossed out. (No offense to all the tall, heavy, older men out there, but I had a type and I was sticking with it.) Those requests with numerous typos and/or bad grammar made it to the trashcan as well. Men who sent photos were given priority. Men with attractive-looking photos zoomed to the top.

Fine, that sounds shallow, but let me say this: the shallow end is
sooo
much easier to swim around in. Besides, all that treading water down in the deep end gets to be tiresome, and you don’t need a lifeguard in the shallows. Plus, you can hop right on out of the pool whenever you like when you’re in the shallow end. Anyway, rather than tagging myself as shallow, I like to think of myself more like an onion: thinly veiled, but deeply layered. Of course, once you get below the top layers there is a certain stink, but it does add flavor to the mix. Okay, enough with the analogies. On with the hunt!

Even I was smart enough to realize that it would be better to make a coffee date first, rather than get caught in a restaurant with a complete dud for two hours. That way, I could at least sample the merchandise and not waste my time or my money. Sharon came up with the routine: one man per day at precisely three (when Sparkle was usually at the gym), coffee and a scone served, on the house (hey, it was the least I could do), conversation for thirty minutes, and, if I didn’t like him, I would make the secret gesture to Sharon to come over and rescue me. Little fuss and no mess; I was ready to begin.

Blind date number one was Ed. Ed was one of the few prospects who had no accompanying picture with his response, and that’s why he was at the bottom of my short list. He did, however, appear reasonably qualified. He was thirty-two, but claimed to look years younger, my size, gainfully employed, and sounded quite witty in the few paragraphs he wrote to me. He had the added bonus of being both tattooed and pierced, which I’d grown to find sexy. Funny how your tastes change over the years. I prayed that, down the line, I wouldn’t be into scat or anything so vulgar, but I knew better than to hold out for a miracle. Life has so many funny ways of surprising us, don’t you know.

Well, Ed was nothing if not prompt. He arrived exactly at three. He was also completely honest in his description of himself. (Two for two, but I walked him just the same.) Yes, indeed, he looked younger than his thirty-two years. As a matter of fact, he looked eighteen. I actually carded him, just to make sure that I wouldn’t be committing any felonies should we do anything beyond the coffee. And, yes, he was tattooed. Besides his face, the only patches of skin that were inkless were, he informed me, his ass and prick. Those he saved for his piercings, which, besides his nipples and ears, totaled nine. I imagined taking a vacation with him and going through the metal detectors at the airport. Yikes. Thanks, Ed, but unless you got some eighteen carat gold or platinum rings running though those holes, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.

Of course, I didn’t say that to his face. I played by my rules and chitchatted for the full half-hour before I signaled for my accomplice. Sharon saved me with some drummed up, back-room emergency, and I told Ed I’d give him a call sometime. I didn’t say exactly when, and he didn’t press it. No harm, no foul, and nine prospects to go. I hoped to not have to take it that far, but again, I wasn’t holding out for that miracle. I figured that God was busy enough, what with war, famine, and pestilence, and had little time to worry about my social life.