A Horse Named Sorrow (7 page)

“Aren't you gonna ask me where I've been?” Jimmy said then.

I gave him a long, hard look, my eyes bluer than ever, no doubt. “California?” He guffawed and cuffed me on the shoulder. “Okay,” I said demurely, “Where you been, Jimmy?”

“Building a foundation,” he said obliquely. Short answer. And then the long. How he'd finally reached Sam and Julie—friends of friends he'd been calling for weeks—that very morning I'd run out for coffee and bagels. And then there'd just been so much to do.

“But why didn't you leave a note, Jimmy?”

“I'm a poet.” And he stood back up.

“Uh, what does that mean?” And I stood up then too.

“I left the bike, didn't I?”

I screwed up my brows.

He put his arm on my shoulder then. A lit match. “You didn't think I'd come back for it?”

My shoulders and brows went up.

“I thought you knew it was like the most important thing. I figured I could trust it with you, and that you knew of course I'd come back for it.” His big smile, his fangs a little bit too pronounced.

Gulp. I smiled shyly. Then I hugged him full force and he hugged me back the same way.

“Come see my new place,” he invited.

My brows went up again.

But before I could inquire, he'd grabbed my hand and, pulling me to my feet, we weaved through the smokers, squirmed through the patio door, parted the drinkers and the dancers as the music enveloped us, jostling our way toward the exit, past the haystack bouncers and the big knot of folks at the entrance, before stumbling onto the sidewalk, out among the smoking modern primitives and garish clubsters in skinny ties and kelly green slacks. The fog was everywhere, sifting down like a floury mist—so heavy that you could barely see a block ahead of you.

He yanked me by the arm and he ran me like a dog all the way down Harrison Street, and then along under the overhead freeway, sometimes grinning, or laughing when cabs blasted their horns because we never stopped at corners until we hit the Mission District and had to on account of serious traffic. By then we were sweating, the hot sweat of the dance, our cheeks rosy in the cold, the mistiness of the air making us damp and clammy, both of us breathing steam like horses. We were so alive right then, re-found, come to life, that that moment sticks forever in my mind—the wetness of his skin, droplets all beaded up on his chin scruff like dew, the wide-eyed look in the bracing cold, his pronounced Adam's apple and slightly turned-up nose, what it felt like to stand there next to him—the lucky prizewinner—my calloused toe rubbed raw in my stiff black leather clown shoes, the way my boxer shorts' sweaty elastic band was sticking to my belly, my toothache and hangnail, my cock coming to life in anticipation, the blinking neon of the Zeitgeist Bar that made rainbows on the damp sidewalk at our feet, and the intermittent voices as the bar's door opened and closed, the bass thump coming through the walls, the dandelion pod headlights coming toward us on Valencia Street and the fuzzy red balls that slowly receded away from us once they'd passed—his half-cold, half-warm hand in mine, squeezing.

He kissed me hungrily, his mouth warm and gooey in the cold—like that warm, soft Szechuan tofu I liked so much at Much Luck Express on 17th Street. Then he eyed the hill before us, laughed at it, and ran me south to 15th where we could cut up to Guerrero without ascending 14th Street. That took us past the projects, which I usually avoided since fags had been bashed there a lot—and, well, like any city, it was full of poor young men, emasculated and angry. I guess it helped to be running because we encountered no trouble and arrived at Guerrero without incident, walking the rest of the way until we reached his gate, at which point he smiled—“here we are”—and dragged me, clumping up the stairs, the two of us half-stumbling in the light of a single bare bulb hanging precipitously from what was once probably a legitimate fixture. The walls were a faded glossy cobalt, decorated with wild-colored paisleys and mandalas, an obvious holdover from some San Francisco psychedelic dream of twenty years previous.

At the door, Jimmy pulled out his single key and turned the deadbolt, then the lock, and, pulling me in, shut the door on what smelled like ginger and bok choy and steamed rice, which permeated his landing like a perfume. It ceased once inside his room and so I figured it was from across the hall.

“Time for another bath, Shame.” And he went into the bathroom, leaving me standing in the single empty room of the studio, staring at the empty fireplace, the mantle where he'd already left change, his wallet, the lease, and matches. In one corner was a kitchen counter built against the wall, with a sink, an oven overhead, and a stove and cupboards. In the corner opposite, his sleeping bag and the two panniers. There was a big bay window that dominated the front of the room, and naturally, like a kid, I was drawn to it. I walked over to look out just as I heard the plumbing roused to life somewhere behind me, and there below was a corner liquor store under a fuzzy befogged streetlight, all of it shrouded by a big acacia tree that was buckling the sidewalk in front, where a young man leaned into a pay phone attached to the wall.

That's when I felt him bear-hug me from behind.

We were a cold, wet mess, and in no time at all, we were naked too, our cocks bobbing in front of us as we slurped at each other's mouths—and then he pulled me into the bathroom, and into the gray steam rising out of the tub—a whole different kinda fog—and all I could say between kisses was “Jimmy, Jimmy,” keeping to myself the end of that sentence, which rolled on and on into
thank God I found you; tell me everything; hold me forever; don't ever leave again
.

Didn't dare enunciate that.

Otherwise, there was just the sound of the choppy back-and-forth waves of the bath, the slurps and grunts and giggles, the sexy smell of Jimmy's sweat, the taste of cigarettes in his mouth, the sweet thought of living out good luck, and all the different textures of him: scruffy chin, slippery lips, the soft leather of his cock skin, the cold slippery yellow-rain-jacket feel of his back, the soft tender skin stretched tight on his belly, the thick, hard rubbery stiffness of his nipples, the endless cartographic texture of his balls and his rough hairy shins and bony feet, his shoulders like bald tennis balls—and I was a dog for them.

We bobbed for apples.

Jimmy pulled me up onto my feet after we'd slaked our thirst. “Come on, Shame, my turn.” And he handed me a condom and up inside him I went: the rollercoaster, and no one driving. Just two boys along for the ride—and then like the sun from behind a cloud, a flashing burst of warmth and light, and ooh-ahh, and a great vista appeared with a meadow laid out before us, which was him and me and the night we would spend together—and the dreams there, the moon and stars.

The wine country was beautiful and all that, and the redwoods too, but everything I saw wasn't really itself, but just something that in some way reminded me of Jimmy. I suppose I looked for him—or couldn't stop looking for him—and so I'd find him in things: the melancholy sound of a breeze, or the way a door slammed in a house a hundred yards back from the road that had just a hint of a Buffalo twang. And there were oak trees, of course, that gestured with their branches just like he did; granite stones in the golden oak-studded hills that shared cheekbones with him; rounded grassy slopes that looked like him sleeping under blankets; rivers dimpled and smiling and full of his words; clouds that were his thoughts, wind his breath. Once, courtesy of a creek, I even heard the sweet sound of him peeing in the filthy little bathroom on Guerrero Street. And sun-dappled that pissy creek was too, from the overhanging buckeyes—trees that were just like Jimmy because they lost all their leaves too soon and died mid-summer.

And at night, the mummy sleeping bag, which held me like he had.

Lucky we were both so skinny because Jimmy and I had to sleep that first night together on Guerrero Street in his sleeping bag, which left no room for anything but an embrace. When his eyes opened, I told him he needed a bed, and that we should go out today and get one for him.

“Yeah, you're right,” he said groggily, “how ‘bout we go get yours.”

Eyebrows high, the question that was my face. “Sure,” I agreed, “let's go.” But I was careful not to act too enthused. Horses scared easy, like deer, birds, and stray dogs.

Moving by cab was not uncommon in San Francisco, and that's just what we did. It was a transient city, after all, so no one had much stuff and they were constantly relocating, either due to the complicated evictions of scheming landlords dodging the strict tenants'-rights laws, or due to new lovers, irreconcilable differences with roommates, wanderlust propelling them to the far ends of the earth, or perhaps new jobs that necessitated more convenient commutes, which in San Francisco meant not more than ten blocks or so—or if further, then at least accessible via a direct bus or rail line.

Not that it was ever simple.

“You gotta give thirty days, Shame.”

I just looked at her.

“Isn't there someone?”

“You know anyone?—reliable?”

Tanya was right, and while I was flaky and irresponsible, I wasn't a jerk and wasn't going to stick it to her. Besides, after the recent ACT UP meeting, I had a newfound respect and admiration for Tanya, as well as a sudden ability to forgive her for sending Jimmy packing, since I'd tracked him down and was now about to be living with him. I didn't always like her style, but she was just and at least deserved justice in return.

“I'll find someone, don't you worry.” But my only friends were six-year-olds at the YMCA. Or boys I'd hooked up with. And contacting them—which likely would entail bodily contact—was no longer an option now that Jimmy was in the picture.

I certainly couldn't afford paying rent in two places, even though Jimmy said I didn't have to pay rent the first month. But, as it turned out, Tanya found someone through ACT UP and I was off the hook. I was glad she'd found someone because then she wouldn't blame me if my choice turned out to be a fuck-up, which was about 75 percent likely.

Where'd you get the money for this place, and how'd you get it without a job?” I asked Jimmy, hefting a box up the long stairwell from the sidewalk where my pile of boxes sat post-cab ride. The cabbie had even agreed to take the bike, though we'd had to hang it out the back of the trunk. Just then, Jimmy carried it up the stairs before me on his shoulder.

“I gave him six months, up front.”

I did a quick calculation. That had to be three thousand dollars, give or take. A lot of money. And Jimmy didn't look to me like the kind of guy who would have that kind of money.

“Where'd you get the money?” I looked at him, incredulous, as we reached the landing.

“I found it.” He gave me a quick smile over his shoulder, but by the time I registered the oddity of that response, he'd vanished through the door and into the apartment, where he placed the bike carefully in front of the fireplace.

“Where?”

“In Eugene,” he answered, without turning around.

“How do you find that kind of money?” I asked suspiciously.

He turned and laughed and said: “By reading books.”

“What?” I felt like I was talking to Ivan.

“Uh-huh,” he said and changed the subject before I could ask where. “Let's go get that mattress.”

Of course we had to carry the mattress and box springs ourselves, on top of our heads, as no cab could accommodate their dimensions. But it wasn't more than twelve blocks anyway, so like ants with our prized sugar we set off—for what lovemaking would soon sprout like flowers upon our holy platform, and feed us all the short days of our betrothal. We were a psalm. And it was right to hold the bed high like a king and carry it above our heads across town, intermittently laughing as we pumped it up and down to prevent our muscles from stiffening.

Arriving at Jimmy's door, we met the twins. They'd peeked out previously when we'd unloaded all the boxes from the cab, a wind of ginger, garlic, and sesame oil at their backs. But they'd quickly slammed the door when we got with in five steps of the landing. When we'd showed up with the mattress, however, they'd gotten up the nerve to come out—perhaps emboldened by the fact that our limbs were all occupied with the mattress and we were clearly compromised as predators. Dressed in identical Taiwanese sweat suits, with the small-billed caps to match, they couldn't have been more than six or seven years old.

As we maneuvered this way and that, they not only came out and watched us get it stuck in the downstairs doorway but went so far as to direct us the minute we got through and up the first few steps.

“Oh, oh, no this way. … No, it's hitting the wall!”

“The light!”

“No, up this way—wait!” And like little mice they ran up and down the stairs, under the mattress and in between us, laughing, shouting, and throttling each other.

“Hey, you guys aren't helping,” Jimmy gruffly announced. “Besides, it's a mattress; it doesn't matter if it hits the walls!”

“Let's drop it on them, Jimmy,” I threatened playfully.

They howled then, and went careening out the door and into the street.

When we finally achieved the threshold and got the mattress in the door, we went back down to get the box spring that we'd left leaning on the wall outside.

And there they were bouncing themselves off it.

“Hey!” Jimmy barked and down the street they ran, yipping and clipping at each other.

“Antidepressants,” I commented in a deadpan to Jimmy.

He rolled his eyes. “You like kids?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “I even tutor them, down at the Y.”

“Tutor them in what?”

“Whatever. It's like study hall.” I didn't go on to explain that I went to be tutored by them more than the other way around. They were far better therapy than Pinski, serotonin reuptake-
inhibitoraderos
all. Or maybe they just made me try a little harder, since having nervous breakdowns around small children was just not kosher.