Aching For It (2 page)

Upon my return to Los Angeles, I consulted with a lawyer
friend, Brando Heywood, who is as hopelessly romantic as I am, and who had
great sympathy for my circumstances. Being in a long-term relationship with the
man of
his
dreams, Brando has always been known as the designated yenta
of Southern California’s same-gender- loving community.

But Brando was an entertainment lawyer and it was the first
year of the new millennium, the first year of George Bush’s presidency and a
new power surge for the evangelical mindset. He was well aware that he could do
more harm than good if he were to undertake something as complex as
transnational gay men in love versus an unelected president hell-bent on
keeping them apart.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” he confided in me as we lunched
on protein shakes and Jamaican spinach patties at Simply Wholesome over on
Slauson Avenue and Overhill Drive. “Immigration is not going to let you bring
Étie over here as your lover, spouse, partner, significant other, etcetera,
etcetera, under any circumstances whatsoever. Bush is totally beholden to the
evangelicals, and the chances of you getting him over here under any kind of
romantic notion are about as slim as gay marriage in Utah. Now, I have this
immigration lawyer friend who’d be perfect for you. He used to be an
immigration officer, so he knows the politics of that game. And he thinks he’s
Bill Maher, which certainly can’t hurt. He’s straight, but he’s a great ally of
the community. His name is Wells Caitlin. I’ll give him a call, set something
up for you.”

* * * * *

“It’s not quite as bleak as Brando may have made it out to
be,” Caitlin assured me when we met a few days later. “But the Dominican
Republic is certainly on the US backlist and immigration for your friend,
without significant resources, wouldn’t be impossible, but pretty damn close.
We’re talking a long, long wait.”

“How long?”

“Two years. Maybe more.”

“Two years!”

“Maybe more.”

Although this was not encouraging news, I had a long talk
with Étie and we decided to proceed. I gave Mr. Caitlin a retainer and he began
filling out preliminary paperwork.

Even as Étie’s case trudged through the system like molasses
through a cocktail straw, we made the best of it. Every chance I got I flew
down to Santo Domingo to be with him, and in between my photo shoots back in LA
and his work schedule at Bodega Colonial, we managed to make some sense of this
long-distance relationship we found ourselves in.

During those torturously infrequent rendezvous, we lay
snuggled on the warm white beach, serenaded by the gentle swoosh of sea to
sand, under the saving grace of gleaming stars that hung in the clear blackness
of the Caribbean sky, and planned our lives together like good children
confident in their Santa requests.

I found myself telling Étienne about the only city I’ve ever
called home, the city that would soon be his home, my city of angels, my LA.

“The weather is much like the weather here,” I mused as we
stared up toward the stars, “only dryer. The Santa Ana breezes rustle the palm
trees back home just like your tropical breezes rustle your palm trees here.”

“I cannot wait to be there,” he said dreamily. “Your city
sounds so beautiful.”

“Our city,” I answered with a kiss. “Our city, my love.”

We found ourselves in each other’s arms. A pink-orange shard
of light suddenly illuminated a tiny piece of sky.

“Wow!” I marveled. “Did you see that?”

“It is beautiful, no?”

“Very beautiful.”

Then tiny drops of rain began to fall, a welcome cooling
balm. We relished the mist. And then it was gone, leaving us refreshed by its
brief visit.

We continued to lie there in each other’s arms, still and
quiet, dreaming, taking in the storybook sky above.

“I have beautiful country,” Étie finally said to me, quietly
yet with a deep and abiding pride only native sons know. “We are oldest city in
all of Western hemisphere. When Spaniards come to conquer us, we conquer them
right back. We have
—¿Cómo se dice en inglés?
—a fighting spirit, a spirit
that fights.”

And then he went silent again, and when he finally spoke,
there was a low, cold steeliness in his voice. Still, the tears that glazed his
eyes spoke volumes.

“The scar I wear my father give me for being gay, is now my
battle scar. The streets I lived on when he threw me out is battlefield I
fought on. My hate for him is what has killed him in my heart. I have no love
for him, the enemy. But unlike what I feel for him, I will always have the love
of my country in me, just as I will always have the love in me for you, Jesse.
But what is different is I will leave my country that I love. I will never
leave you.”

* * * * *

“Edgar told me your boy Étie is a lousy lay.”

“What would you expect him to say, considering the
circumstances? And besides, I’m not interested in what Edgar has to say.”

“Well, is it true?”

“Listen, Sylvester, I’m not going to even dignify that with
an answer.”

“Well I suppose he had a chance to practice his sexual
techniques before snatching you.”

“You and I are supposed to be friends, Sylvester. So before
you piss me off any more than you already have, I’m gonna hang the fuck up.”

And that’s exactly what I did.

Edgar’s opinion of Étie’s sexual abilities couldn’t have
been more off base as far as I was concerned. I can’t speak on Étie and Edgar’s
sexual chemistry or lack thereof. All I know is the beautiful love Étienne
Saldano and I make. Even when I’m away from him, when he’s in his country and
I’m in mine, he remains the singular fantasy that fuels my loins and stiffens
me, that fills me with lust, that shivers me with panting and howling, contorts
me into grimaces and eye-bulging as I masturbate with a madness, thinking, dreaming
and seeing only him. Love makes him the best sex partner in the world. And
there is nothing lousy about that.

Six months had passed. The trips I made back and forth
between Los Angeles and the Dominican Republic, and the daily phone calls Étie
and I shared when we were apart, were not enough to quench our burning need to
be with each other, to make love at a moment’s notice, to share a home
together.

I could hear the weariness in Attorney Caitlin’s voice as
plainly as he could hear the exasperation in mine whenever I called him, which
was often. His response was always the same.

“I told you, Jesse, it’s going to take a while. You must be
patient.”

“There’s nothing you can do to speed up the process?” I
whined.

“Nothing that I haven’t done already.”

“If he was a white boy from England, he would’ve been here
months ago,” I snapped.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Caitlin surrendered, giving me no
fight to fight.

I even toyed with the idea of moving down to the DR
temporarily until Étie’s papers came through. That is
if
they came
through. There was still a good possibility his application could be rejected.

Still, a temporary relocation would have to be at least
eighteen months. And eighteen months unavailable to my Los Angeles-based
clients—actors in need of headshots, Hollywood tabloids, book-cover jacket
photos, and my production photo contracts with The Center Theatre Group and the
Geffen Playhouse—would put a serious dent in my income. Sure, I still had my
three tenant-occupied units in the fourplex I owned, but it was mortgaged up to
my eyeballs, and with the economy being what it was, Caitlin’s legal fees, and
eventually getting Étie settled and supported in the States while he looked for
meaningful work meant that I would have to expand, not shrink my nest egg.

I had to stay in LA and manage this long-distance love
affair as best I could.

I bitched and moaned to anyone and everyone who would
listen, especially Étie when I went down to see him for an all-too-brief seven
days. He listened to me patiently, surprisingly unsympathetic to my despair and
the societal flagellation I was being unfairly submitted to. But when finally
he addressed my self-pity, I had to take pause.

“That is the difference between our two cultures,” he said
to me. “Americans demand what they want immediately and usually get it. But we
know to be patient, out of necessity and lack of options.”

His sense of patience would eventually serve me—both of
us—well in our relationship, but in my current state, I was still the spoiled
Americano. So I did what most spoiled Americanos do. I continued to bitch and
moan and grew increasingly frustrated and the frustration was beginning to take
its toll. When I attended my brother Andre and his wife Dee’s fourteenth
wedding anniversary party, I found myself moody and a little resentful.

“Junie?” my mom said with a frown when she peeked into Andre
and Dee’s den and discovered me with an untapped glass of champagne in my hand,
looking out at my nieces and nephews playing in the backyard. “What’s wrong,
baby?”

“I’m all right, Mom.”

“No you’re not.” I could never get away with lying to my
mom. None of us could.

She came in, shut the door behind her and sat down next to
me. Her warm, probing eyes found mine and slowly nudged a small smile out of
me.

“What has that boy down there done to my baby?”

I tried to smile a bit more, but it was hard, even for my
mother.

“The way he’s got you all frowned up, he must really be as
special as you say he is.”

“He is, Mom. I just miss him so much when I’m not with him.
And I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

“You’re saying he’s not worth the wait?”

“Oh no, ma’am, I’m not saying that at all. It’s just that
when you love somebody like I love Étienne, it’s so hard being away from him
like this, you know?”

“I know, but instead of concentrating on how bad it is when
you’re not together, concentrate on what good times you have when you
are
together; all the good times you’ve had, all the good times you’re
going
to have.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I
know
I’m right.”

“You miss Daddy, Mama?”

“Every day.”

“Me too.”

“I even miss his bad singing,” she chuckled.

“Poor Daddy.” I chuckled too, finally. “Couldn’t sing to
save his life.”

“Try telling him that. Thought he was Nat King Cole.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I recalled with a new smile. “He
used to sing
Unforgettable
to you all the time.”

“Yes he did,” she said softly, a sparkle in her faraway
eyes. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“When he sang
Unforgettable
to me, he was
better
than Nat King Cole.”

I looked at her as she looked out at her grandchildren
playing in the backyard. The look on her face was no stranger than the tiny
smile she smiled. Her face, her smile became warmly familiar. I realized what
it was. She was seeing my late father doing what he usually did—playing with
the kids in the backyard. She was thinking about all the good times she had
with the man
she
loved, and knowing her, she was thinking about all the
good times she was going to have with him on the other side.

“Dreams become life,” she said slowly and softly, more to
herself, still staring out. “Life becomes memory. And memory is what fuels you
on.”

Suddenly she looked at me, realizing I was still in the
room. I understood. She knew that I did. As she stood, she patted me on the
knee.

“Now don’t you fret too much, baby. If Étienne Saldano is
everything you say he is, then he’s certainly worth the wait.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, standing and hugging her.

As I watched my mother leave the room, I took comfort in her
encouraging words. And I thought about Étie. He was indeed worth the wait. It’s
just that waiting was something I was never very good at.

I finally came out of the den and joined the jubilant ruckus
my family was known for. I must admit, it did give me a lift watching the
Templeton madness in full swing—kids running through the house, Aunt Till
whupping my fool brother Craig’s behind in a take-no-prisoners game of
dominoes; Mom chasing the lady of the house out of her own kitchen. “The
anniversary girl shouldn’t be doing all the cooking!”And Frankie
holding court singing badly—our daddy’s daughter—to the latest Mary J. Blige
blasting from the speakers of Andre’s Bang & Olfuson stereo unit.

“So what did you think?” Frankie asked me after taking her
diva bows and sashaying over to me like a Grammy winner.

“About what?”

“My song!”

“Honey, for a singer, you’re one hell of an actress.”

“Chile, please.” She smirked, unperturbed. Just like Daddy,
she thought it was her audience who had the tin ear, not her. “So what were you
and Mom talking about in the den?”

“Nothing much. Just me crying the blues again about Étie and
me.”

“You know, Junie, you’re beginning to sound like a broken
record.”

“Oh I’m sorry, but did you not ask me what Mom and I were
talking about?”

“No, look, all I’m saying is quit bitching about getting
your man over here and just get him over here.”

“Easier said than done.”

“No, Junie. Doing it is just as easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he’s a relative of an American citizen, he could be over
here in a matter of weeks.”

“So how do we do that?”

“My God, Junie, for somebody as bright as you, you’re truly
dense. If he
married
an American citizen, he’d be here,” she said,
snapping her fingers like the drag queen she hoped to play on screen one day.

“Ah, Sis, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but the United
States doesn’t recognize gay marriages yet.”

“Not a gay marriage, fool, a
straight
marriage.”

“Huh?”

“All he has to do is marry an American woman, file a few
papers, and he goes to the head of the immigration line. Didn’t you ever see
that movie
Green Card
with Andie MacDowell and Gérard Depardieu?”

“Andie MacDowell and who?”

“Gérard Depardieu. The French actor with the penis nose,”
she said without a blink. Typically Sis sees dick in everything. “Geez, Junie,
you’re a photographer in the entertainment industry for God’s sake and you
don’t know who Gérard Depardieu is?”

“Sorry.”

“Well anyway, that’s all you have to do. Just find a woman
to marry him to get his ass over here. Once he’s here, they get a divorce and
you two lovebirds live happily ever Southern California after.”

“Yeah, but where am I gonna find a woman who’d do a thing
like that?”

“You’re looking at her.”

“Francesca!”

“Well, damn, Junie. It’s only marriage.”

Not only does it still amaze me how cavalier heterosexuals
are about rights they possess that are denied to non-heterosexuals, but the
idea of my sister marrying my boyfriend, even in a marriage of convenience,
seemed just a bit too kinky for my conventional tastes. I mean, technically,
I’d be having sex with my brother-in-law!

I allowed Frankie to calm me down before the rest of my
family got distracted from their festivities by my bulging eyes and dropped
jaw. Because she’s so flighty most of the time and is such a devil-may-care
drama queen, I sometimes forget that when Miss Sister Thing puts her crazy mind
to it, she can be quite pragmatic and solution creative. Marriage, something in
which Francesca Templeton Chapelle DaSilva is highly experienced, was, in her
opinion, but a small favor she could provide her big gay brother.

So I stopped pretending to be shocked and tentatively took
her up on the offer, but not until I presented it to Étienne and Wells Caitlin.

* * * * *

“I will do what I need do to be with you.”

That’s what Étie said when I presented Frankie’s marriage
proposal to him over the phone. But there was something strange in his
concession.

“Talk to me, baby,” I said to him.

“What do you mean?” he asked knowingly.

“You don’t feel good about this, do you?”

“I do not feel bad, my Jesse. But I feel—how you say—confused,
unnatural. I know you no have marriage between two men in your country, just
like here in mine. But I am gay man. That is my truth. If I stand before
Heavenly Father vowing holy matrimony to one I do not love, then I am not
truth. And yet to be with my true love, that is the truth I must give up. Do
you understand?”

“Yes, baby. I do. But—”

“No but, my darling. This crazy fucked-up world make us do
crazy fucked-up things. I will marry your sister who I do not love, to be with
you who I
do
love. As crazy as it may be, I think Heavenly Father will
side with love over man’s crazy fucked-up rules.”

Wells Caitlin was not so poetic.