10

The DVD player finally shut itself off. We held still, reluctant to move. After being in the wet and cold, it had taken forever to get warm. Are you ready for bed? I asked, hopeful. I felt like it was time. I wanted it to be time.

You sat up and reached for your shoes. Let’s go out.

We were out all day, I said.

It’s Halloween. Let’s go watch the Vincent Price movie.

The Castro will be packed.

We should find a party, then.

I didn’t want to drink those shitty party margaritas, always ninety percent crushed ice. I didn’t want to stand around watching you talk to people who weren’t me. I didn’t want to share you. But you were happy, feeling good despite my various bunglings. I had done enough to sabotage your night.

I know a party, I said.

By the time we arrived, it was clear that the event had veered from its intended trajectory: it was supposed to be grownup and tasteful, but had slipped into your average college kid’s chandelier-swinger. There were decorations, and not just silly drugstore decorations but really deliberate, arranged decorations: green Spanish moss over the fireplace mantle, white pumpkins nestled on the end tables, spicescented candles strategically placed. My roommate Sam’s girlfriend, Renee—she of the erotic auditory assault you had overheard—was our age, but it was as if someone’s mom had thrown a party. She had spent a grip on top-shelf liquor, but only one bottle of each. The graveyard of empties held court on a card table. For a while we stood awkwardly by the door, and then gave in and headed for the booze.

The only thing left is gin, you said, holding up a teal bottle.

This isn’t really a gin crowd, I said, people-watching. How long are we staying?

You want a martini? you said. They’ve got vermouth.

That’s ridiculous, I said. Make me one.

Someone had put in a karaoke tape but no one was singing, just grinding to beats missing their raps, lifting drinks to a decade-old sample. Everyone was in costume but us. An embarrassment of bottled beer sat in ice buckets, cans of it sweating in paper cases. I swiped one and it was gone in moments, before you had even finished with the cocktail shaker. I opened another, and it vanished too. Parties were always like magic acts for me: making alcohol disappear, pulling drunken confessions from thin air. I was two beers in, draining the martini you had made, and already I felt sick. What’s the rhyme again? I asked. Beer before ... no, whiskey before beer...

This is awful, you said. This is an awful party.

I looked at your drink: empty. When had that happened?

Twenty minutes passed, the music getting louder. The revelers around us looked like they were melting, their costume makeup separating on their faces in greasy streaks.

You never said if you want to live with me, you said. Was that a yes or a no?

Oh, I said, I guess I just—

Never mind. I want to finish this and go. Another drink had materialized in your hand. I’m going to have sex with you tonight.

I took the drink from you. What are you, drugged?

I’m tired, you said, tearing up. I’m just tired of how I do things.

In the corner, somebody put on vintage Snoop and started dancing all ungainly. Some kid in a police uniform walked past and pointed at my two martini glasses. Double-fistin’, he said.

What do you mean? I said to you. How do you do things?

I don’t. I just wait around hoping things will change.

You looked small. Oh God, Nora, nobody—I gestured around the room—none of us knows what we’re doing.

You do, you said. You’re going to be a teacher.

Probably not a very good one, I said.

Do you want to live with me, yes or no, you said, your shoulders sagging.

Fireworks! somebody shouted. The roof! Everybody on the roof!

And before I could answer, you had turned to follow. Up there, some guy had cigarettes and you asked him for one. He lit it for you, looking at your breasts. You picked up an almost-full beer from the roof’s railing, taking deep swallows. Someone lit a bottle rocket and chucked it a few yards. It went off disappointingly, so more were lit, their bearers running a ways before making the throw, as though three drunken paces would add to the velocity.

Hold this, you said around your cigarette, pulling your hair back and handing me your bottle. I watched, rapt, as my fingers opened and closed around it. Oh shit, I said. I’m drunk. I set the bottle down, afraid I would drop it.

I’m done pretending to smoke, you said, stumbling and holding out the cigarette. What do people do with these when they’re through?

I took it from your hand and tossed it off the roof, both of us taking quick side steps to the ledge. We watched it vanish into the narrow alley below, reappearing in a small orange burst as the ash hit the ground. From up there we could see the sharp spokes of the city, puncturing the hazy sky.

Don’t you ever get sick of living here? you said.

The wind lifted our hair in hanks. Where else would I go?

Somewhere where there’s weather. And things to see and do. Your empty bottle fell on its side, rolling on the black tar. Sometimes I feel like, fuck San Francisco.

On the ground below lay a splayed mop, its wrung tentacles flattened. I could feel you staring at me: that crawling sensation of being eyeballed.

You drive me around all the time, you said, your voice heavy. I’m so completely used to the side of your face.

You’ve got the booze blues, I said. You’re thinking too much.

I’m always like that, you said.

What you meant was, you were always like that now.

Some kid turned on a boom box and poured beer over his head. How much longer do you want to stay? I asked. Everyone was a stranger; everyone was turned up too loud.

You motioned toward the horizon—the Transamerica pyramid like a fountain pen’s nib, the piers, the ferries docking, the black, light-studded hills beyond. I’m sick of looking at it, you said, shouting over the music.

Why? I said, trying to hide my panic. People come from far away to see this and we get to see it every day.

My house is this way, you said, and then you realized you had miscalculated, swinging your arm in the opposite direction. No, that way. Those around us suddenly wanted to figure out where their houses were, too: how far they had to go, from there, to be home again.

Bullshit, you said, a minute late. People come from far away to jump off our bridge. You laughed. People come here to die.

I don’t know if we can go yet, I said, shivering. But I want to soon.

Really? You think about moving too?

A tiny spark flared in me, lifted itself weakly, and died. No, I said; I never had. I meant, I don’t think I can drive yet. I don’t think I should drive us home yet.

You nodded, pulling—inexplicably—a purple rubber ball out of your pocket. I think I stole this. Shit, from the toy store. You looked up, alarmed. It was an accident, you said.

It’s okay, I said.

You leaned over the edge. How high will it bounce, you think?

Not all the way back up, I said.

You let it go: it came up about one story to our three. You picked up a bottle and before I could stop you it was out of your hand. It caught the streetlight glare as it shattered: a hundred stars dying on the pavement. My insides sloshed.

You shouted, Keep throwing things! Your face had become serious. Find more things. You took off your sweater and tossed it over the side, the arms extending on the wind—an invisible person, jumping off the roof in your clothes. Some kid ran up from behind us and threw a drumstick over the side. I still totally need this drumstick! he shouted, hurling it over his head.

Our faces were wind-smacked. Hey! you yelled. Twenty-two years!

What? I said. I don’t—

I’m dropping them off the side! You held out your arm and opened your hand, letting go of nothing. Now they’re gone! I’m zero years old! Today can be my birthday!

Somebody in a fake Afro and bow tie set off one of those high-pitched fireworks. The noise made everyone squint.

Let’s get married, you screamed. Share all that money with me!

What the fuck! I said.

Marry me and we’ll move away! We’ll move to the other side of the country!

Where!

You know how many places there are? you said. All these places we’ve never been! The firework died halfway through that sentence, leaving you screaming for no reason.

My ears rang so bad they ached, throbbing somewhere deep. You reached in your jeans pocket and found everything collected there: the lawyer’s business card, a wad of lint, a ticket to the Conservatory of Flowers. Receipts, tissues, coins, who knows what else, because over it went, falling in a hail of junk to the abandoned stretch below.

Nora, I said, I love you.

You grabbed at my thin jacket, reaching into my pockets and pulling out handfuls: more receipts, my car keys, a clump of dollar bills. And another small item—as soon as I saw it, before I even understood what it was, I felt my throat catch with its familiarity. Me, mine, my head said. Don’t. Those thoughts were wordless, amounting to a large exclamation point inside me as I reached out to save it and missed: the little red toy car I had bought you, sinking toward the earth, surrounded by the last scraps of cash I had in the world.

Goddamnit, I said, quietly enough that no one could hear me over the music. I turned toward the stairs to go salvage what I could, to at least find my keys. The alley was deserted. I put my beer can in a brown paper bag I found lying on the ground. My knees buckled and I leaned against the building. Suddenly I realized I had put my beer in the bag upside down: I had a paper bag full of loose beer, the can bobbing like a merry buoy. The paper gave, the bag bursting as I leaned over the pavement, my insides beginning to stage their escape.

 

I made it back into the apartment, and then to the bathroom. There, I unbuttoned my pants and collapsed on the toilet, confused. I had forgotten what was so urgent. Vertigo reset my vision every two seconds, my sight jerking to the left, then snapping back like a typewriter beginning a new line: six inches of that bathroom on endless loop. Francis, you said through the door. I let all of it go on the white rug at my feet, belatedly picking up the garbage bin and holding it to my face. The papery wads from the trash attached to my wet mouth: someone’s Kleenex. I dropped the bin and it clattered. The noise brought you into the bathroom.

Oh God, you said.

It was the voice of someone tasting something bitter; it was distilled disappointment in crystal audio. Hearing you caused a sensation inside me like my diaphragm was shrinking. It was the kind of regret I really miss sometimes: hyper-present but soon forgotten—preferable to the kind that hums under the surface, refusing to die.

You don’t do everything wrong, I said. I do. I was sticky with sweat, reeking of spilled beer. My naked lap stared up at you. Weren’t you drunker than me? I slurred. I could have sworn you were totally—

I vomited again, into the sink this time, which was inches from the toilet. You smeared your hand across my forehead. I said it again—I do everything wrong—because I wasn’t sure you had captured the statement’s full impact: it included everything. So if you want to live with me, I said, you’re a fucking idiot.

You knelt and put your arms around my middle. I had the most comforting thought: She’ll take me home. She’ll drive me home the way I’ve driven her before; we’ll turn down her street, pull into her driveway, and walk up her steps. Our steps. The house where we live. We’ll wake up next to each other. She is in control. Thank you, I said in advance.

Greta’s here, you whispered, like we were siblings hiding from mom and dad.

My head was a hundred-pound weight. I leaned toward the sink again, gripped by a burning heave. I can’t care about this right now, I choked.

Someone tapped shave and a haircut on the door.

Occupied, you called.

Open up, Greta said, muffled. One of you open up, please.

Francis, you whispered. You’ve got a situation here.

The hell I do. I wiped the sting from inside my nose. What is there to say?

It smelled vicious in there. Your eyes were soft.

Greta knocked again. Frank, I need to talk to you right now.

I forgot she calls you Frank, you whispered.

Nora, is that you in there?

You winced. Hey, Greta. Francis is a little sick right now.

The voice beyond the door turned sour. I’ve been a little sick lately myself.

Your eyes shot to the floor.

 

I don’t remember the connecting scenes—between when Greta left me shaking in the hallway and when you and I headed home. It’s a rare gap in my memory. I could attribute that missing piece to the booze, if I were being generous to myself. But the truth is, I would rather not recall.

I didn’t have to tell you what Greta had said. Why else would she show up at my roommate’s girlfriend’s party—they disliked each other intensely—so confident, so certain I would listen? You knew that that kind of assurance, in her, could only be born of necessity. You knew she had something to tell me—something compelling enough to get my attention.

What else could it have been.

 

What I do remember is that as you drove us home you were pretending not to cry.

Don’t cry, Nora, I said.

Do you know my birthday, Francis?

June 15, I said.

I found your car keys, you said.

I shoved them back into my pocket. When did you go find them?

You sniffed. I have the same birthday as Wade Boggs and Sam Giancana.

I dried the tear trails on your cheek. I know this changes everything, but I still want to be with you, Nora.

I know, you said flatly.

The sidewalks were clogged, the traffic apocalyptic, though the clock on the dash said it was close to three. A guy in a Groucho Marx costume darted in front of the car. Fuck! you shouted, flattening the brake pedal. You leaned back, eyes wide. That asshole!

It’s okay, I said.

That fucking Groucho! you hollered, starting to laugh. You wiped your nose with the back of your wrist.

I put my hand on your leg. You know who was born on my birthday?

Yeah, you said, I looked you up too. Thurman Munson, for one. God, I can’t believe he just ran out in front of me like that! And Tom Jones. But you know who the best one is? Seriously, you’re so lucky.

Who? I said.

Dino. Dean Martin!

I guess I am pretty lucky. I emitted a clenching little laugh. I’m about the luckiest guy I know.

Your face went dark. We turned onto your unlit street. On the day you were born, you said, they opened Graceland to the public.

Can you see the bathroom where he died? I said.

You pulled into the driveway and shut off the headlights. That’s the one thing they won’t show you.

 

You had left the heater on in the house and the place was scorching. We’re in the desert, you said. We’re sub-Saharan in here.

I blasted the air-conditioning, calling over my shoulder, We’ll make it freezing and it’ll even out.

I’m right here, you said, from behind me. I jumped. You put your arms around my middle, resting your head on my back. I held you in a backward hug, and then turned to kiss the bony part of your cheek. You didn’t look me in the face. You were looking at my body.

I’ll probably be a disappointment, I said.

I’m kind of a virgin, you said.

A beat passed. Then I’ll definitely be a disappointment.

Maybe not. I have no frame of reference.

What about Greg Linderhoefer? Or that guy with the hackey sack, what was his name, from Palo Alto—

Everything but, you said.

I rested my chin on your head. The thermostat finally kicked over to cool, a frigid breeze rushing through the vent at our feet. I anticipate freaking out, I said.

You looked at our shoes. Ditto.

The Everything But Girl. We hate you, you know.

You pinched me and said, You won’t.

 

I remember, from above you, my fingers grazing your stomach. I had lifted your top, soft as tissue, laying it on your rib cage. I said, Your skin is so soft. I said it with incredulity, as though nothing had ever been that soft: as though it were an illusion. We were still clothed. You said, I won’t turn you down, the tendons in your hand taut as you gripped the mattress edge. I said, I don’t know if we should. I was afraid for a million reasons. I said, I’m afraid for a million reasons. I stretched out beside you and lifted the elastic lip of your blue panties. My wristwatch caught against the stiff waistband of your jeans. Your hips were moving against my forearm. You whispered something and I stopped to hear it, saying, What, I couldn’t hear? You said, smiling, I said ‘Don’t stop.’ I stopped, to put a finger in my mouth. I said into your shoulder, I want to be inside you, repeating it like a prayer. Everything felt inevitable: prefabricated, like the cosmos had snatched us by our necks and dropped us there. I said, I just want ... but couldn’t finish my sentence. I thought, I wouldn’t even need to move. I would be inside you, not moving, and I would bury my face in your neck and hide. Are you going to take your glasses off? you said, smiling. I was suddenly immobile. I could no longer make my arms move, my fingers. You said, Don’t think about anything else. You said, Where are you? Stay with me. But I could only think about everything else. I won’t turn you down, you said again, as the moment slipped through our hands.

I woke up in my clothes. On the opposite wall was a seascape in a filigreed frame. Where the larger waves crested there was a concentration of pale yellow, reflecting an absent sun. But the tips of the whitecaps were hypoxic, icy blue, as though the scene were between day and dark, lit simultaneously by sun and moonlight. Your head crushed my bicep, the hard part of your jaw pressing the skin. You were half-naked in your parents’ bed. I willed you to open your eyes. When you did you pawed at your puffy face and grabbed my wrist. It took you a while to tell the time on my watch.

You sat up, covering yourself with an arm. I guess City Hall is where you go to do this, right?

I leaned against the headboard. You’re serious.

I’m always serious.

Tell me why you want to marry me. Give me one good reason.

You pulled your arm away, baring your body.

When you go through a tollbooth, you turn off your stereo so you don’t bother the attendant.

I squinted. Do I? I said.

You listen to me, you said.

I can’t help it, I said. I’m captivated by what you say.

Pretend for a moment that we don’t get married. Pretend we decide—you stood up, putting on your underwear—that this isn’t a good idea; that we shouldn’t be together. You scanned the floor for clothes. We break up and it’s over, we’re not friends anymore. I can’t do that.

No matter what happens, I said, I will never not know you.

You stepped into your pants. That’s an impossible promise.

Maybe. No, you know what? I’m telling you, it’s not.

The pitch of your voice rose. Do you really think we’ll find people we like better?

This is totally illogical, I said.

Answer anyway.

I buried my face in a pillow. Whose side of the bed was this? Your mom’s?

My dad’s, you said.

No, I said into the pillow. I’ll never like anybody as much.

As I lifted my face, you bent down and found your shirt, your hair falling over your eyes. You began to put the shirt over your head, your face hidden inside it as you said, Put your shoes on. You straightened up, smoothed your clothes, and pushed in the pockets of your jeans. Put your shoes on if you want to marry me.

 

The sun outside was cheerful, bracing. We were on Van Ness, City Hall in dead sight, when you said, I don’t know about this, Francis.

I braked at a stop sign and closed my eyes, pausing long enough for the cars to begin honking behind us.

Go, Francis, you said. What’re you doing?

I panicked, putting the car in park. I don’t care, I said. I don’t care about Greta. Who knows if she’s even pregnant? She could be lying. I want to marry you. Okay? People can get married when they’re twenty-two.

You glanced at the swearing drivers behind us.

She could be lying, I said. She could be full of shit.

I’m just saying I don’t want to get married here, you said. Because of Harvey Milk. You pointed toward the ridged rotunda, the severe, spiked steeple. I just remembered he died in there. And Moscone. I can’t get married in there.

A car pulled past us. Asshole! the driver shouted.

I smiled, relieved. I knew what I wanted, and it was what you wanted, and the day felt young. I hit the gas and flipped a U-turn in the intersection, a crescendo of horns rising like trumpets, heralding our good news.