Wedding Season Read online

  Property values were something Nick would consider more than Tim would. Nick could picture Tim selling the house someday to move up north to the Russian River where they would live happily ever after in marital bliss among the rustic redwoods. Nick was all about growing old together. Tim didn’t like the idea of getting old at all.

  Nick must have changed the channel after Saturday Night Live. There was a movie on now, but it was one Tim had already seen. He flipped through the channels past a lot of infomercials and landed on a station playing music. He didn’t care. Now Nick was singing in the shower and Tim was fighting sleep. His mind floated off in a dozen directions, the evening at work at Arts, his Aunt Ruth’s upcoming marriage to Sam, his recent dream about a wedding, customers at the restaurant discussing politics, whether the Giants would win another World Series next year and whether the 49-ers would ever get to play in another Superbowl or complaining about their lousy neighbors planting trees or building another story onto their houses to block what little view they had left.

  Tim was half asleep when Nick got out of the shower. ”I couldn’t hear what you said, Babe. The water was running.”

  “I didn’t say anything. Maybe I was talking in my sleep. I was thinking how everyone on Castro Street is planning my Aunt Ruth and Sam’s wedding.”

  Nick appeared in the bedroom doorway naked, rubbing a towel through his long blond hair, so he still didn’t hear. “What’s that, Snowman?”

  Tim thought he should tone down his exaggeration. More people on Castro Street were actually planning what they needed to pick up at Walgreens or Cliff’s or planning whether or not to go see some old movie star who was appearing live and in person at the Castro Theatre next Friday night. Or they were thinking about the sexy stranger they saw bending over to tie his shoe at the ATM outside the Bank of America and hoping he would be at the same bar they were going to that evening. “I said it seems like everyone at work is talking about Ruth and Sam’s wedding.”

  “Oh, right… Have they set a date yet?” Nick pulled back the covers and slid into bed.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve been thinking about cutting my hair. What do you…?”

  “No!” Tim was wide awake now. He threw his arms around Nick and pressed his face against his chest, taking in the slick clean smell of his skin. “You can’t cut your hair. I love your hair.” Tim reached for a strand and held it to his lips. The moon must be in some weird sign tonight, Tim thought, even though he didn’t take much stock in such things. One minute he was half asleep and wanted Nick to leave him alone and the next minute he was obsessing about something as silly as the length of Nick’s hair. Hair would grow out again.

  “What’s all this about?” Nick wrapped his arms around him. “I should threaten to cut off my hair more often.”

  “Your hair is perfect just the way it is. You remind me of the covers of those trashy romance novels at Walgreens, stripped to the waist and rescuing the fair maiden from the clutches of evil.”

  Nick grinned and slapped Tim’s ass. “Alright, then. I won’t cut it. But what are you doing reading trashy romance novels?”

  “I don’t read them. I just look at the covers when I’m shopping for cards or wrapping paper. Those guys are way too straight.”

  “Well, that’s a relief!”

  “I did read a bunch of gay novels a while ago that Arturo loaned me.”

  “Like what?”

  “I thought I told you… books by Felice Picano, Armistead Maupin, John Preston, some David Sedaris. Arturo had them packed in a big box on Collingwood and he loaned them to me before I moved over here. I’d stick one in my backpack every time I went to Baker Beach or Land’s End or over to Black Sand in Marin. I finally finished them all.”

  “Look out for John Preston. He’ll give you kinky ideas.”

  “Oh, yeah? How would you know?”

  “I read Mister Benson back in college.”

  “And what might happen when I get those ideas?”

  “We’ll have to spiff up Jason’s old playroom, that’s what. His sling is still down there in the basement, isn’t it?”

  “It should be. I loaned it to Jake for his birthday party, but he brought it back. I can’t imagine us playing in the basement with the pitter-patter of Sarah and her little brother Samuel’s feet over our heads.”

  “We could move it upstairs and make the spare room into a combination playroom, guest room, office…”

  “There’s a lot of other stuff to do around here too. Are you still planning to take out that sickly old redwood tree in the back yard? It’s getting worse. It would improve the view of downtown.”

  “I can get some of my guys to do it. Okay, first the tree and then the playroom. I thought you wanted to refinish the floors too.”

  “One of these days…” Tim said. Nick’s grandparents had lived in this apartment for years with the hardwood oak floors covered by wall-to-wall carpeting. They rented the upper floor of the duplex from Jason’s lover Karl, who left it to him several years before Jason was murdered and subsequently left the house to Tim. The kitchen and bathroom had layers of ancient linoleum, but the same oak flooring ran throughout both levels. Jason had refinished the floors on the downstairs flat years ago. Nick had also suggested new decks off the back of both units and stripping the paint off the mantle of the fireplace. “Yup… one of these days,” Tim repeated.

  “You better get to sleep,” Nick snuggled closer and readjusted his weight. “You have to work Sunday brunch and I have a long drive ahead of me.”

  “Right… Sunday brunch.” Tim had forgotten about Rosa Rivera and the change in plans at work. “But you don’t usually work on Sundays, Nick. What’s up?”

  “I’m short staffed, remember? Jenny’s on vacation and there’s a big wedding at one of the wineries this week. We’re not only doing the flowers, they’re renting a truck load of trees and erecting a tent for the reception.”

  “Yeah, I guess I forgot. Come to think of it, I’m not working tomorrow morning. Artie changed the schedule at the last minute. Have you ever heard of Rosa Rivera?”

  “Sure, she’s like the poor man’s Martha Stewart. I’ve seen her on TV a couple of times. ‘Let’s make it happen!’ You’ve seen her, no?”

  “Make what happen?”

  “That’s her motto or her theme or whatever… ‘Let’s make it happen!’ You mean you’ve never seen her show? What about her? What made you think of Rosa Rivera?”

  “I’ve never watched a whole episode, but I know who she is. She’s coming to the restaurant for dinner tomorrow and Artie acts like there’s royalty in town or something. Didn’t he call you about the flowers?”

  “I had my cell turned off.”

  “Well, he’s changed the schedule so Aunt Ruth will work behind the bar with Scott and he wants me to wait on Rosa Rivera’s table. He’s got James coming in, too. I guess he wants to show her how diverse we are with our one black waiter.”

  Nick’s only response was steady breathing. He was sound asleep. Tim slid his hand up the arm that was wrapped around him and pulled Nick’s hand to his lips to kiss each finger in turn. He reached for his pills on the bedside table, swallowed them down with a slug of bottled water and wished both Nick and himself a night of sweet dreams.

  Chapter 4

  Tim reached across the bed, but Nick was already gone. Damn! He’d been dreaming about Nick, or someone who looked like him, for the past hour. Maybe the dream only lasted a few minutes. It was hard to tell with dreams. Seven minutes. That stuck in Tim’s head. In seven minutes he might go crazy if he didn’t do something. Why didn’t he and Nick get it on last night? He was about to explode!

  Tim didn’t have to work the brunch shift today. He could pop in a porn CD or one of the old VHS tapes from Jason’s collection. Pornography pre-AIDS was hotter than most of the stuff they made these days. It was exciting to watch guys doing the things you weren’t supposed to do anymore. Barebacking was innocent t
hen and it was still fun to watch. Tim couldn’t spread any diseases just by watching. He could get off in seven minutes and then get on with his day, vacuum the apartment, clean the windows, hit the gym or paint the kitchen.

  Tim looked out the west windows at the fog, still thick and hovering over the city. He rolled onto his side, punched the pillow and had a third idea. He could go somewhere. He could throw on some clothes, grab the car keys and take a drive. There had to be someplace in San Francisco where a guy could find some quick relief on a Sunday morning. There must be other guys in the same predicament out there in the hills surrounding Eureka Valley. Couldn’t they help each other out? Seven minutes was still stuck in Tim’s head… or seven inches… or was it just the number seven? A lucky number.

  If this were a medical condition, he would see a doctor. No, Tim had to take care of it on his own… or with the help of a sexy stranger who had the same needs this morning. It should be as simple as getting a haircut or having his teeth cleaned.

  Nick was gone until Friday, so he was no help. Nick wouldn’t have to know about this. Nick should be past the Golden Gate Bridge by now. He might have crossed the Marin County line into Sonoma. Tim remembered the drive-in movie on the county line. He and Jason stopped there once outside the fence one clear night on their way home from the river. They smoked a joint, put the top up and the seats down in Jason’s old Thunderbird while a straight porno movie flickered across the screen. They almost got caught. That was hot, but the thought of it only made Tim’s present situation worse.

  If he had a boil he could see a dermatologist to have it lanced. The throbbing would stop once that fluid was out of there. Then Tim would be able to get on with his day, stop at Cliff’s and pick up paint samples. He wanted to paint the kitchen first. The wallpaper Nick’s grandparents had when they lived here was faded and starting to peel. He wanted to strip the linoleum from the oak floors. Jason would have finished that project by now. Nick offered to help Tim do it, but Tim thought it was a rainy-day job and there was no rain this time of year.

  He could drive up to Buena Vista Park in less than seven minutes—fog or no fog—and be home again in half an hour. That was Tim’s last thought before he fell back into a deep sleep and a dream that was so vivid that he could have sworn it was real.

  In Tim’s dream, he lit a joint before he pulled out of the driveway. He took a second hit before he turned left to 19th Street and he was high before he turned right onto Castro. When he drove past Arts he was so stoned that he forgot he was only dreaming. He’d been this stoned for real a few times, so stoned that he thought he was dreaming, but this time it was the other way around. It didn’t much matter to Tim. It was the same sensation either way. A guy in front of Cliff’s Hardware waved and smiled. He was either an Arts customer or someone who recognized Tim from the gym. Tim lifted two fingers off the steering wheel to return the greeting. He turned left onto 14th Street. Jason used to drive this way to visit a friend on Roosevelt Way. Tim went along once, but that guy had long ago moved away… or died. Tim knew he was stoned when he had trouble parallel parking on Upper Terrace.

  A man yelled, “Morning!” He was another one of those people Tim recognized, but wasn’t sure where from. The man had to be in his fifties or sixties, tattooed, muscular… white T-shirt, Levis, boots. He was sexy, one of those guys Tim wanted to be when he reached that age if he lived long enough, the kind of handsome that a really handsome man always is, no matter his age... well-preserved, the kind of man who takes care of his body. He was almost at Tim’s car now. The man’s pale blue eyes radiated wisdom and kindness, but hadn’t he had those same eyes since he was a boy?

  “How’s it going?” Tim nodded and lifted two fingers again. No reason not to be friendly.

  “Lots of horny guys, but not much action, mostly window-shopping, not trying anything on... I’ve got to get to church.” The man had a motorcycle parked across the street. He unlocked his helmet from the chain and pulled it over his head. “Seeya, Tim.”

  He knew his name! Maybe he was a friend of Jason’s who also recognized the car. Tim hoped he wasn’t a friend of Nick’s. There were no secrets in the Castro.

  Even in Tim’s dream, the morning had turned warmer in the seven minutes since he left the house. The sun was making the fog dissipate and the quiet was serene, so high above the city. Tiny birds chirped and squirrels rustled through the trees, but Tim heard little else. A slight breeze whispered through the eucalyptus trees above him.

  The park had been re-landscaped in the past year or two, part of Obama’s stimulus package, Tim imagined. Most of the old cruising grounds of crumbling pathways, gnarled undergrowth and hidden cul-de-sacs had been torn out. New paved paths and wooden boardwalks—everything sterile and handicapped-accessible—spanned the southern hillside of prim new seedlings, neatly spaced rows of groundcover planted into soil that was soaked with decades of histories, gallons of spilled seed and rich stories.

  Nick would know the names of all the plants, of everything that grew here. Tim recognized lilies and irises, nasturtiums that grew like weeds and California poppies blooming golden everywhere. It was a more logical choice of state flower than Minnesota’s. Tim had never even seen a lady’s slipper in the wild, only in the greenhouses.

  Now Tim knew for sure that he was dreaming. The park was the way it was… before the new landscaping. The old dirt paths were still there; the crumbling earth, the tree roots worn from men’s asses in Levi’s sitting on them, creating make-shift benches. Used condoms littered the ground. Branches provided enough privacy for a tryst with a stranger... or three or four. The old park had been landscaped by nature and thousands of footsteps of men who had trolled these paths for decades.

  Tim remembered a night when fog filtered through the undergrowth. It made him think of the forest in Sleeping Beauty and he wished a prince would hack his way through the brambles to find Tim in the castle at the top of the hill and wake him with a kiss. The park still had a storybook feel in the morning, or Tim was stoned, even in this dream. That could be it.

  He’d heard stories, no doubt from Jason, of nights when the road to the top was still open and lined with cars. Every night after the bars closed, cars and campers and pickup trucks with mattresses in the back filled the parking lot. They partied for days and nights, weekends and weekdays, as long as their drugs held out. Wild stories! Nowadays, you were more apt to see new mothers pushing strollers under the same trees where men in leather used to hang their slings.

  Tim grabbed his car keys and headed up the hillside, stepping in poison oak and glad he was wearing boots and long pants. He saw another man on the path who looked sexy until he got closer and Tim caught a whiff of a pungent smell. Cologne? After-shave? Maybe only soap, but it went straight up Tim’s nose. How could anyone get near him unless they had a bad cold? Stupid.

  The next man he saw was on a path above him… interesting, from a distance… shirtless, handsome, well-built—great chest. He wore mirrored sunglasses, so Tim couldn’t get a look at the eyes. Sometimes the eyes were important. Or not. Even in a dream, his seven minutes were up a long time ago. It felt like an hour since he’d started the car in his driveway on Hancock Street.

  The guy saw Tim too and started down the hillside toward him. Then Tim noticed the black sandals and red socks that must have been a Christmas present… in high school. Didn’t this fool own a full-length mirror? He was obviously a gym fanatic, but he must spend all his time on his upper body and completely ignore his pasty little legs. Even that might be okay, but Tim couldn’t get past red socks in leather sandals.

  Then Tim saw the third guy and he felt like Goldilocks. This one was just right… dark and handsome with hard nipples that poked through thick black chest hair under a mesh white tank-top. Tim loved Nick’s blond Nordic look, but variety was the spice of life and this was only a dream, after all. Tim couldn’t feel guilty about a dream. Olive skin and thick black eyelashes made him look… Mediterranean? Tim was guessi
ng.

  “Sup?” The guy spoke to Tim. “Lookin’ for trouble?”

  Tim only smiled. Did the guy have an accent? That was always a turn-on. The two of them ducked into a nearby cul-de-sac of gnarled branches overgrown with wild ivy where they shared a seven-minute adventure. The guy offered Tim a handkerchief afterward, but Tim had his own, so the man said his thanks and walked away. Tim stepped out of the damp shade and sat down on a sunny log to catch his breath in the afterglow. Branches above him framed a picture of distant rooftops and ships on the bay. The morning sun cast angular shadows across the valleys. Tim wondered how a place so beautiful could exist in the heart of the city. But how could a city even be as beautiful as San Francisco? Even the fire-trucks’ wailing sirens were so far they sounded like a memory.

  Tim should have left by now, but it was too late. The swarthy young man came back and sat down on the log beside him. “Ready for round two?” he asked. “You’re the hottest guy here today, man...”

  This was supposed to be anonymous, wasn’t it? The accent wasn’t as sexy, now that Tim was finished. “Thanks… no… I’ve got to go. I was just chilling out.” Tim attempted a smile. “Did you just get here? Maybe you need to look around some more.”

  “Maybe you’re right. My name’s Bruno.” He extended his hand.

  The formality of shaking hands seemed strange after the intimacy of sex. Tim thought about Nick and felt guilty. He fumbled with his bottle of water, dropped it, picked it up again and reached out his hand to return the greeting, barely whispering, “I’m… Tim… hi…” He almost made up a name. Something was wrong with anonymous sex that wasn’t.

  “Seeya later, Tim.” Bruno lifted his shirt to wipe his forehead and in so doing he exposed his chest. Then he peeled the shirt off over his head, laced it through a belt loop and walked away.