Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (23 page)

“I don't want to be around Kate and Traci. It would be too humiliating.”

“I can understand why you would want your own space.”

“Who wouldn't?”

“Trace should have told you. Just like she should've told Nancy.”

“Who's Nancy?”

“Just somebody Traci got involved with last year when Kate was away at an artist's colony.”

I remembered the woman who stamped our hands at the dance. The one who'd asked if I was the newest link in Traci's chain of fools. “Does Nancy have freckles?”

“A ton of 'em,” Jawea nodded. “How did you know?”

“We ran into her once.”

“Oh. I'm afraid Traci's just not good at facing up to shit.”

“Well, I have no choice.”

Jawea slid down the wall and sat on the floor. “I'm sure this is no picnic for Trace.”

I leaned against the wall. “Why not? I left her at Susan and Roger's place. She's probably over there screwing Susan right now before her time runs out.”

Jawea laughed. “Time is not a big issue. Traci and Kate have an open relationship.”

“Well, I'm closing the book on ours.”

“You have to do what's right for you.”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“So, what
are
you going to do?”

I sighed, “I don't really want to go back to Chicago, but I'm scared not to.”

Jawea stood up and put her hand on my shoulder. “I can relate to being scared; that's real. I used to think that you were in your head too much. But that came from your gut, I can feel it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Stevie, we're all fucking scared. Most of the time, I'm scared shitless.”

I'd never thought of Jawea as being scared.

My stomach churned as the telephone rang. I had finished packing, but I still didn't want to talk to Traci.

“If it's Traci, I'm not here,” I shouted from Kate's room as Jawea ran toward the kitchen.

“Stevie, it's for you.”

“Who is it?” I asked, walking into the kitchen.

“It's a man.”

“It's not Roger, is it?”

Jawea shook her head. “Might be one of your brothers or your father. I'm not sure.”

I reached for the phone. At least it wasn't Traci.

“Is everything OK? It must be after one in the morning back there,” I said, walking toward Kate's bedroom with the telephone.

“No, it's only a little after eleven. Stevie, I hope that I didn't wake you up.” This wasn't a voice I recognized.

“No, I'm awake. Who is this?”

“Sterling.”

“Sterling?”

“Sterling Grant from KPIX, remember?”

“Yes, of course. My mind has just been somewhere else.”

“I hope it wasn't too late to call. I thought you might still be up, since it's Friday night.”

“I'm still up, don't worry.”

“Stevie, I called to tell you about the Minorities in Media luncheon at Fort Mason tomorrow. It's a great networking opportunity.”

“Oh.”

“I'm sorry it's such short notice, but I forgot to call you before I went away. I was down in L.A. visiting my sisters.”

“Sterling, thanks a lot for thinking of me, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. I said I'd look out for you. I hope that you'll be able to make it.”

“Actually, Sterling, I can't make it. I'm going back to Chicago.”

“Going back to Chicago for a visit already? Is your family OK?”

“They're fine. I'm going back to live.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Things just haven't worked out for me here. It's time for me to throw in the towel.”

“Just because you haven't found a job yet? You can't get established overnight, you know.”

“I just had a bad scene with my girlfriend. I can't really talk. She could walk in at any moment. I don't want to see her. I called the Haight-Ashbury Switchboard. They're trying to find me a bed in a shelter. If they can't, I might have to sleep in the Trans Bay Terminal tonight.”

“Sleep in the Trans Bay Terminal! Over my gay body! Now, you listen to me. I have a car. I can be anywhere in this city in fifteen minutes. You are not going to any shelter tonight and you sure as hell are not sleeping in anybody's terminal.”

“Thank you, Sterling. But maybe you could just give me a ride to BART.”

“Did you hear what I said? You are not going to anybody's shelter or anybody's terminal, period!”

“Yes, sir.” I couldn't help but feel taken care of. Sterling was, acting like the big brother I never had. And I felt safer now that he'd confirmed that he was gay.

“You like San Francisco, am I right?”

“Of course. San Francisco will always have a place in my heart.”

“Well, there's no reason for you to leave San Francisco just because your relationship has gotten funky.”

“How about these reasons: For starters, I don't have a job. I'm broke, I'm on food stamps and Medi-Cal.”

“That's exactly why you don't need to go back to Chicago.”

“Come again?”

“You don't need to go back to Chicago in defeat. It would be like you were a failure.”

“It's too late to salvage my ego. Besides, I can't stay out here. You don't understand. I have no money.”

“
You
don't understand. I knew the first time I saw your face that you didn't belong in Chicago.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is an openness in your eyes that Chicago can't fill.”

“Thanks for the poetry. I know that some people are content just to hang out. But I've been hung out to dry. It's time for me to be realistic, not artistic.”

“Stevie, excuse my language, but sometimes you have to fuck being realistic!”

“Easy for you to say, you've got a job and a place to stay.”

“You can find a job. And you've got a place to stay, too.”

“I told you, I can't stay with Traci anymore.”

“You don't have to
stay
with Traci. She's not the only person in this town who can offer you a roof.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you can stay on my couch till you get on your feet. No strings attached. I'll even empty out the living-room closet for you.”

“That's very sweet of you, Sterling, but I couldn't—”

“My couch is very comfortable. It's not one of those uncomfortable sofa beds.”

“I believe you, but I've learned to put more emphasis on inner comfort than outer comfort these days. There's no such thing as no strings attached. There's always strings.”

“Wow, nobody can accuse you of not being cynical.”

“There's less chance of a misunderstanding that way.”

“Well, somebody helped me get on my feet, once. And I believe that what goes around, comes around. A part of me would like to return the favor.”

“A part of you?” I hated to sound suspicious, but I wanted him to make it plain.

“Yeah, and my ego is involved a little bit, too. Maybe having just seen
Rocky
is a factor.”

“
Rocky
?”

“Yeah, this movie I previewed down in L.A. about a boxer who beats the odds. It was really inspiring. It'll be out next year.”

“Well, not everyone can be a Rocky.”

“No, but I believe you can be. And I'll always be able to take satisfaction in knowing that it was partly because of me. So, that's one reason I'm offering to take you in. Let's face it, Stevie, whatever people do, they ultimately do for themselves.”

“You mean your motives aren't entirely unselfish?”

“Are you kidding? The fish ain't been biting lately in the romantic department. So, hey, I could use a shoulder to cry on or a creative mind to dream up a new strategy.”

“Well, I think I have a reasonably strong shoulder and a pretty active imagination. At least this time the cards would be on the table. And heaven knows, I don't want to go back to cold winters and steamy summers.”

“Come on, Stevie, where there's a couch, there's a way.”

“Are you sure that you want to give up your couch? I mean, you really don't know me from Adam.”

“Yes, I do too, honey, 'cause if you were Adam, you wouldn't be sleeping on my couch, you'd be up in the bed with me!”

Sterling had taken the suitcase to the car while I was saying good-bye to Jawea. I'd already hugged the cat. It was almost midnight, and we still hadn't heard from Traci.

“Jawea, I'm glad I got to know you.”

“I'm going to miss your energy.”

“Tell Traci …” I felt a lump in my throat. “That I wish she had been honest with me. But I don't regret being with her.” My eyes were suddenly clouded with tears. “Tell Traci that she was the bridge that got me across.”

Jawea nodded. “I'll try to remember all of that.”

“Take care, Jawea.”

“You take care too.” Jawea hugged me. “Remember, your energy will always be a part of this house.”

Sterling reappeared on the stairs. “The car's all packed.”

“Don't forget to stay behind your eyes,” Jawea shouted as I headed down the stairs.

“‘Stay behind your eyes!' Wow, I can't offer you that kind of depth,” Sterling chuckled as we got into his old T-Bird.

“That's OK, Sterling. Just be yourself.”

“Well, I hope you like disco.”

“I'm not all that familiar with it.”

Sterling started up the car. “You will be, 'cause I'm a disco queen!”

I wondered what on earth I was getting into. At least Traci was the devil I knew.

fall/winter 1975

13

Sterling and I sat in his matching blue wing chairs sipping white wine. Lounging around in his bathrobe and bedroom slippers, he reminded me of Hugh Hefner.

“Stevie, it's when you're at your lowest that it's important to look your best.”

I squirmed. I didn't know how to take his remark. It didn't sound like the thing to say to a person recovering from a love affair gone sour. I mean, it had only been three days, and I was still recuperating.

I took a swallow of the dry wine. “The last thing I'm concerned about right now is my appearance.”

Sterling tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows.

“Well, we do have the children to consider.”

“What children? You don't have any children, do you?” I was confused. It was hard to imagine “crumb snatchers” romping on Sterling's white-and-blue oriental rug. And there were no smudges on his Japanese-print couch or the raspberry-colored walls. His apartment was immaculate.

“I'm talking about the members.”

“The members of what?”

“The gay children, honey. My friends. The children will be scrutinizing you. And if you don't look good, I won't look good.”

“Your friends judge people by how they look on the outside?”

“Yes,” Sterling answered without hesitation. “Our motto is, ‘Friends don't let friends wear polyester.'”

I glanced down at my rumpled T-shirt and worn jeans.

“Well, at least I'm partial to cotton.”

“Now, don't get the wrong idea, the children will give you points for having a good heart. But they will down you for not making the most of your natural assets.” Sterling rocked to the rhythm of his words. “You're an attractive girl, Stevie. It would be a shame if you just let yourself go.”

“Let myself go! I can't believe it! I look like a beauty-pageant contestant compared to some of the politicos in the women's community.”

“I've seen how they look, believe me. God don't like ugly and neither do I.” Sterling pointed at me. “Don't get me wrong, Stevie, I'm not trying to make you into a femme fatale.”

“You're not?”

“Actually, I think you have baby butch potential.”

“Baby butch?”

“Yeah, tomboyish, but cute”—Sterling rubbed his chin—“not deisel dyke. A bull, without the dagger, so to speak. I want women to just want to nuzzle you up against their bosoms. Take shit off of you like they would a little boy, because he's so cute. I think this image could get you over.”

“Will it help me get a job?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Stevie, you have to understand something.” Sterling lowered his voice. “This is San Francisco, ‘durling.' And it's very competitive. There are a lot of gentle people here. But it's still dog-eat-dog, honey. You can't afford to half-step. With a new hairstyle and a confident stride, you can project that you're the woman for the job in the bedroom as well as in the boardroom.”

“Leave my hair alone. You sound like my mother.”

“Honey, when the going gets tough, the tough get a new hairstyle.” Sterling crossed his leg and patted his neatly trimmed 'fro.

“You don't like my natural?” I couldn't hide the irritation in my voice. Sterling probably wanted me to get some ultrafeminine, straightened style, like Diana Ross.

“I'm not against the natural on women. It's just that you have one that you appear to care nothing about. A cut would do you good.”

“First of all, I haven't really been tripping on my hair. And secondly, I can't afford a haircut right now.”

“Well, I'm sending you down to Vidal Sassoon's Training School.”

“Sterling, I can't take money from you.”

“Look, I'd rather spend a measly five dollars than watch you start looking like Buckwheat.”

“Buckwheat! You're signifying now!”

“What are friends for, if not to pull your coattails when necessary?”

I stood in line waiting to be picked by one of the students at Vidal Sassoon. All of the other guinea pigs were white, except for one Asian.

I'd never had my hair cut by a white person before. What if he or she didn't know the first thing? What if no one picked me? The old anxiety crept back. The voice I'd heard riding on a bus—“I prayed for a boy because at least I didn't have to deal with
that
hair.” Or the tired tape from my own mother—“How can you have the nerve to be tenderheaded with these naps?”