Hanging Loose (13 page)

It was a confusing mixture of sadness and relief that took possession of me. Jez bottled up his emotions for the time being. There were things to take care of, and he knew what to do. But once Arthur’s body was taken away and the apartment was locked up, he looked so very tired. That night I fell asleep clinging to him, not wanting to let go. He didn’t look like he wanted me to either. It was the strangest thing. I’d known Arthur only for a few months, but his death filled me with a profound sense of loss. Meanwhile, my feelings about my father were still too murky for me to dwell on.

There were formalities, of course—the bureaucracy of death, coroner’s report, and so on—but under the circumstances, there was little fuss. Arthur left everything to Jez, which wasn’t much: just an apartment worth of memories and enough money in his bank account to cover the funeral.

* * *

It was a welcome diversion when Scoot invited us over to visit the site of the collective he’d worked so hard to start up. I had only seen the place once before the renovation started, and Jez hadn’t been back since it was finished, a couple of months prior. I was curious to see what it looked like.

A couple of medical pot dispensaries were on the promenade, along with a whole bunch of them all over the city. They generally had garish neon signs and offerings of a dozen or more designer cannabis varieties displayed in glass cases inside. Ever since Prop 215 passed back in 1996, theoretically all you needed was a doctor’s recommendation to get a cannabis card. The ailments for which pot was beneficial were wide ranging, including anxiety. Who didn’t have anxiety? Anyone who tried hard enough could get one of those cards. I opined that the dispensaries took California one step closer to legalizing weed. Jez was convinced they’d cause a blowback. It was possible we were both right.

We picked up Scoot at his apartment and drove to the collective. The place was not what I expected. The building innocuously blended with its environment, like a plate of magic brownies at a potluck party. There was no lurid neon. The only sign by the entrance identified it as the FOOTHILLS WELLNESS CENTER. We stepped into a quasi reception area furnished with comfy chairs and a desk, behind which an elderly lady sat, buried in paperwork. A faint scent of pot smoke tickled my nose.

“Good morning, Mrs. Klasky,” Scoot greeted her. “How’s Mr. Klasky doing?”

She looked up, smiling. “Much better, thanks for asking. He’s at the back talking to the kids.”

Scoot introduced us before we all headed through a swinging door into the bowels of the building.

“Mr. Klasky is a member,” Jez explained on the way. “He has pretty debilitating and painful arthritis. Mrs. Klasky is a volunteer.”

We reached a lounge area. Despite the quietly humming vents in the ceiling, the characteristically pungent odor of weed was much stronger here. A handful of people were scattered around on armchairs and sofas, smoking, talking, reading, or just staring into space. There was a coffee table, magazines, and ashtrays; bookshelves loaded with paperbacks; potted plants of the decorative variety; a coffeemaker in the corner next to the watercooler; and a corkboard on the wall with pinned-on announcements. There were no windows, but plenty of sunlight entered through the skylight.

As we walked on, we passed a closed door with a hand-printed BIG-C SUPPORT GROUP IN SESSION, 11-12 sign on it.

“It was Janelle’s idea to have support groups not just for members, but their families and loved ones too,” Scoot said.

I wasn’t surprised. I had learned she was an experienced social worker last time we met. She sounded pretty passionate about it.

The growing room was occupied by a miniature jungle of gleaming green plants in various stages of growth, and an elderly man leaning on a cane bent over a plant and gently petted its leaves. It was very bright in there—and warm, even with the constant breeze created by the fans that made the plants tremble. The odor of the growing plants was like a kick in the chest.

“Morning, George!” Scoot shouted at the old guy.

George turned around and waved but then focused back on the plant.

“George talks to them,” Scoot whispered. “He believes it makes them grow healthier.”

“Why are you growing them indoors? The electricity bill must be murder.” I pointed at the grow lights.

“We thought about setting them up on the roof, but pollution is so bad, they’d be covered in muck within days,” he explained.

“Oh, I didn’t think of that.”

“We could’ve put the center outside of the city, where the air quality is better, but then it would also be less accessible for our members. So we had to compromise.” He kept talking as he ushered us out, expounding on the variety of cannabis they grew, their pros and cons, the various classes, support groups they had or wanted to start, and their plans going forward.

“Janelle and I want to make it more than just a place for sick people to get pot. We’d like it to be a refuge and a community,” he explained with an earnest look on his face. “The medical conditions of our members cover a wide range. Some will get better, others have chronic conditions, and quite a few are terminal. Ranging from twenty-one to eighty-five in age. Their needs are diverse, from medical to psychological. We shouldn’t limit ourselves to just one small aspect.”

It was obvious it was a speech he’d practiced in his head before, but it didn’t make him less sincere. He was nerdy and adorable at once.
Nerdorable.

Scoot caught himself and flushed. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to write the mission statement for our Web site for days, and it makes me think in complete sentences.”

“Nah, you were always an egghead,” Jez joked affectionately. “We love you anyway.”

Scoot grinned back at him, and some of the starch went out of his posture. He turned to me, his eyes having a glint that alarmed me. “Jez tells me you’re good at baking.”

“Adequate is more like it,” I replied with caution.

“We are always looking for volunteers. You could hold a class: ‘Baking with Cannabutter’ or something like that.”

“I’m hardly the Emeril of Kush!”

“Neither are our members. Your favorite recipes, whatever you’ve learned while experimenting, would suffice.”

“Well, I guess there are a few things I could share,” I admitted.

“Excellent!” Scoot beamed at me.

Our visit ended when the support group Janelle was leading let out, and we headed off to lunch.

I wondered if Arthur would have liked it at the Foothills Wellness Center. He was such a rabble rouser, and he liked company. He would’ve enjoyed shocking and entertaining those groups with his bawdy stories. I really, really, really missed the old coot.

* * *

Arthur was buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery, in a plot already waiting for him. The funeral was held on a cold winter morning. Despite the chill in the air, the sky was as bright and cheerful as ever. California weather had no sense of decorum. The cemetery, with its perfectly maintained lawn and discreet grave markers, looked a lot like a golf course. It sat at the foot of the Griffith Park hills, overlooking the LA River and the Warner Brothers studios. A nice enough place, I guessed. Not that Arthur cared where he slept the big sleep.

Saying good-bye to Arthur took more than just a funeral. His apartment had to be cleared out, his things sorted. I boxed the photo albums and the group of personal photos and took them back to our place. The rest of the pictures and the old movie props were donated to the Hollywood Museum—except for the Golden Sphinx of Cairo. That I couldn’t part with. There were more trips to Goodwill and to a used bookstore. We tried to give a second life to whatever we could; the rest went to the Dumpster. And with that—poof!—the life of Arthur was gone.

Chapter Fifteen

Ever since that night in the Knitting Factory, things were slightly off between us. The worst part was that I couldn’t put a word to it: we went through the same motions as before, but it wasn’t the same. Like we were wrapped in fog that muted everything.

I nestled against Jez under the blankets. His breathing was slow and shallow, but I knew he was awake. He was curled away from me, so I nuzzled his nape: it was sleepy-warm. I pressed my lips just under his hairline. The stiff length of my cock was pressing against Jez’s muscular buttocks. I jostled them till my erection snuggled into the crack and rocked my hips. Just for good measure I nipped the flesh on Jez’s shoulder.

Jez gave up all pretense of being asleep and rolled over with an exasperated sigh.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?”

“You say it like it was bad thing.”

“I just remembered that shy kid who moved in with me a few months ago.”

I put a hand on his hard cock. “You seem to be into it too.”

“It’s hard not to.”

“You said hard!” I sniggered.

To that at last he cracked a smile.

I straddled his hips and took our cocks in hand and started stroking them. They looked good together: similar but different. I wondered how many other ones, strange ones, had snuggled up to Jez’s before me.

“You must have seen a lot of them,” I said. I wondered if that was the problem; he was getting bored of me.

“What?”

“Cocks.”

“Yes. So?”

I couldn’t ask the question. Not then. I just shook my head and increased my tempo. Jez looked at me like he badly wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Instead he surged up and pushed me onto my back with unexpected force. He rutted against me almost angrily, and his lips took mine in a forceful kiss and didn’t let go till we both were nearly out of breath.

We were still off-kilter but also swept up in the moment, our breathing ragged, fingers scrambling for purchase.

Jez buried his face in my neck and haltingly murmured in my ear. “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay.”

I wanted to ask what was okay, but the moment came where my synapses fried, and there was nothing but physical sensations. I could’ve asked after, once we rested boneless on the crumpled sheets, but the quiet was nice. Maybe I was afraid to know.

* * *

Without Arthur to look after, Jez and I had extra time on our hands. I switched to night shift so we would be on the same schedule. It seemed like a good idea. I liked having him there in the restaurant. It cheered me up. Even when he kept giving me these strange sideways looks, like he was trying to make up his mind about something.

After our shift we usually walked home together, taking the side streets to avoid the waves of people on the promenade that only ebbed—never disappeared—after dark. Having spent a whole night of pleasing people in the restaurant, we both could do with a little peace and privacy. Peace wasn’t always easy to attain. One night we had to trail a rowdy group all the way home—drunken frat boys, from their appearance. After having spent half the night humoring a drunk in the restaurant, I was at the end of my rope.

“Sometimes I really don’t like living here,” I grumbled.

Jez didn’t say anything, just gave me one of those funny looks again. He was too quiet even as we got in the door. We were in the kitchen, fussing with dinner, when he finally spoke up.

“So you’re thinking about moving out?” he asked sort of quiet, his voice kept so neutral that I almost missed the meaning of his words.

“What?” I gaped when they finally registered.

“It could be for the best. You’d be happier having your own place.”

“Why would I be?” I asked with a spike of anxiety.

Jez avoided looking at me. “You’re really sweet and tactful, and I totally understand if you want to see others. I’m just not very good at handling that stuff.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He turned to me, looking anywhere but at my eyes. “Look, I get it. I’m the first guy you’ve ever been with, and I don’t think there were that many girls either.”

“Are you saying I’m no good in the sack?” I just wanted him to look at me, to stop stabbing me in the heart with those polite and quiet words.

“What I’m saying is that you must feel like a kid at Ben and Jerry’s, wanting to try all the flavors. Or maybe you want to go back to girls. I don’t know.” At last he had the guts to look me in the eye.

“How—” I had to find the right words and keep myself from exploding at the same time. It was tough. “Where’s this coming from?”

Jez made an uneasy little shrug. “I guess I’ve always expected it, but when I saw you with that actor guy, the coin dropped. I’ve been watching you at work, the way other guys look at you. If you haven’t yet, you’ll realize how hot you really are. Tonight, that guy who gave you his number—it was just too much.”

I had to rack my brain to figure out who the hell Jez was talking about. Ah yeah, the blond who kept ordering those ridiculous gold martinis. Drunk as a skunk after the third or fourth, but a good tipper. They usually were when that sauced.

“So, let me get this straight. All this time you’ve just been waiting for me to start fucking around? Because you just assumed—without asking—that’s what I want?”

The anger boiling up in me must have shown in my voice, because Jez took a step back. “Look, it’s normal, under the circumstances. Most guys go hog wild when they first come out,” he said almost apologetically.

“Did you?”

“I’ve been out since forever, but yes, I did get around.”

“Do you still?”

“Not really. I grew out of it. Last time I had an open relationship, it turned into an ugly mess. I don’t want to go there again.”

“Was that with Ronnie?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Never mind that. Tell me one thing, and don’t lie: are you bored with me? Is there somebody else?”

“No! It’s nothing like that. It’s for you.”

The itch to punch him right in his stupid face finally exploded. I had just enough control left not to hit him; I shoved him in the chest two-handed instead. Jez slammed into the kitchen cabinet with a bang, rattling plates and glasses inside.

He gasped with shock and confusion. “What the fuck?”

If I were a cartoon character, steam would’ve been whistling out of my ears. “You stupid son of a bitch!” I shouted. “You put me through this crap because of some idiotic assumptions that have nothing to do with me? I’m not your psycho-nympho ex, and I don’t want to lick my way from Ben to Jerry! I only want you, because I love you, you dimwitted jackass! And for the record, that guy gave me a recipe for a stupid cocktail! Not that it would make any fucking difference if it was his number!” I pulled the crumpled napkin out of my pocket and slapped it on his chest.