You Can Say You Knew Me When (46 page)

She took my hand. Her hand was small boned, like our mother’s. Her palm was dry and warm; mine was damp with nerves. She squeezed. I didn’t pull away.

There was nothing for me to say. I believed her. She’d tried, but he’d been impossible. And then he’d lost his mind.

He hadn’t loved me, not the way I wanted, not the way a father is supposed to. If he had, I wouldn’t have spent months trying to find some version of him that, in my grief, I could relate to, maybe even learn to love—some Teddy I could imagine loving me back.

Deidre and I stayed in that night. I cooked dinner, and we drank wine, three bottles between us. I had stories to tell her, stories recent and long-buried, and she had years to recount to me. We didn’t raise our voices to each other again, didn’t fall into the same old argument. That argument was unwinnable. The man at the center of it was dead. He’d been dying for years, while we’d raged on.

Before bed, we made each other promises, which we swore to keep.

In the morning there was a shyness between us, an emotional hangover that compounded the actual hangover. Standing in the kitchen, quietly sipping coffee, each of us wearing the clothes we’d slept in, we were like a new couple after a date that wasn’t supposed to have ended in a sleepover.

She’d already been up for an hour and had put a call in to Andy. “I’ve got news,” she told me. “Aunt Katie’s going to take Nana for a few weeks. So they’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Andy and AJ. In a couple days. They’re going to spend the rest of the week in San Francisco. You’re right, Jamie, I shouldn’t have kept them away.” As I tried to imagine the four of us in my apartment, the walls shrinking even as I pictured it, she added, “Andy reserved a hotel room.”

“With what money?”

“We didn’t lose everything,” she said. “We won’t be moving into our dream house, but we’re not going to be homeless, either.”

“Are things between you two okay?” I asked.

“They’ve been better,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “But we’ve been together long enough to get through shit like this. Plus, what’s the alternative?”

“Couples break up over less.”

She shook her head firmly. “I don’t believe in divorce.”

Looking at Deirdre in the morning light, I felt a peculiar longing for her company, as if she’d already checked into a hotel with her husband and son. For all the flare-ups of the day before, she had been mine, all mine. I couldn’t remember any previous time like that, couldn’t imagine something this rare happening again any time soon.

“So what did you want to do before they show up?” I asked.

“It’s up to you. I don’t want to interrupt your schedule.”

I laughed, trying to conjure up anything resembling a routine in my life. “Usually I’d be stoned by now,” I said.

“This early?”

I shrugged. She concentrated on her coffee cup and after a moment said, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Get me stoned.”

I asked her several times if she was sure about this, then I made her call home once more before turning off her cell phone. “Rule number one,” I pronounced. “Don’t talk to anyone who’s going to make you feel paranoid or guilty because you’re high.” I packed a very light bowl; a little goes a long way for someone who isn’t a regular imbiber. She coughed her way through one puff, then a second, then guzzled a glass of tap water and disappeared into the bathroom. A few minutes later I found her pressed up to the mirror, studying her skin.

“I’m getting old,” she said. “I have little wrinkles here, and here. But I still get blackheads. How is that possible?”

“No mirrors for stoners,” I said. “Rule number two.” I was playing a version of Party Nurse, more psychological than pharmaceutical.

“Mom was so pretty,” she said. “I got the worst of both of them. His big head and her overbite. His peasant legs and her ears.”

“You don’t have any of those things!” I said. “I got the worst of their personalities. His stubbornness and her superficiality.”

“You’re not superficial,” she said. “People who are materialistic drive you crazy.”

“But that’s just a pose, isn’t it? I have all these rules to make myself better than anyone else.”

“No, you have principles,” she said. “The only thing I believe in is getting AJ to school on time.”

“You’re loyal,” I said. “That’s the most important thing.”

Flush with the morning that had risen from the long, hard night and warmed into new intimacy by the pot, we’d slipped into a little love-me game: I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me, and you reassure me that everything’s fine. To play the game you have to know ahead of time that it will go well. Allowing ourselves to dive in was an act of faith.

We walked into my backyard, which once upon a time was a cultivated garden but had long been left untended. Even wild it showed the seasons, such as they are in San Francisco: wet, green-grassed winter; a spring full of dainty white wildflowers and California poppies, the most orange of flowers; and then the dry, yellowed summer, the dirt gone to dust until August fog brought back moisture and sent an old rose bush into early-autumn second bloom. Two metal chairs, their webbed rubber seats cracked with age, rested in the center of a concrete island too small to qualify as a patio. An enormous flowerpot, lopsided and chipped, sat there, too, stuffed with cigarette butts, most of them my brand. I could shovel them out now, erase the toxic evidence; or I could leave them, a reminder of all the foul air I’d let myself breathe. I thought about telling Deirdre that I’d quit, but to say so seemed like a jinx.

At Colleen’s recommendation we called a salon on South Van Ness that turned out to be staffed mostly by drag queens out of drag. Deirdre described the highlights and cut she wanted. The stylist, Stefan—an androgynous, lanky European in perfectly snug, low-slung jeans and a pink Izod cropped high—immediately began lobbying for something completely different: “Let’s go dark, with chunky blonde strips, and bring it up shorter in the back. It’ll be flawless with your heart-shaped face.”

I could see the panic in my sister’s eyes. “I’m a soccer mom from New Jersey,” she said.

“Girl, you are going to feel ten years younger when I’m done with you, and all those other soccer moms are going to be mad with jealousy, not to mention copying you a year from now.”

They haggled and came up with a compromise—shorter and darker, yes, but make those blonde chunks blend in, please. I watched him go to work, my eyes drawn to the exposed strip of his hairless belly, which was soft without being flabby, like a teenager’s, and so at odds with his adult face, which bore the permanent expression of someone who’d seen it all. I complimented his hair, which from forehead to neck rose to a center ridge, like a Mohawk but without the sides shaved. “We’re all about the faux-hawk right now,” he said, and sure enough, I would see this style everywhere within two months. “I can give you one,” he told me, and even though I protested that my hairline was too high, the hair I had far too wispy, he assured me he’d make it work.

“I’m kind of going for a more down-and-out look lately,” I said.

Stefan was having none of it. “You keep letting this red mop of yours grow, honey, and the only look you’ll be working is Bozo the Clown.”

Deirdre, hair gooey and wrapped in foil, piped in, “I’ll pay for it, Jamie,” and that sealed the deal.

“You’re going to clean up nicely,” Stefan purred at me.

Afterwards, we met Colleen at the Orbit Room, drank elaborately garnished electric-blue cocktails, and soaked up her praise. It was important for Deirdre to hear; she’d been worrying that she was somehow ruining her image with a hip hairdo.

I think it had been a while since she’d felt good about herself.

A
ndy and AJ were scheduled to arrive the next evening. I felt an impending panic, as if my brief spell at the ball with Deirdre would end at the stroke of midnight; tomorrow it would be pumpkins and cinders. Colleen had invited us to join her at the big party she was going to that night, the same one Brady had mentioned on the phone. It would be held in two connected warehouses, one space featuring a dance floor with different DJs, the other a stage where local bands would play. The warehouses were slated to change owners, and the artists who’d been collectively renting there for years had already begun to relocate to Oakland. This would be their farewell blowout. When I checked my e-mail that day I found a note from Ian about the same party, saying he was thinking of going.
I’ll bring Junior,
he wrote. At first I thought this was a code for some new drug until I realized he meant Jed.

I floated the idea to Deirdre, warning her to not get her hopes up, that it might not be her scene. “Are you kidding?” she said. “I never even go to the movies anymore.”

We went shopping for clothes that afternoon. I bought my first new pair of jeans in years, the first in a very long time that weren’t standard-issue Levi’s. Jeans were being reinvented: lower at the waist, higher in the crotch. The
relaxed fit
days, thank God, were over. Still, I complained that they were too trendy—they belonged on fashionistas like Shane, the temp transcriber who took me out with his friends, not on secondhand types like me. But Deirdre told me they made my ass look good. “Isn’t that what you gay guys want?”

We took a taxi to a street the driver didn’t even know, in a no-man’s land on the far side of Potrero Hill, almost invisible for the way it was squeezed between overlapping freeway ramps. We had to wander through a row of unmarked industrial buildings on foot before we found the parking lot and then trek down a wide alley to get to a backdoor entrance, shielded from the road to distract the police, no doubt.

I’d been worried that we were getting there too early—it was only ten o’clock—but the crowd was already gathering. Deirdre paid for our entry, ten dollars each, and we made our way through a dimly lit corridor, which opened on a three-story cavern with walkways and decks built-out overhead. We found Colleen with one of her girlfriends, a regular at this space who explained that people were showing up early in case the party was shut down, but that if it went all night we’d see
some amazing things.
“Everyone’s coming,” she said. “They’ve got DJs from every scene in town. Total cross-pollination.” I left Deirdre with them and made my way to a bar set up under a wall of monitors flashing cartoony animation. Unlike at an actual nightclub, everyone was patiently waiting their turn, chatting with strangers in line.

A slim guy in a fancy, deconstructed red sweater—all seams and pulled threads—and a pair of jeans not unlike my own, though definitely a few inches narrower at the waist, stood in front of me, the overhead light playing on the shine of his dark hair, turning black to almost blue. He was swaying to the trancey house music filtering in from the dance floor, his head tracing circular patterns, like an eraser on a wipeboard. I developed an entire fantasy based on this limited glimpse: Instantly I had this guy showing up at my clean, smoke-free apartment, flowers in his hand, a dinner I’ve prepared for him already in the oven, those German knives sharp and gleaming on the counter. I cast him as a
wunderkind
architect, artistic but financially solvent, who wanted nothing more than to take care of my debts and bring me to gallery openings and offer me his ass every night, his face in the pillow, that black hair in my fist…I had inched my way forward for a better look, but when I got next to him I felt a palpitation in my stomach that snipped my fantasy in mid-fuck: I recognized him. He did a double take, and I watched his eyes try to determine how he knew me.

“What’s up?” he said, with a cautious smile.

“Ready for a drink,” I replied.

“If I get there first, I’ll order for you.”

“I need three.”

“That’s okay. I can hand them back.”

“Um, okay.” He still hadn’t put it together. “You’re Roger, right?”

“Yeah, where do I know you from?”

“Jamie.”

“Oh!” Alarm in his eyes as it clicked. “You’re Woody’s, um…”

“Yeah. He introduced us at that lounge.”

“Right.” He returned his attention to the bar line, craning his neck like a driver trying to determine the cause of a traffic jam. He saw Woody every day. He probably knew every terrible thing about me.

For weeks I had thought of him as my rival, though that was never true. I said, “Sorry I was an asshole that night we met.”

“I was kind of tacky myself.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, though I was glad he had. “How’s life at Digitent?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“No.”

“The Magoo deal is off, so Digitent is over. The official line is: ‘scaling back to a core staff to re-vision the corporate mission.’ That’s a quote. Today was the last day for most of us. We’ve made this our unofficial pink-slip party.”

“So, is
everyone
here?”

“Woody’s coming,” he said, understanding my question.

I started to ask if Woody had also lost his job, but Roger had reached the bartender. He passed back drinks in plastic cups. I dug out my wallet. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Severance pay.”

I watched him maneuver away, three drinks pressed between his two hands, pausing to air kiss a woman in a tight denim jacket with a white fur collar. Someone else from Digitent? I lost sight of him before I could see if his path might lead to Woody.

Deirdre and Colleen were not standing where I’d left them. I looked around and spied them off to the side, in an area set up as a gallery. Through the thickening crowd, I saw Colleen introducing Deirdre to Brady and Annie. Brady wore an untucked cowboy shirt, one of his party staples. His arm was over Annie’s shoulder, his head nodding along with whatever small talk Dee was making. I had known they would be here, but this first sighting after so long set my nerves aflutter.

Annie spotted me before he did. With a forced smile—clearly she was nervous, too—she said, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Brady told me about it,” I said.

“But I can’t believe you’re here,” she repeated.

“Hey!” Brady beamed. He slid away from Annie and pulled me into a hug that was a near calamity, as I still had three drinks in my hands. For once in my life, the moment didn’t end in a crash of cups and spilled liquid.

“Your sister’s awesome,” he said.

Deirdre took her drink and toasted me. “We were looking at Annie’s art,” she said.

Annie’s art consisted of drawings sketched with thread on fabric, usually of San Francisco cityscapes—houses, telephone poles, parked cars. I’d always liked the way her handmade technique remade the solid world, the structures we take for granted, into something delicate. Two new pieces, sewn onto colorless muslin, hung on the wall. The imagery was the same, but her treatment of it had gotten looser: threads were left hanging, the ends matting together in tangles as if the subject matter was decomposing, these familiar sights no longer sustaining their form. It was almost mournful.

“Does this have something to do with you guys looking for a place to live?” I asked her. “A feeling of displacement?”

She turned to study her pieces as if she’d never seen them before. “Sure. Why not? I never know what I’m doing until someone else looks at it.”

“I haven’t told you,” Brady said, “but I’ve totally hooked up with the folks who are throwing this party, and I’m getting in on their new digs.”

“What do you mean
getting in?”
I asked.

“We’re moving to Oakland.”

“I’ll get a studio out of it,” Annie said.

“No,” I cried. “Don’t go! Don’t leave San Francisco!”

“It’s gonna be awesome, dude,” Brady said. “The place is basically a radio station, with webcasts 24/7. It’s mostly been music, but we’re talking about expanding that. You should get in on it, man. They need content people.”

I hadn’t seen them in months; I’d nearly written off Brady as a traitor. But now the idea that I could lose him to the other side of the bay was crushing. I think he read my mind; he tried to assure me it wasn’t that far.

“Without a car, it’s not that close,” I said. “I need you to help me edit this new piece. The one we talked about.”

“Definitely. That one’s going national, dude.”

He held up his hand for a high five. It was as good as a contract.

I leaned toward Annie and said, “I heard Woody’s coming.” She nodded. “Should I talk to him?”

“Sure, if you run into him.” Her response was guarded enough to sound like discouragement.

With Deirdre, I began exploring the upper levels—an intricate, teeming compound. Wooden staircases rose up to mezzanines with views down to the stage; catwalks connected to decks where kitchens, bedrooms and studios had been fabricated. On the eve of abandonment, most of it had been stripped of possessions; a few couches, futons and little tables cluttered with cups remained. Here and there we saw a computer screen flashing patterns. I smelled Nag Champa incense, spilled beer, skunky pot, an occasional cigarette, what might have been poppers, what might have been Earl Grey tea, occasional perfume, a faint hint of mildew. Conversations rippled along snaking lines for the unisex toilets.

Deirdre and I checked out each nook and cubicle, searching faces, eavesdropping here and there, noting body language when the noise was too strong. The crowd was mixed
—
not like in Teddy’s day, when mixed meant mostly gay with enough women thrown in to ward off suspicion. Today
mixed
had more to do with style: postpunks in black anarchist gear, gay party boys dressed up tight and shiny, glam women with startling hairdos, ravers in fake fur brandishing glow-in-the-dark toys, the pagan-faerie-Burning-Man crowd in anything. Hipster fashion was changing. Child of the seventies (ironic T-shirts, wide collars, polyester pants) was giving way to Fashionable Rag Doll (stripes and patterns paired together as if nothing could ever clash). In our new retail outfits—my ribbed black sweater, her satiny blouse—Dee and I looked too dressed up, though I can’t imagine anyone cared but me.

“Are you okay?” I kept asking her, and she kept saying yes, her fate in my hands as we wandered, until someone sloshed a drink on her open-toed shoe and all at once her frustration seeped out.

“Are we going anywhere in particular?”

I’d been roaming with such efficiency, I realized I could only be looking for Woody. Understanding this, I grew terrified that I’d find him. I saw his face concentrate, his lips tighten, his eyes narrow under their expressive brows: his unhappy reaction to my sudden appearance. The camera closed in, soap-opera style, both of us staring meaningfully. What would I say to him?

“I just wanted to investigate,” I said.

“Can we stand in one place for a while?” she pleaded softly.

“Good idea,” I said, espousing fail-safe party philosophy: “If everyone keeps moving, no one finds anyone.” Choose a well-positioned spot and let him come to you. If you’re lucky, he will.

“How about we watch the bands,” she suggested.

We climbed back down and entered the second, attached warehouse. On stage a six-piece band called the Cubby Creatures was performing a song that went:

It sounded like gypsy music, with a violin, a clarinet, a bass line like a sitar’s, a keyboard like an organ and some kind of Tibetan bell dinging at the beginning; halfway through the drums kicked in and the whole thing transformed into a lover’s argument, the lead singer turning against the one he’d beseeched. I couldn’t imagine what Deirdre made of it, but she swung her body as though she listened to this kind of thing every day. Maybe it was because the band was having so much fun she could only catch hold. Or maybe it was the little puff of pot she indulged in when Brady joined us. I waved away his pipe, a swirl of colored glass. I’d already downed my drink too fast; my instincts blared a warning about getting fucked up. Not my plan tonight.

The audience thinned out after the set, but we lingered in place. Brady and Deirdre had gotten enmeshed in a stoned dialogue about marriage. She’d asked him if he and Annie planned to get married, and he’d responded with, “Why would we?”

“Marriage keeps you honest,” she said.

“But married people lie to each other all the time,” he said.

“But they know when they’re breaking their vows, which makes a difference.”

“Vows are cool, but the institution—it’s just a social pressure.”

“You can’t make a life with someone,” she insisted, “until you make that commitment. Then you have a history together.”

“Does the couple make the commitment,” he asked, “or does the commitment make the couple?”

I still had my father’s wedding ring encircling my thumb. His commitment to my mother had been honest and true, but I was plagued by the notion that he had broken some commitment to himself. Could he have loved her with the same unwavering bond, and set up a life with her in the same structured fashion, but still found a way to admit that in his past was another kind of man, the disordered soul of an artist and writer who sought intimacy in less traditional ways than marriage, who had once conducted an affair with a married woman, who had given his body, briefly, to men? Does a marriage vow let you disavow whatever came before?

Or was I trying to mold him into the man I wished he had been, as he had done to me for years?