and factories and sweatshops? How many people and how many things were involved to discard a string on the side of the road for a young man dying to find and tie to his bike, resolved to tell its story, but running out of time and never quite getting the chance?
I remembered then his long beautiful fingers laying the strings out on a café table, the wrinkles on his knuckles, the scar on his thumb, how it felt to hold his warm alive hand.
13
The next day I went to Crystal Pistol, figuring Jimmy just had to eventually appear at one of these sideshows of choice for the lost young punky boys who came to San Francisco, who did things like collect strings, andâlike Jimmyâravaged their scalps with color. Which reminded me to be thorough in my search. His scalp might have morphed to hot pink by nowâor green or blue. I had to be vigilant and keep an eye out.
But no dice at the Crystal Pistol.
On Saturday, to Klubstitute I scurried, swirling through the retro circus of young multi-gendered boys, some with rhinestones ensconced between their eyes, tiaras on their shaved heads, dresses and combat boots highlighting their skinned, hairy knees; there was lots of slopped-on eyeliner, garish crabapple red lipstick, darling chin stubble. I saw some friends and even wanted to stay, but without knowing where Jimmy was, I found it hard to socialize with anyone, my face a question, obsessively worrying that somewhere my answer was laughing and drinking, dancing and jawing on and on about infant critters to a steady stream of cute available boys. I downed proffered kamikazes foolishly and careened toward a pathetic drunkenness.
A boy got ahold of my left buttcheek and held it like a potter would clay. I smiled politely into his lascivious eyes, but I was through with sucklingâmy thirst would only be slaked by Jimmy. I walked, all through and up and down the streets of the Castro, where I doubted Iâd find him. Sometimes Iâd stand on a corner and just watch the parade. The screeching and slap-happy weekend queens, the bow-legged diesels and swaggering butches, the golden-age-of-Hollywood lipsticks, the snooty sweater guys, the quiet watchful artists, the jabbering mainstream social crowd, the gaggles of serious ACT UP boys in small black leather jackets and paratrooper boots, the playful babydykes, the drunks, the broken, the loners, the addicts, and the mad. To some I said âhiâ; to others whom I didnât know, I just smiled, investing perhaps in future liaisons as weâd thus now noted each other on the scene. But really, I just wanted to ask all and any of them if theyâd seen Jimmy. And how would I describe him? ⦠âHorseboy, ⦠sloppy bleach job, ⦠gangly, ⦠doorknobs for shoulders, knees, and elbows, ⦠pants baggyâthereâs not a belt that could hold anything around that waist, ⦠eyes, eyes that ⦠that ⦠Here, look into mine âthey match these like an electric cord matches a wall socket.â
A few nights later, I went to the End Up for Club Uranus. My last chance. And thatâs where I saw him. Out on the patio, smoking a cigarette, alone.
I swallowed what felt like a whole hard-boiled egg.
It was crowded and I was on the other side of the patio, so he didnât see me as I scooted myself up onto the bench that ran along a sad little hedge of neurasthenic bushes. And I just stared across at him. No way was I going to walk up to him. Someone else did though and tried to chat him up. He didnât even smile, just took a hard drag off the cigarette, nodded his head, and looked away. Which made the point. Then he was alone again.
I leaned forward, wanting to be the next someone, but hesitated. I was dying to give him a hug is the honest truth, grab him like heâd survived a natural disaster and squeeze him until my teeth unclenched and I could breathe easy again. But I couldnât let him see I wanted him that badly.
I remembered then his long beautiful fingers laying the strings out on a café table, the wrinkles on his knuckles, the scar on his thumb, how it felt to hold his warm alive hand.
13
The next day I went to Crystal Pistol, figuring Jimmy just had to eventually appear at one of these sideshows of choice for the lost young punky boys who came to San Francisco, who did things like collect strings, andâlike Jimmyâravaged their scalps with color. Which reminded me to be thorough in my search. His scalp might have morphed to hot pink by nowâor green or blue. I had to be vigilant and keep an eye out.
But no dice at the Crystal Pistol.
On Saturday, to Klubstitute I scurried, swirling through the retro circus of young multi-gendered boys, some with rhinestones ensconced between their eyes, tiaras on their shaved heads, dresses and combat boots highlighting their skinned, hairy knees; there was lots of slopped-on eyeliner, garish crabapple red lipstick, darling chin stubble. I saw some friends and even wanted to stay, but without knowing where Jimmy was, I found it hard to socialize with anyone, my face a question, obsessively worrying that somewhere my answer was laughing and drinking, dancing and jawing on and on about infant critters to a steady stream of cute available boys. I downed proffered kamikazes foolishly and careened toward a pathetic drunkenness.
A boy got ahold of my left buttcheek and held it like a potter would clay. I smiled politely into his lascivious eyes, but I was through with sucklingâmy thirst would only be slaked by Jimmy. I walked, all through and up and down the streets of the Castro, where I doubted Iâd find him. Sometimes Iâd stand on a corner and just watch the parade. The screeching and slap-happy weekend queens, the bow-legged diesels and swaggering butches, the golden-age-of-Hollywood lipsticks, the snooty sweater guys, the quiet watchful artists, the jabbering mainstream social crowd, the gaggles of serious ACT UP boys in small black leather jackets and paratrooper boots, the playful babydykes, the drunks, the broken, the loners, the addicts, and the mad. To some I said âhiâ; to others whom I didnât know, I just smiled, investing perhaps in future liaisons as weâd thus now noted each other on the scene. But really, I just wanted to ask all and any of them if theyâd seen Jimmy. And how would I describe him? ⦠âHorseboy, ⦠sloppy bleach job, ⦠gangly, ⦠doorknobs for shoulders, knees, and elbows, ⦠pants baggyâthereâs not a belt that could hold anything around that waist, ⦠eyes, eyes that ⦠that ⦠Here, look into mine âthey match these like an electric cord matches a wall socket.â
A few nights later, I went to the End Up for Club Uranus. My last chance. And thatâs where I saw him. Out on the patio, smoking a cigarette, alone.
I swallowed what felt like a whole hard-boiled egg.
It was crowded and I was on the other side of the patio, so he didnât see me as I scooted myself up onto the bench that ran along a sad little hedge of neurasthenic bushes. And I just stared across at him. No way was I going to walk up to him. Someone else did though and tried to chat him up. He didnât even smile, just took a hard drag off the cigarette, nodded his head, and looked away. Which made the point. Then he was alone again.
I leaned forward, wanting to be the next someone, but hesitated. I was dying to give him a hug is the honest truth, grab him like heâd survived a natural disaster and squeeze him until my teeth unclenched and I could breathe easy again. But I couldnât let him see I wanted him that badly.
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