He was a nice guy, but I wasn’t his type, and he wasn’t mine. Harry and Arleen were more upset than either of us were; that’s the way it goes with dating.
I pulled up in front of the two-story stucco building that housed the Marriage Project to see a very butch lesbian in cargo shorts and a tie-dyed T-shirt nailing a piece of plywood over what had been a front window.
“If you need something done, ask a lesbian,” Robert said, after we’d exchanged greetings.
We went inside, and I asked, “Want to tell me what happened?”
“I was on the phone with Haley’s Helium Heaven asking why the rainbow arc of multi-colored balloons wasn’t here yet, when there was this noise and the window just exploded.”
He pointed to the square pane in the front window, now securely covered with plywood. “The floor in front of my desk was just strewn with shards of glass. I was so startled I actually just hung up the phone and stared.”
He crossed his arms. He was wearing a bright pink polo shirt and a pair of white clam-diggers that exposed a chunk of ankle. “I mean, I was a pretty girly teenager, bad at sports and in love with Broadway show tunes, your typical fag-in-training, so I got teased a lot, got pushed around in the halls a few times and called a couple of names that I’m glad to admit to now, like cocksucker and butt pirate. But I was never gay-bashed, and I just couldn’t believe it.”
I smiled reassuringly, and as I did, I wrinkled my nose with the recognition of a bad smell. At first I worried that maybe the aroma of dead chicken was still lingering around my truck, attaching itself to me, but there was a different note to this stink.
“You smell it,” Robert said, noticing my reaction. “The rock that came through the window was just part one. The guys yelled, ‘Take that, faggots!’ And then I smelled shit. I looked through the window at the pavement outside the building. A half-dozen paper bags were split open, and there was brown, mucky goo spilling out of them.”
He handed me a piece of brown paper bag, with writing on it. “There was a note, too.”
I read, ‘Faggots deserve to die,’ scrawled with a pencil in crude block letters.
I took notes on everything Robert said, and promised to file a report. All the time he was talking, I kept looking at my watch, worrying that I wouldn’t have enough time to get home, get showered and changed, and pick up my date.
Harry had encouraged me to invite someone to the Marriage Project party, and I’d deferred until a week before, when I’d been having drinks with my friend Gunter at the Rod and Reel Club, a gay bar in Waikiki not far from my apartment. I’d mentioned the party to Gunter, complained about having to get into the tuxedo I owned but tried never to wear.
“I’ve got a tux,” Gunter said. “But you can bet I jump at any chance to wear it. I think men look more handsome in tuxedos than in any other clothes.” Then he smiled at me. “Even better than in no clothes at all.”
Gunter was a “friend with benefits.” We had sex every now and then, when no one else was available, but mostly we were friends. “Come with me, then,” I said. “Be my date.”
“Serious?”
“Serious as a hot dick on a cold night,” I said, repeating back to him one of his favorite expressions.
Since then we’d talked a couple times about the party. Gunter was about as far from marriage-minded as a guy can get, but the party meant free food and booze and a chance to look his best, and there was nothing wrong with that. I was pleased I’d been able to make him so happy.
By the time I got home, he’d already left a message on my answering machine, saying he was ready, so I jumped through the shower and started pulling on my tuxedo. When we went to my cousin Mark’s wedding, which was black tie, my parents had bought it for me, over my complaints. “I’m never going to wear this thing again,” I’d said, while my mother supervised the fitting.
“Every man should have a tuxedo,” she said. “Just in case.”
I sometimes think she and I live in different worlds. In hers, people go to black tie dinners and dance until dawn, drinking champagne cocktails and flirting like they’re in some old movie. In my world, people commit murder, they force teenage kids into prostitution, and they shoot chickens, which start to stink in the hot sun. The two worlds don’t go together that well.
I clipped the black satin bow tie on just as I was ready to leave, then stopped to look at myself in the mirror.
I considered myself lucky to get the best genes from my varied ancestors. Black hair and skin that tans easily from the Hawaiians, a slight epicanthic fold over the eyes from my Japanese grandfather, just enough to make me look exotic and dashing. Solid lines in my face, good cheekbones and a strong chin from my haole grandmother. I’m normally not vain about my looks, figuring it’s all genetics, but that night I had to admit I looked handsome.
Gunter shared a small house with a roommate, just outside Waikiki proper, behind Diamond Head Elementary. I pulled up in his driveway and walked up the front sidewalk. The orange and yellow hibiscus blossoms on the bushes by his mailbox were already closing up, and the evening sky was shading from pastel blue to lavender above the mountains. The pervasive smell of smoke still lingered, and I hoped we’d get that rain sometime soon. In the distance I heard someone pounding an ipu gourd and chanting rhythmically in Hawaiian.
Gunter came out the door. “You look gorgeous!” he said, stopping to admire me. “Who knew you dressed up so well?” He put one finger on my chin and turned my head from side to side. “Darling, you need somebody to take you in hand and bring out your potential!”
“Come on,” I said.
Gunter looked better than usual himself. He’s about six-three, lean and gawky, with a buzz-shaved head. The first time I met him, at a gay bar in Waikiki, I thought he looked like a giraffe. But the tuxedo had worked its wonders on him as well. All gawkiness had disappeared, and he seemed suave and debonair. His short hair made him look European, but a little exotic as well.
“What’s this?” he asked, fingering my tie. “A clip-on bow tie? I can’t be seen with a man wearing a clip-on. Fortunately I have an extra one inside.” He tugged on my hand.
“Gunter, we’re running late already.”
“Then we’ll just be a little later.”
His house was sparse, almost Oriental. No clutter, no books or magazines or sports equipment strewn around, like you find at my place. He led me back into his bedroom, and I started wondering if we had enough time for some quick fun before the party. The answer, of course, was no, but that didn’t stop me thinking. I’d been going through a sexual dry spell, too busy to troll for dates in bars or online, and Gunter had been busy himself with a series of Filipino gardeners at the condo where he worked as a security guard.
“Take that thing off,” he said, rummaging in one of his bureau drawers. I took off the tie and put it in my pocket. “And take your jacket off, too, and put your collar up.”
He turned back to me with a long strip of black fabric in his hand. “Here we go.” He stepped up close to me, his face almost at mine, and started fiddling with the tie. “It’s harder to do this on somebody else,” he said. “Let me get behind you.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” I said.
“Oh, you tease.”
I felt his body close to me, and sensed a familiar stiffening in my groin, a sensation I resolved to ignore. Then I realized he was feeling the same thing. What a damn shame that we were on a schedule. “We have a dinner to go to, Gunter,” I said. “No time for fun.”
He finished the tie with a flourish. “There you go,” he said, turning me around so I faced the mirror. “Doesn’t that look better?” ????
Gunter and I met my high school friend, Terri Gonsalves, as we walked from the parking garage toward the party. She wore a low-cut, short black silk dress with a single strand of pearls. On her right wrist she wore the emerald bracelet that had been her husband’s last gift to her.