Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (26 page)

***

Next time was three days later, in fact. I was closing up for the evening when Sparkle came in looking completely worn out. He lumbered in, took a seat, and put his head on the table.

“Let me guess,” I guessed, “been doing the big brother thing again, right?”

“Uh huh,” he mumbled, without lifting his head off the table.

“Wanna talk about it?” I tried as I locked the door and pulled down the shades.

“Nuh uh.”

“Wanna drink?”

“Uh huh”

“How ‘bout a Big Girlie Drink Drunk Night?” Now his head was off the table.

For those of you who don’t know what a Big Girlie Drink Drunk Night is (And why would you? We made it up.), let me tell you, it’s fun as hell for a few hours and you’re guaranteed a nasty hangover in the morning. So why do we do it? Because it makes you appreciate the plain, old gin and tonics all that much more. Plus, you get to be a big girlie drunk. Makes sense to me. Anyway, Big Girlie Drink Drunk Nights help you to forget your troubles. At least for a few hours.

What you do is, you go from one bar to the next and you order a different girlie drink at each one. Girlie drinks (and again, no misogyny intended here) are drinks with cordials in them. You know, like Amaretto Sours, Melon Balls (with Midori), White Russians (Khalua and vodka together, yippy!), anything blue, or anything with Schnapps, etc., etc.

Then we occasionally make it interesting by alternating between full drinks and shots. Girlie shots only, though, in keeping with the spirit of things. Our favorites are Sex on the Beach, Slippery Nipples, B-52’s, and, again, anything blue or anything with Schnapps in it. If you think you’re man enough to play this game, let me give you a piece of advice: stay away from the Jaegermeister. And Goldschlager is a no-no except when it’s in an Oatmeal Cookie. (The shot, not the actual cookie.) Now you see why the hangover is a necessary evil of this game. Anyway, if you try it and you like it, let me know. If you try it, puke, make a jackass of yourself, or destroy your liver, blame yourself. I mean, if you made it this far, I think you’re an idiot if you follow our example on anything.

In any case, Sparkle quickly helped me close up, and we were firmly ensconced on a ledge at Moby Dick’s within twenty minutes. With frosty, green Grasshoppers in hand, we sat and talked about Sparkle’s outing with Peter.

“It was horrible, Secret,” he began. “I thought I had it bad growing up, but this kid has the sob story to end all sob stories. What he needs is a team of shrinks to help him, not one lousy big brother. Honestly, the poor guy is barely hanging on by a thread. That shelter is his last chance, with juvenile detention camp constantly looming over his head. It’s amazing that he made it this far. Given the same circumstances, I’d probably be dead by now.”

Okay, drink one down. Those damn Grasshoppers are just way too yummy. So off we went, and, within seconds, were at the video bar, The Midnight Sun. Why this bar is a perennial favorite is truly one of nature’s great mysteries. I always leave with a stiff neck from looking up at the monitors. Anyway, they made a mean Brandy Alexander, so I wasn’t complaining. Any more than usual.

Sparkle went on with the story. “So here’s this fifteen year old kid. He’s happy and well-adjusted. He’s on all these junior varsity teams, he’s on the honor roll, and he’s in love. And, get this, the guy loves him back. At fifteen! So what does he go and do? He tells his parents the whole story, thinking that the meanest thing that they could do to him was to ground him or something. And I thought my life was the worst case scenario; like I said, this kid’s got me beat, hands down.”

Sorry, it was a decent enough drink and the glasses were awfully small, so, of course, we were off again. This time we landed our girlie asses at Daddy’s. Not exactly cordial-central, but they did have the necessary ingredients, and we happily ordered and then drank our Bocce Balls. Which, by the way, are Amaretto and orange juice. Mmm, mmm, good.

The story went on, barely slowed by the booze consumption. “So they, like, totally freak. They start screaming at him and calling him faggot and queer and an abomination before the eyes of God. And they aren’t even religious or anything. Typical, so fucking typical. In the face of ignorance, preach the Bible. And, by then, Peter is totally hysterical and in shock. His parents had never so much as raised their voices to him before and now they’re treating him like he’s a pariah. But, wait, here comes the best part. See, when they were through shouting, and Peter thought the nastiest had come, they tell him that they don’t want him living under their roof with them anymore. They say that it will ruin their standing in the community. I mean, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? His mother’s a housewife and his father’s an accountant. I seriously doubt that either one was about to seek public office or anything. Anyway, what else could Peter do? He packed his duffel and left.

“Then it was out of the frying pan and into the fire. Thinking he could convince his boyfriend that they should run away together, he hightails it over to the guy’s house. When he tells him what happened,
boom
, relationship over. Apparently, the other dude’s parents were practicing Catholics and he wasn’t about to take any chances. Sorry, teen lover, but bye-bye.”

We did try to drink a little slower, but you know how it is. So out of Daddy’s and into The Phoenix we did go. The Phoenix, at that time so long ago, was The Castro’s version of a disco. I use the term lightly, by the way. Basically, they played horrible music and had a dance floor. The bar, the clientele, and the drinks were all awful. Funny how The Castro is this big gay Mecca and it’s made up of a bunch of tragic bars and over-priced clothing stores. Gay ghetto indeed. (Though, of course, I wouldn’t want to live nearby to anyplace else. After all, it’s my gay ghetto.) Anyway, we ordered a shot of peach Schnapps in anticipation of getting the hell out of there fast.

Half of it downed, Sparkle continued with Peter’s plight. Sadly, the girlie drinks had barely squelched his anger and sorrow. “So there he was: no family, no boyfriend, and, he figured, no school, as he knew that word would get out somehow about his condition at home. So what does he do? He hitches rides to San Francisco, the one place he knew, or at least heard, that it was okay to be gay. But what he quickly learns is that it’s okay to be gay only if you have a job, if you have a home, if you have an education, and, mostly, if you have money.

“Having none of the above, he finds himself with other homeless teens in the same situation. Not exactly the best role models for an impressionable teenager, but at least he felt relatively safe with them. Of course, life on the street has its drawbacks. Aside from the fact that he rarely has a roof over his head or three square meals a day, he has to make ends meet by begging, stealing, and selling drugs. Somehow, he miraculously avoids tricking. He wanted to maintain some bit of his integrity, he told me. Amazing.”

The story needed one more drink, so we ran out of The Phoenix and right on over to The Pendulum, where men went to meet other men of color. The Pendulum was livelier than the other bars we’d visited and significantly cruisier. Our final drink of the evening was a blue Hawaiian. Thank goodness gay bars carry the necessary ingredients for these girlie drinks, and, feeling quite tropical, Sparkle finished the tale. Just in time, too, because I was feeling quite tipsy by then.

“Anyway, for the past year, that’s how he’s lived. He tried calling home on several occasions and begged his parents to let him come back, but they hung up on him. Times get rough, he increases his drug trade. That, of course, increases his drug use. Which, in turn, makes him sloppy. In other words, he got caught. Twice. Each time he makes it back to the streets, however. This last time, he ends up at the shelter with a promise that if he gets caught again it’s off to a juvenile detention camp. And that’s a big no-no in his book. Then, to top it all off, the State decides that it’s in his own best interest that he has a gay big brother. Namely moi.”

“So much for wise thinking,” I interjected.

“Exactly,” he responded. “And fuck you very kindly.”

“So what do you really think of our new young friend?” I asked.

Sparkle sighed and finished his drink with a hard gulp. “Well, hard to say, really. I mean, I was glad that he opened up to me and all. See, apparently, there are no young gay counselors at the shelter. And I did end the day with a huge respect for the kid’s willpower and determination, but, still, I just don’t know; I’m not exactly a role model, you know. I just hope that I can do some good for him, because I’ve never met anyone who could use a break more than Peter could. Anyway, the sixty hours should go by fast and then…”

“And then
what
?” I wondered, aloud. I mean, how do you leave a kid in that kind of situation?

“…then we have to wait and see what happens, I suppose. But I’ll tell you one thing, the whole time I was with him today, I kept thinking, there but for the grace of God go I. I mean, really, if my parents weren’t super wealthy, that probably would’ve been me out there. And that’s some scary shit, Secret.”

“Boo yeah. You on the streets wrecking havoc on the masses? Yikes,” I readily agreed.

“Yikes is right. Anyway, let’s just pray that Peter stays on the straight and narrow, for lack of a better expression, because I’m not visiting him in that youth prison. No sir. The shelter is depressing enough,” Sparkle said, grabbing my hand. “Now let’s get out of here; I officially declare Big Girlie Drink Drunk Night over and done with.”

“Amen,” I responded, staggering out of the bar and into the chilly San Francisco night air.

***

Over the next few weeks, Sparkle spent an increasing amount of time with Peter. It was refreshing to see him take responsibility for something or someone other than himself. And Peter, for his part, was opening up and calming down. I think it helped that the shelter enrolled him in school and set some much needed boundaries in his life. On the weekends, we took him on outings: museums, galleries, plays, Macy’s. You know,
wholesome
gay activities. During the week, Peter would come by the shop after school, I’d help him with his homework, and he’d help out around the store to earn some much-needed spending money. All in all, though it was a work in progress, things were going quite nicely for our newly formed family.

On the personal front, Chester and I dated casually, but the whole
put the dress on and let me fuck you
thing got kinda old, kinda fast. Psychologically, I had no idea what was going on in the poor bloke’s head, and I didn’t really want to find out. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he was awfully cute, so, well, cut me some slack, please. As for Sparkle, he had his hands full with Peter, and Sven had strange work hours, so they, too, dated here and there, but nothing serious. Of course, there were certain advantages to having a stretch limo at your beck and call. (Though what exactly is a beck?) Sharon, in the meanwhile, was raking it in all of a sudden. Lesbians were coming in droves (ooh, that sounds pretty) to the shop, now that the gay section was open. Meaning, Sharon had her dance card filled for weeks on end.

One night, several weeks after Peter entered our lives, and with only five hours remaining in Sparkle’s community service, Sparkle, Sharon, and I all decided to go on our first triple date. I took Chester, Sparkle took Sven, and Hester, a practicing witch, accompanied Sharon. (Yes, San Francisco is truly unique in its abilities to draw all kinds to its shores.) We decided on Italian somewhere in North Beach. I forget exactly where we ate, but like all the Italian restaurants in that neighborhood, it was yummy, a bit pricey, and mega-straight. (On a side note, most of the waiters really are Italian and drop-dead-gorgeous, so you can see why we opted for it.)

Anyway, it was nice having the gang together somewhere outside the shop for a change. Plus, the evening started off with something out of the ordinary, besides being driven to the restaurant in Sven’s limo. See, as the six of us sat down to our table, Hester asked us all to hold hands and to close our eyes. We obeyed. (I mean, never fuck with a witch, right? Remember the
Wizard of Oz
?) I had no idea what she was doing, but I could hear soft murmuring and chanting coming from her side of the table. Must’ve been the witch’s version of Grace, I figured. In any case, when she told us to open our eyes again, the entire restaurant was staring our way. We feigned nonchalance and started perusing the menu.

“We don’t have to do that again in between courses, do we?” Sparkle whispered to Hester, much to Sharon’s chagrin.

“No, once ought to do it. The table is now cleansed of all bad spirits that might’ve been lingering,” she replied. And I was certain she was serious.

“Oh, great, nothing worse than bad spirits ruining a perfectly good meal,” he joked, but it went right over Hester’s head. It didn’t, however, go over Sharon’s. She made a face at Sparkle that indicated that he better settle down.

“Oh, I know, but they’re gone now, so we can eat in harmony.” Hester was spooking me out big time, but Sharon looked happy, so I let it pass.

“So, Hester, um, like, how long have you been a witch?” This time it was Chester that picked up the ball, giving me a little leg squeeze under the table as he asked her the question.

“Oh, let me see,” she said, sitting there thinking about it. “See, that’s a tough one… it must be… oh… six… no, make that seven… no, six… yes, definitely,
six
lifetimes.” (
Ding, ding, ding.
Hello, Sharon, are you listening to this? Where the hell did you find this chick? At the poison apple booth at the farmer’s market?)

“Wow, long time,” Sven spoke up, adding to the underscore of low-key jocularity, all at Hester’s expense. Still, it went,
whoosh
, right over her head.

“Yeah, well the seventh time didn’t really count,” she tried to explain. Sharon, sensing defeat, merely bowed her head.

“No?” asked Sparkle, with a concerned furl in his brow. “How come?”