A Fresh Start

It wasn't so long ago that I got an email from a former student of mine. I hadn't heard from him in months since he moved with his husband to Colorado to live in the gay Rockies (if such a place actually exists.) I missed the two of them mostly because it was so easy to drop in for a visit when they lived just around the corner from my school in their own town house with another former student, Charles Astin. The three were like an interesting gay variation of Golden Girls. We exchanged a few posts and I mentioned a guy's name, which in turn lead to:
"Oh… what is this about Tom? Tom who? You have to dish. David and I are all over the place with questions. Who, What, Where, When and Why? Oh and How?

Anxiously Waiting,

Joey"
So of course I had to respond, again, and fill him in.

Hmmm. I coulda sworn I wrote something about this guy. Dang, now I've gotta dish clues and I've been so discreet so far. Double dang! Maybe I should leek this out like Carley Simon, letter by letter. I'll give you the easy summary: we met at a card party, we were two of four people that don't know how to play bridge and don't really care. It was August or something. He wanted a date, but I was a little evasive because I was busy closing down the apartment in Santa Clarita, wondering where my next job (and paycheck) was coming from, and busy as hell trying to find a place of my own in WeHo. Now, let's also not forget that I was also limited with online access and phoneless. By the time he got in contact with me and had me commit to a date it was late September. I really wasn't in a place where I felt my most confident. I mean, I was living with friends and taking care of apartments just for a place to stay; I hadn't gotten my first paycheck yet and when I did most of that went to pay off back debt. Tension was running a little high with Christopher feeling a little bit invaded. I think David understands what I'm saying, except imagine David if he had to live with someone like.... oh, I don't know....maybe...Charles? Seriously, I don't know how David did it. But you've met Christopher (Brendan's husband) and you know me. I think you can stretch the imagination. If you remember what Christopher was like when he had to spend two hours at Hugo's restaurant seated next to Charles Astin, the former all state male chearleader/ice dancer (well, that could drive anyone to the brink if you don't know how to handle diplomacy) you this should give you an idea of what it was like after two weeks at apartment #1, 1128 Lawrence. (insert scream noise here.)... so yea, I wasn't exactly the confident glamazon I usually portend to be. Working all day and learning the ropes at the new schools was exhausting. Add to that a commute over the hill, walking a big dog up and down those steep hills and a few other house hold "chores" I did to earn my keep while living with the two slovenly bears, all the while walking on egg shells in Christopher's presence, and I was in an exhausted, befouled mood. I restarted smoking like a fiend to take the edge off. The water pressure in that decrepit old building was installed by the Romans and had almost completely fossilized. The hot water never lasted any longer than twelve and a half minutes which really cut into my sense of ever feeling "clean". I think if I pissed myself I would have felt more assured in knowing the fluid had gone through a fresher filtration than that Byzantine cistern system of calcified, rusting pipes. Where was I going with this? Oh, yea...I was sporting a good five o'clock shadow again
.


But Tom was relentless. So I finally agreed to meet him for a date on the last Friday of September. What a day. I'd just did all the normal exhausting crap and spent two hours washing chocolate milk off the inside and outside of my car -baptism a gratis de the pissed off students of the new school- Yep, I'd been punked. On the other hand, it coulda been worse. I heard one substitute had her car keyed. I tried to be nice and still beg-off the date, but Tom was being such a nice guy. God knows why he was being nice, I was in one of those moods that is so foul it usually has Joey laughing hysterically and Charles Astin retreating to his bedroom (lips twisted into a sneer, but unable to think of anything fresh and bitchy to say in response.) So really, it was like he was inviting something between Steve McQueen and Karen Walker to a date. He lives in the "right" area that isn't quite WeHo, but isn't all the Beverly Hills. It's right on Doheny in a very smart building. He's thinking of moving on up to the deluxe apartment in the sky (aka Sierra Tower, where crazy social snobs of today and yesteryear live: Paris Hilton, Diane Carroll, Sidney Poitier, the ancient heiress to the Sinclair Paint fortune, Brenda Fraiser, Rick(y) Schroder (who I almost hit one morning when he was jogging and ran right in front of my car.) So anyway, he talks me into meeting him at his building and we'll go to dinner from there. When I get there it's a high security building with one of those lobbies that you have to be "buzzed in" or the doorman has to have your name. I was wearing blue jeans, a dirty flannel shirt that hinted of my perspiration, five o'clock shadow, -oh, and I walked there from Lawrence street. Nice, yea? I looked like a freshly showered homeless gardener, and WeHo has plenty of those, trust me. Then I realized I didn't know Tom's last name. I couldn't even be sure of the first letter. So to answer the question "Who are you here for?" was a lost hope. The looks I got as I stood in the lobby pondering my next move were somewhere between nervous trepidation as ladies held their Fendi bags a little closer, to utter disdain from vintage ivy leaguers that were certain I was a hustler and felt cheated that I wasn't their hustler. What else could I do? I walked back home. Hey, if he's going to ask me to come over there, he might make it a point to tell the doorman that I'm arriving, or at least make sure I know his last name, or tell me the damn code so I didn't have to wait to be "buzzed in" to a startled audience that acted like I'd just crashed their fund raiser and a briss. When I got home he called again in two minutes.

"Where are you?"

"Home. I don't know your last name and they have this rule at your building about letting undocumented people roam the halls."

"Why didn't you call me from the front lobby?"

"Because I never take my cell phone on a date. It's rude and shows a potential for thinking that something maybe more important than the date. Would you answer a cell phone on a date?"

At that he just laughed, and I wasn't really in the mood to hear someone laugh. "Come on back over."

"No. I really don't feel like I'd be good company for you right now. It's been a rough day...week...you get the idea." I then tried a couple of times to wheedle outta the evening and I thought if I'd stayed firm he'd eventually get the idea that I wasn't going to be good company for him. I told him about everything that had seemed to go awry and he still tenaciously held his offer. Finally he said something that made me think I could prove him wrong, "Please come over and go out with me. I can make you change your mind. I'll be good company for you." Hmmm...

Well, we know how much I enjoy a challenge, especially when it looks like a sure thing and I'm going to get a meal outta it. "Ok, but I'm smoking."

"No problem. Is there anything else you want when you get here?"Try to remember this was late September and the air was hot and dry with the Santa Ana winds.

"A cold bottle of beer would good." And with that I hung up and walked back one more time to theover priced real estate of one Thomas Cartiff.

All that I've said so far is true, except the name was changed because of economic fame. Yes, he shows up in Google. Yes, he has more money than mere mortals. Yes, he's out and gay. Yes, he's been in a relationship that ended after twenty years, and yes it was with another man. His former residence was sold last month for twenty-something million dollars, and he was the bread winner in the relationship. No, he isn't too old. No, I'm not being "kept" -I really do have integrity. I have no idea what his first attraction was, you can ask him if it get to that point.

Once Burned, Twice Shy

While some people believe that they can drive their own destiny, still others believe that some matters are controlled by fate, God(s), Karma, or some cosmic force. Some celestial guide puts people in our lives for a reason, there is an intention. It isn’t accidental. It is these same people that believe in love at first sight.

I’ve had my own experience with love at first sight. After a fast crash-and-burn romance of two or three weeks I recovered with the help of my friends. I’ve really got to hand it to them for all of their patience, encouragement, and strength. I don’t know how I got so emotionally involved so quickly, but you know as they say, “the star that shines the brightest, burns the fastest.” For about a week after it, my friends shared stories, sympathized, and reminded me daily “He isn’t worth half this much attention. Some one better will come along.” By the middle of the second week I was feeling stronger and had less of a hangdog look. I had responsibilities, things I needed to get done that I’d neglected during my distractions. I felt I could face the world again, on my own.

Sure enough in the absence of good friends, guess who appears. Yep, my ex. Y a know that feeling you get, like when something occurs almost too coincidentally, but you know it couldn't have been planned because none of the elements are familiar with each other, not by a long shot? That's what it felt like. So a morning exchange of the emails is finished yesterday and I go out to get some additional official copies of my credential and transcript records over at C.S.U.N. I figure that it should only take a few minutes and the odds of running into Allan are pretty slim. I mean, he moved down to Long Beach, didn't he? Besides, I'm supposed to be past that now. I'm in the Admissions and Records office, sweating out the heat in the typical long line of people shuffling along through the labyrinth of cordoned ropes. Big fans whirr, a baby cries, a few people talk in hushed but irritated voices on their cellulars, everyone is perspiring and although this is an institution of higher learning it looks like everyone has just about reached the end of his or her higher educated patience, including me. We may be in the twenty first century, but the university admissions and records system is like a rationing line at the D.M.V. in the Soviet Socialist Republic. I almost wanted to buy my way past everyone with a pair of blue jeans.

Two more turns and I’ll be done. Finished. I’ll be free to take my official papers and leave the Kremlin of academia. This last stretch of line has to endure the direct waft of hot air roiling in from the double doors and students coming and going. It’s tolerable when I remember that in only a few seconds I’ll be face to face with a clerk that will take my instructions to get me whatever obscure papers and paperwork I want, anything just to get one more hot and agitated body out of this room. I was just wiping the perspiration from the back of my neck when another blast from the oven door sent the air over me again, and when I look in the direction of the door I saw Allan walk in.

Gulp. My brows furrowed and I had a half crooked grin as I figured “Well, what are the chances this would happen?” It’s a big campus, and he just finished his master’s work with the spring semester, who’d have thought he’d be back so soon. F’ing chance!” I’ve never been strong with a belief in Devine plan, but if there is one I figure He’s timed the execution of character entrances and exits far too comically in my life. Oh sure, I’m always on time where I need to be; and I’m always ready when someone says they’re coming for a visit; but spontaneous arrivals of the last person on earth I would never want to see are the common occurrences in my life I hate. they always happen to me when I look my absolute worst. Oeuf!

So I’m turning away, trying not to look like I’m hiding, hoping that I am inconspicuously lost in the crowd, cursing the f’ing god that is responsible for this turn of fate. Is God enjoying this? What a sick mind He has. Why does he always throw me these screwballs? Couldn’t he just go watch some I Love Lucy reruns, or something? Geez, he’s God, fer gad sake. He could resurrect Lucy and make her perform live if He wanted. Try not to think, try not to think ...it’s just one more turn, try not to think.

But oh no, God’s having none of that. In this twisted Greek-key pattern of the labyrinth, we’re going to end up face to face at the very last turn. Man! Gimmie a break! At the mid point in the final stretch I get the idea to turn around and start walking backward as I progress. It’s an easy avoidance since the woman behind me has a toddler in a stroller, and what mother isn’t used to complete stranger’s fawning over their kid? So start in a sotto voice just audible between parent and myself, but not loud enough to be heard at any distance. “Awww. He’s adorable.”

“She.”

“Oh, sorry” I apologize. “How old is she?”

“Fifteen. She gets her license next week.”

“Oh, ‘ha-ha’” I look wryly at the mother. “So she must be a freshman.” I add to her joke. I was just crouching to return the grasp of the baby’s outstretched hands when the line shifted.

“It looks like you’re next” the mother said with a gentle smile.

“Oh, right.” Good, I thought. Now all I have to do is get up, turn around for two steps to the front of the line. Keeping my focus on the first available clerk will be easy and perfectly normal. It won’t seem like I’m avoiding anything at all. Stand up, about face, one step forward –oh, gawd. It’s the last step and I’m face to face with Allan.

He looks up from over the edge of the paperwork he’s trying to fill out while in line. His glasses are almost sliding off the end of his nose. He looks like a father catching one of his sons sneaking out after curfew. “Hey.” he says. “I haven’t heard from you for a while.” Man is he ever cool.

I look up and down the long counter of clerk windows. Every one of them is busy and showing no signs of letting up soon, so I turn back to him. “Uhm, yea. You hadn’t written or called for a while.” -A long while, I wanted to add. In fact. You’d just sort of vanished without a trace after two weeks of calling me every day, and sending me a new email between those. It was overwhelming, but you got me right where you wanted me. I hope it was good for you, because the ride was great and a pretty furious rush for me.

A window opened.

“I gotta go; it looks like it’s my turn.” I said as I stepped up to my place.

“Oh, well, don’t be a stranger.” he murmured, and then loudly, “I’ll call you!”

I turned around and looked at him right in the eye for just a second. It was only a split second of locked eye contact and I know I had that stunned silent expression like when I actually hear someone say the “F” word. “Sir?” a clerk’s voice was calling to me. I turned away from my hesitation and went back to the direction I was headed. I never looked back.

There’s this nagging reminder whenever I think back at that moment. Should I have said anything? Should I have taken the first step back? I didn’t, that’s all I know. It feels empty, that conclusion, as if I didn’t learn anything but I should have.

Symbiosis

After all the drama building up to the big event, you’d think that I’d be prepared for the big day: a funeral for my grandmother. But how can you really prepare yourself for a funeral? You know the normal course of things, the chapel, the sacraments. You know the right flowers to send, the clothes to wear, and what to say to the grieving. However, in all that perfunctory preparation, you can never rehearse your own emotions. Sure, I miss her. When I think that I won’t see her anymore I get sad. When I remember that she’s the last truly sincere and unconditionally loving person in my family, I become distraught.

I’ll never forget how she was just a little disappointed when I came out to her. I had already dealt with the rest of the family, had their reactions, and had endured more variations of dramatic emotions than witnessed in a Molière play. By the time I got to grandma, I’d figured that some one must have tipped her off. I guess I should have known better. No one in this family has the balls for it. It’s the classic wasp routine all over again: ignore the uncomfortable situation and maybe it will go away; hopefully no one will mention it again.

I remember it was a summer afternoon and I’d recently finished my undergrad work. I was making my rounds to thank everyone that was a relative or a friend of my parents that had sent some kind of acknowledgement of the graduation. For my grandmother I had taken her out for a lunch at her old club and driven her home. It was something a family member would do once a week since my grandfather had passed on three years earlier. Not that it was a labor to be with her, it was just a labor to get to her. The drive took two hours and four freeway connections to get south past Los Angeles International Airport, two state universities, and Disneyland. After the long, hot drive I was in no mood for “the happiest place on earth”, but I was more than ready to surrender myself to a visit with my comfortable, genteel old grandmother. While most of my family did see and speak to her as if she were a lost glove, or a lonely survivor of lost love, I couldn’t imagine her that way. She may have loved grandpa and missed him very much, but she was still an individual person with her own identity. Treating her as if she were in a perpetual state of mourning would have been disrespectful to that personality I knew as her own person.

To describe her one would have to imagine what it would be like if Jane Curtain or Angelica Houston played a nonagenarian. She was lady-like, and feminine, but there was just something about her that seemed a little stronger than most people would assume. Dealing with the personalities that were living and breathing in my family when she married into it, she must have been very strong. How they never came to realize that boggles the mind; but many of them do suffer the diva complex (and may I remind any of my friends reading this right here and now just to shut up?) Her patience when dealing with any of them could be observed in the way she could converse in a soft tone while still knitting, or crocheting, or cross-stitching. It was such a calm contrast to my otherwise crazy family. A few hours in her presence and I could really feel relaxed. Sometimes I’d find myself nodding off while listening to her monologue story of a recent game of bridge, or was it mah-jongg?

“Am I boring you?” she’d ask while winding a skein of yarn into more manageable ball.

“Oh, probably.” I’d tease and then try to shake myself awake, slowly shuffle a deck of cards on the coffee table and attempt a game of solitaire. I could just make out the slightest glimpse of a smirk on her face never faltering in its gaze to her work.

“Now you’re being a smarty, just like your grandfather.”

“What would he have said?”

“It’s not so much that he’d say anything. He wasn’t as clever as you. He’d just cough, or pretend to fall asleep and snore, or “accidentally” let his cigarette burn holes into the antimacassars.”

“Heh! What would you do?”

“Empty the ashtray into his coffee.” Then she looked up from the yarn and said with the voice of a sincerely concerned hostess, “Oh, did you want me to get you something to drink?” She rose and moved to her kitchen already anticipating an answer.

“Uhm...maybe just some water –or anything I can see through.”

“Suit yourself. Water it is” she’d answer from the kitchen, and returning into the room with a teak tray, an ice cold refrigerated glass pitcher of water and two glasses, “Hmm. As if I couldn’t put anything in that.”

“Dead or alive, eventually I think you’ll want me to leave.” No response. She’d just have one of those very old broad smiles with her eyes twinkling in the wrinkles of that innocent face as she resumed her winding. I decided to ask her about grandpa and some of his smart remarks. “Now that he’s not around, do you miss doing things like that very much?”

“Oh, a little.” She heaved a little sigh. “I miss him every day, but in some ways he’s still here” she smiled as she gave me knowing look, and then continued “It’s not that it’s lonely, it’s just that we enjoyed just being in each other’s presence. He complemented me so well.”

“Other people have paid compliment to you.”

She looked up to clarify her point, “No, no, I mean in the other sense: we worked together so symbiotically, so semi-symmetrically.”

“Ooooooh,” I responded, nodding with understanding. “Semi, sem-o, sem-u, sem-um; I smell the blood of...”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation of my weak joke “Oh, you’ll know what I mean when you marry.” and continued the yarn hand over hand.

“Oh, I don’t think that will ever really happen.”

“You never know.”

“No, I mean that in the sense ‘I’m not the marrying kind’.” There was a pause as I looked over from the bookcase where I was returning the playing deck. She’d stopped and her brows were furrowed just a little. “I mean that I’m gay. I really mean it.” I explained with deep confirming nodding.

“Oh!” she whispered so softly I wasn’t sure if she had heard me or if she’d accidentally knotted her thread. “Well, that’s too bad.” she sympathized returning to her yarn.

Then it was my turn to furrow brows as I said matter-of-factly, “Actually, grandma, it hasn’t been too bad at all. In fact I’m quite good at it.”

“No, I mean that’s too bad because I was hoping I’d have another great-grandson or granddaughter just like you, but now I know you’re going to be the last character of our kind.” She continued winding her yarn slowly around and around with a resigned but distracted interest in it before she concluded, “However, there’s still a chance you’ll meet some man like I did and learn all about symbiosis.”

I leaned in from the back of the sofa gave her a peck on the cheek. “Now, where’s that water? I feel wet.”

Hot Wax Can Hurt

So yesterday I was dealing with a lot of junk and I kinda exploded on my friend, Drew. We've been meaning to try and go get a waxing. We'd never done it before and it looked like something new and different. However, Drew as being evasive and stalling about times, dates, cost, etc. So I snapped. This morning I get a couple of emails from the big lug:

On 7/18/06, drew > wrote:

dang man. you are uptight. its cool buddy. i am sorry i didn't take care of it. it is all my fault. i don't think a wax is worth that much stress. sorry for being such a pain. lets just table it for awhile ok.

sorry again.

drew
oh and another thing. i am so sorry to hear of your loss. sorry if i was insensitive

So I had to write back and of course, a letter from me turns into a screenplay:

I accept, I accept. I know you're feeling enough contrition for the both of us. I accept that I snapped yesterday and you got the brunt of the worst. That was hardly fair since you were but a fraction of the load. If it's any consolation there were no other victims. I went straight to the gym and worked it all out of myself. Of course, my friend Brennie (Bren) got a slow toned sarcastic dialogue outta me when we spoke later in the evening. It was the last of the evil squeezed outta me. I had to call him because the drama was a lot thicker than I could write in that one message to you.

Ya see, I've got these two senior family members that are the most acrimonious old biddies and they despise each other. One is just turning 75 in human years and quite honestly hardly anyone can stand her. She's pushy, rude, controlling/domineering, pious, parsimonious, and generally just a bitch to be around. You know, the kind of girl you just want to trip in front of a train? Yea. Anywho, when it became apparent that I wasn't allowed to bring any dates (read: boys) to any family events, albeit any hetero-beard would have been acceptable, I started standing my ground: if you can't accept who I am, we won't be attending. That's been a standard for the last decade or so. She never quite got over being trumped by that, or the idea that I could have a good time where ever I wanted without her, or that I reserve no malice or anger. She, on the other hand, feeds on harboring anger. It's the one thing that's kept her going for the last sixty-five years. Well, that and her love of cream filled pastries and good scotch. So anyway, she decided to throw herself a 75th birthday party extravaganza, rent out a country club, and god knows she's got the money to do it. It boggles the mind to think how she's going to pull it off now that Florenz Ziegfeld is dead, but she seems determined to make some kind of production unequaled to anything before the Pantages production of Aieda.

Enter one step-grandmother. My grandpa married a couple of times during his life and went to his grave with a smile on his face and a pack of Camels in his jacket pocket along with some golf tees, and the cleats he loved to ruin the carpets with on his feet. His second wife, the step-grandmother, was his longest marriage and his last one. She was good, but in a rather saintly god-fearing way. I'm fortunate in that she overlooked any rough qualities I had and accepted me unconditionally; I was all of six when she joined the family, so my acceptance of her came easily and naturally. Juxtapose that harmonious idyll with the maelstrom of my aunt. She never accepted wife #2 as a replacement for her dead mother or as a member of the family. Why my grandfather didn't put his foot down in the war that waged forever between these two tired old girls is a question that will never be fully comprehended. My theory is that he was too lazy and just didn't have the balls to stand up to what was sure to be a disagreeable situation.

Act III. Are you still with me? Good. Ok, so Aunt Cunt-y arranges a big party for the 28th. Invitation only, RSVP. Has never sent word one or invite any to me. Then the grandmother dies. Then my dad calls and tells me the bad news and that he guesses he'll be coming down earlier anyway.

ME: Earlier? Were you coming to town?

DAD: Yea, didn't you get an invitation to Ann's party?

ME: (small heave of a sigh) No, I don't expect I would. She's not exactly crazy about me.

DAD: Didn't your brother mention it?

ME: (smirk and a sigh) Nope. (My brother: this is the way wasps work. If they don't acknowledge a problem they don't have to deal with it or any other existing trouble in connection.)

DAD: Hasn't he called you lately?

ME: Why would he? I'm guessing that he isn't going on some great vacation that he wants to tell me all about, and that he and Karen haven't saved enough money to by some great expensive thing that they want to show off, and the children haven't learned any new tricks that make them seem brighter than they always are, so why would he call?

DAD: Heh! You've got a point there. Well, that's odd. The invitations went out weeks ago.

ME: Yea... you're probably telling me more than you should right now, Dad.

DAD: Oh...(uncomfortably) still, you should go.

ME: Dad, I can't crash an event like this. It just isn't done. Still, the idea of popping out of a cake and wielding a knife like a psycho-go-go boy does have it's appeal. I think I'd wear the red sequined shorts .

DAD: Ha-ha...Don't do it.

ME: (roll my eyes) as if I ever would.

DAD: (hums nervously)

ME: and in return I want you to promise not to mention a word of this. Do you hear? Don't try to guilt your sister into giving me some Johnny-come-lately insincere invitation. Got that?

DAD: Ok, I promise.

ME: Good. I'm sure we can find a day to get together just to two of us, if you've got the courage to face the village.

DAD: Maybe.

ME: Some friends and are going to the Ed Gould Plaza for a benefit that's being put on stage. It should be really funny, Pop. You should come.

DAD: If I can, I will. We'll see what my schedule looks like when I'm there.

ME: (reluctantly) Alright. (memories of another male family member without any balls.)

DAD: You know, when I fly back Lindsay is going with me.

ME: She is? It seems right that you should take your grand-daughter for a vacation. Do Derek and Karen know you're going to do this?

DAD: (laughs)

ME: Because if they don't I can help you. I'll keep the car running while you go in and grab her. I think I've got a laundry bag and everything.

DAD: (humorous sarcasm) -not like you've rehearsed this or anything?

ME: He was a date. At least I'm calling it a date. My therapist says I can call it a date.

DAD: (groan)

Epilogue: Of course someone spilled the beans. My aunt did call the very next day and with an icy tone extended the very guilty invitation with the same conditions: you may not bring any guests...blah, blah, blah caterers, blah, blah, blah, limited seating. Yea. Like this would have been a real problem if I'd had a real invitation and been able to RSVP with a numbered count of who I'm bringing. *Sigh* And of course, after I explain that I'm not going to ditch my friends if they can't come she says, "Well, know that you were invited." What a bitch! Some how I know those words make her feel exempt from any guilt of a late and limited invitation. CUNT! Just between you and me, I think I'm going to make sure all the family members attending her party know exactly how it went down with Cunt-y and me.

And what a perfect opportunity I have with my grandmother's funeral happening just the weekend before Aunt Cunt-y's party! *evil smirk* If I didn't know better I'd swear my grandmother did it on purpose. After all, she wasn't invited either.

I'm, really distracted today and among the things I promised I'd do this summer "starting a blog site" was at the top. Here it is ten weeks into the summer and I haven't really put that much focus on this project. Well, at least I reserved the space a couple of months ago. Yea, really not much of a strain, was it? Ok. How about if I post one of the popular stories I wrote a while back? Let's see how this flies. Comments are welcome.

Why They Should Have Bleacher at the Carwash

Being single in a position of authority over teenagers has sometimes been the butt of a few jokes from bawdy friends. I have no fear, no temptation; I don’t have any predilection for younger guys. Most of the time I can squelch the joke with a cold stare and a deadpan expression. I hate people assuming that I’d share their lechery. You'd think I'd be safe from those minds way out here in the suburban rural area away from the jaded view of the city, the tricks of Lolita and her ilk, but no.

Case in point:

It’s summer so I'm sleeping until the hours I damn well feel like getting up, especially on a Saturday; but for some darn reason there are car horns blaring more often than usual in the street out in front of my building. What is it? A fire? An accident? Was someone hit? This should be exciting!

I shuck off the covers and throw open the window blinds and see that it's nothing more than the car dealership across the street sponsoring a fundraiser carwash for the local high school volleyball teams (both boys and girls). Darn all that noise! I suppose since they practice year ‘round during school and summer they can raise funds whenever they choose. But ya see the difference in this case is that it's mid June in Southern California and it's terribly hot already at this hour in the morning. I mention this only so you'll understand why all the teens are wearing a wide array of bathing suits or battered khaki shorts.

Yup there they are: teenage girls and boys all clad in bathing suits workin' the suds over the cars; walking down the driveway entrance and leaning into car windows to collect cash; and standing in the middle of the street median waving big cardboard signs over their heads. Whenever a car passes by and honks, they're all jigglin' as they jump up and down. Did I mention they are wearing bathing suits? It seems to be pretty effective. Yea, teen sexual exploitation for breakfast. Ah, sigh! Man-oh-man, have I gotta get a streamin' cam. Who'd believe this? I could make money. Every window of my apartment is on the same side of the building so I get the same noisy view from the living room, the kitchen, everywhere. I eat my corn flakes and watch unaffected as two kids smile enthusiastically at the two college guys that pull up in a big dusty Buick. I wonder if it’s a mystery to any of them. I mean, since when do those guys go two at a time in the mom-mobile to a car wash? When I was a college kid I was broke most of the time, and I sure as hell didn’t blow twenty-five tax-deductible dollars for someone else to wash my car. This is so obvious: it’s the cheap dude’s show girl bar.

My friend David calls to remind me we’ve got a tennis court reserved for four o’clock.

“You’re finally up?” he knows I have the summer off and he resents it.

“Yea, well the noise from the kids kinda made it happen.”

“What the hell,” he argues “you don’t have kids.”

“No, it’s from a car wash across the street.”

“Oh, really? They’re that noisy?”

“Not really; it’s all the traffic noise and the car horns.” Almost as soon as I say this I understand the inner workings of the heterosexual perv mind: teen car wash = wet teens; car honking + teen car wash = HOT wet teens. I roll my eyes as I predict what’s going to follow. Dave is just another guy out here, married with two kids and another on the way. His wife’s in her last trimester, and I suppose that and the heat have him a little worked up. I know he’d never cheat on Lauren, but he’s not going to pass up an opportunity to watch a live performance either. Thirteen minutes later, Dave’s at my door.

One of the teen guys has gone out on the road median to encourage more cars into the carwash. Another guy with a giant car washing suds mitten sneaks up and slaps him upside the head with the wet mitten. Hilarity busts out among the teenage car-washing crowd before they return to their work. But the roadway boy still has the sudsy wet mitten and he's now slathering it all over himself and the other guys chest! All this only some twenty-five yards from my own window. Yea, he's workin' it. You can see the guys have gotten savvy to the public response. They're laughing as they horse around but still they continue. Cars are now honking like crazy, the girls are jumping up and down, the guys are puckering and feigning ecstasy as they arch back and let suds run over themselves.

My phone rings again and I leave David in a chair by the window.

“Can you see this?” asks my neighbor Joey from upstairs. Joey’s gay and in his mid-twenties. It doesn’t take a mastermind to figure out what he’s talking about.

“You mean auto-porn? Yea, I can see it. I’ve got six windows that get nothing else except those sluts. My friend Dave is here takin’ lunch in front of one.”

“Damn it, I can only see a quarter of the lot.” Joey’s apartment is shaded by some old oak trees, remaining cooler but with an obstructed view. “I’m coming over.”

“Well, bring something to drink...” I start, but I can already hear that he’s opened the door and started down the hallway. One of the girls over by the car washing area is pressing her chest against the windshield while she washes; thank gawd no one is in the car. That would be a little too much. Dave looks like he’s watching live coverage of Viet Nam. When Joey knocks and enters the door I start to introduce Dave, but Joey’s already in the second armchair, turning it toward the window.

“Nice to meet you” he mumbles, eyes transfixed to the window. Dave mumbles something back. I could be naked and on fire in this room and neither one of them would turn away from the window. It seems like in some tawdry way I’ve fused together the most unlikely of drinking buddies to a medium they can both relate.

“How long has this been going on?” Dave asks.

“Since I got up this morning...noon?”

“I saw them setting up this morning around nine, but I didn’t know what it was all about until I heard all the cars” Joey explains with all the precision of Howie Long on Fox Football Friday. “OH NO! Don’t put on the hoodie-sweater! Damn!” he curses at the window. Most of the effect is lost on me. With the furniture all turned around I take the advantage to do a little vacuuming over the areas where they stood.

I had to leave the room to shower, shave, and get dressed for the day (afternoon? -whatever don’t bug me about it) but when I come back to the living room the whole thing has just ended. Joey and David are moving the furniture back talking about the play-by-play after game stuff. They give each other the courtesy of two sports fans exiting a stadium. Joey leaves and Dave and I go to play tennis.

Since I didn’t really watch much of it, I don’t miss talking about it, but it almost seems weird having seen but not talking about that event shared between Joey and David. It’s like watching two friends enjoy a sport that you have absolutely no interest in doing, but you feel kinda left out for not being included. Weird. Very weird. Or am I making too much of it? Was it just another day in Pleasantville? I wonder what Robert Young would have done on Father Knows Best.

Am I already on? Hello, hello? -whatever. Another simple comment sent to a site now turns into a complicated series of site membership questions. Why must everything be so exclusive. How quickly will this corrupt into another acrid sesspool like Friendster or MySpace? Gawd, what crap. Let's all just hope this one lasts longer than the last marriage, huh?