by tom miller
by tom miller
�
4:20 p.m.
june 6, 1999�
he's been calling.
just like i said he would.
the drag queen.
�
he leaves messages.
"i'm coming up there tonight. just thought i'd
let you know," he says.
�
then he shows up and looks at me.
this time, he had six sheets of lined
notebook paper in his pocket.
�
"this is my journal," he said.
"i'd like you to read it.
i don't let anybody read my journal,
but you can read it."
�
"okay," i say, taking the papers.
i unfold them. i read.
�
met this wonderful guy... hope he likesme... he's so sweet... we had dinner...
we kissed... he massaged my back... i
think he likes me... i hope he likes me
as much as i like him... he's really
cute... sweet... hope he likes me... as
much as i like him...
�
"what do you think?" he asked.
�
"it's... good," i replied. "sure."
�
i handed it back to him and continued working,
cleaning the ash trays, picking up the cocktails,
trying to avoid him.
�
but he waited. he was there until the very end,
and after we locked the door, he was still there,
waiting.
�
waiting for me.
�
"i've got lots of work to do," i said to him.
"probably won't be able to hang out tonight,
but call me tomorrow. you are going home,
aren't you?"
�
"yes," he said, "if i can make it back."
�
"what does that mean?" i asked.
�
"well, i'm so tired, you see." (metalanguage for
maybe i could stay with you tonight.)
�
"i'll be busy and working," i said, "...and busy, very busy.
hope you make it back safely. "
�
after i swept the club floor and turned out the
lights, i went outside to my $10 bike. he was
there, waiting.
�
"hi."
�
"hi," i said.
�
he was waiting for a kiss, and an invitation to
stay over, which never came. but i did give him
a kiss. no tongue. didn't want to leave the wrong
impression.
�
"have a safe ride HOME," i said. "HOME!"
�
"will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?"
he asked.
�
"possibly," i replied; the greatest answer for
ambiguity; almost better than: "i'll be there if
i make it."
�
and then i said, "give me a call tomorrow and
maybe we'll work it out." you must always throw
in a "maybe" to avoid blame for a promise
broken.
�
then i rode off, fast, into the dark streets of
gainesville, where i felt safe at last.
�
�
__________
�
the next night, ron called from the sushi
restaurant and invited me to join him, and
our mutual friend, albert, for drinks and
fish. all the cabs were running fares, so i
hopped on my trusty $10 bike and went
uptown.
�
i walked in the restaurant and everyone was
quietly enjoying their meal. a japanese
restaurant can be pure solitude, unless ron has
been drinking, god love him.
�
"MILLER!" he screamed. every head turned
toward him, then toward me. it was going to
be a good night.
�
i walked past the booth where paramedics were
tending to a pregnant woman and took a seat.
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then came the sake.
�
"how's it going, albert? what's new?"
�
he told me about the new music he was writing.
i told him about my new porno page i posted on
the internet.
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then i ate fish and drank beer, and plum wine, and
hot sake and cold sake, and more beer; i had a lot
of catching up to do. these guys had me 3 to 1.
�
we stumbled over to the common grounds
coffee house, and drank some more. ron doesn't like
chess much, although he's generally very good at
the game.
�
i was playing the fat man. he regularly obliterates me,
and mugs smug about it. damn the club player's chess
pride! but i like to lose. i'm good at it.
�
ron, of course, was interested in showing this guy a thing
or two. he began with white. lost. then black. lost. then white.
lost. but he was vigilant. he set the pieces up again and
finally, after a long struggle, conquered.
�
then i played ron and beat him immediately.
�
go figure.
�
he got up,
wandered out, with albert following, and that was the end.
�
he told me later he didn't recall exactly how he got home,
and i didn't mention chess. why should i. he finds the game
a waste of time.
�
__________
�
now, i was at the university club. why i go to the place i work
for a good time, i can't say. nor can i remember how i got
from the coffee shop to the bar.
�
i had finally gotten my buzz to where ron and albert had been.
how wonderful it is to forget.
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and kenny, one of the bartenders, told me later i was fucked
up beyond belief.
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i felt pretty good though, and when i saw the chef--
we'll call him mr. p., he looked fucked up too. he's a
young man i've known for quite sometime. sometimes,
we're together and sometimes we're not. sometimes, i'm
his safehouse between one boyfriend and the
next. but i don't mind that anymore. as my old love andy
pratt used to say, "i get what i can."
�
i thought, wow; we're both fucked up. we could probably
talk to each other. and we did. the conversation was
natural; confessional. shit, i've known the guy for three
years. i know he's got several game plans going on in his
mind. i know he's on the hunt.
�
so am i, i guess, although i'm reluctant to admit it
to myself or anyone else.
�
i'm not innocent.
�
i look at them, the beautiful men, and a few of the beautiful
women, and i imagine everything from picket fences and
wine by the fireplace, to blow jobs in the gutter and
spitting on each other, fighting and passion and
rolling across the road, across oil slicks in a thunderstorm,
kissing when the lightning strikes, being mowed down
by a tractor at the point of mutual orgasm.
�
i think of monkeys masturbating at the zoo while everyone
watches and snaps photos, of a lion biting the neck
of his mate; ramming his power right up to the balls, and
the dung beetle rolling a ball of shit up a hill.
�
i looked in his eyes, those beautiful browns. "come over,"
i said.
�
"i'll call you," he replied.
�
now I'M the drag queen. i'm the thing standing, waiting. alone,
desperate. hungry. sad. needing. gentle. frightened. shivering.
empty.
�
_______________
�
but he called.
�
ha ha.
�
_______________
�
and 5 in the morning wasn't a dream, it was sweat and
contact. it was lips and tongues. it was one becoming the
other. it was pheromones and salt. fingers. eyes.
�
sleep.
�
�
�
