Baked In Seattle Read online

  “Drake is nothing if not polite. Old-money upbringing will do that to you.”

  “Why doesn’t he have any of it?”

  “What?”

  “Their money.”

  “Because he is the black sheep, the queer they don’t talk about. He refused to stay in the family closet and bear heirs. He is the first-born and only son and a screaming queen. After college he couldn’t go back to that life and after San Francisco, well, no turning back then. He’d rather struggle along and be true to himself. Maybe when they die he’ll get some.”

  “Poetic as hell, but damn, I’d take the money.”

  “Suppose you had to act gay all the time and fuck men to get that money, and sneak off once in a while to secretly fuck a woman?”

  “Okay, you’re right. I’d leave, too. You ready to start my plan, speaking of fucking men?”

  “I thought about it and…yes. Do I need to write shit down or what? Is it a 12-step program?”

  I grinned at Malcolm.

  “Maybe more steps. Lots of steps. I’m making it up as I go along so I’m not sure how many.”

  “Okay, lay it on me, brother.”

  “First, stop fucking everyone. Men, women, everyone. No more booty calls, no late-nights, no old friends.”

  “How the hell…”

  “Hear me out.”

  “Listening.”

  I ate my Cobb salad as Malcolm leaned forward.

  “Stop fucking. Period. No one, nothing.”

  “Why?”

  “It will clear your vision and send a signal out to the universe that you are beginning the process..”

  “What process?”

  “Getting serious.”

  “Fine.”

  “Then, write down everything you want in a mate. Everything. Even the little shit you never consciously think of, like he’s got to be taller than you or have a deep voice or hates televised sports.”

  I made a mental note of that one. I did hate televised sports and people who slavishly devoted their lives to it.

  “Write it all down. Make a list. Build your dream man. It’s all in your own head, and you never have to show the list to anyone so write everything down. Let yourself add more things as you think of them, and you will think of them, because we are turning your brain a certain way. We are sending out the vibe that you are serious, girl. And when you cast your bread upon the waters, it will come back to you in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, as they taught me in Vacation Bible School. But it’s true, even if you throw an Eastern flavor on it, go all woo-woo-twinkle-ding-dong about it. What you send out, what you expect, is what you get back. Expect garbage and that’s what you get.”

  I grinned at him.

  “My therapist told me ‘Honey, you’ve been eating shit for so long it tastes like chocolate.’ That was one of the most helpful things she pointed out. That and that I don’t owe anyone anything, even to the point of answering when someone speaks to me. I have no obligation to answer them at all. I had never known that, being the victim I was.”

  “You were the bunny.”

  “The what?”

  “The bunny. You were prey that predators would jump on. They could smell it on you. You were the bunny, never the wolf.”

  “I want to be a six foot built black man in my next life.”

  Malcolm smiled his newly intimate smile at me, our one-time experience so satisfying we still savored it.

  “You’re right about that. I was never the bunny. Now listen. Make a list. Stop fucking anyone. No booty calls, no midnight runs. Pay attention to yourself. Read. Eat well, lots of fruit. Get a lot of sleep. Go to the gym. Capiche?”

  “A’ight already. I’ll do it. Hey, one question. What do I do with this longer hair? It keeps falling in my face and it makes me crazy.”

  Malcolm stared at me like I was insane.

  It dawned on him at last that I was serious.

  “You’ve been a dyke a long time, haven’t you?” he asked, still staring.

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” he gently told me, “There’s a whole women’s culture out there for straight women, magazines at every check-out stand that will tell you what to do with your hair. Girly stuff. Barrettes and shit. I don’t know, Annalee. I’m a man. All I know is men like the long hair. Do some research. Go to the beauty shop or whatever it is other women do.”

  “Alanon keeps telling me I didn’t create it and I can’t cure it. I don’t care if Kyle chooses to keep drinking, but when he shows up at 2 a.m. and I have to call the cops, I have a hard time separating myself from it.”

  Birgitte had been holding up well but she started to cry. It was late at night and she was frightened to be alone.

  “Last night he got hauled away for violating the restraining order and all the neighbors were watching. I have to go to court next month. And the boys are siding with him now, that I’m a hard-hearted bitch. My own kids. He took my kids…”

  Her mournful sobs were unbearable.

  “They’ll come back, Gitta. You’ll see. It takes a while for everyone to figure shit out but they’ll see soon enough that he’s a fucking loser. You’re doing a great job handling all this. Keep up with the meetings. I think there’s a lot of strength there.”

  “Those boys are my whole world, Al. What do I do now?”

  “You chop wood, carry water, Gitta. One foot in front of the other. You get through the day fifteen minutes at a time if that’s what it takes. I recommend a therapist just as a matter of course but let yourself be angry. You’re entitled, I’d say. Did he hurt you?”

  “He never got to me, he just pounded on the door and I called 911. The neighbors must have called, too, because the cops were here in like, seconds. I was sound asleep and he just made me about have a heart attack. I looked it up online today, though, and he has had his sixth DUI, Al. Sixth. And the man is on the street, still has his license. He always slips loose somehow, some fucking technicality or something.”

  Birgitte blew her nose.

  “But doesn’t violating the restraining order send him to jail?”

  “Yup. He’s in King County right now for the weekend.”

  “So this means,” I said soothingly, hoping it was the right thing, “tonight at least you can sleep well, knowing he won’t be back. You know where he is.”

  “Good thinking,” she yawned. It was almost midnight.

  “Take a hot bath,” I suggested. “With bubbles and candles and let yourself cry. This shit is temporary, Gitta, until he finally goes to prison or gives the fuck up. One or the other will happen soon. He will hang himself. You don’t have to do a thing.,”

  “Thanks. I don’t believe it myself so I’ll just believe you, because you always steer me right. I’m gonna go get in the bathtub.”

  “It’s not good, chica.”

  We stood outside the Captial Hill AA Big Yellow House, waiting for the Saturday night meeting to let out. Shelly’s eyes welled up as she blew into her coffee. The misty February rain looked soft on her bronze skin but her face was full of tightly controlled fear.

  “You got the test results back?”

  “It’s Hep-C.”

  “How serious is that?”

  “I can have six weeks of god-awful treatment where I want to die, my hair falls out, I lose thirty pounds and I puke the entire time. It sounds like withdrawal, sort of.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “Either nothing or I’m completely cured.”

  I brightened and grabbed her arm.

  “But Mishellita, that’s wonderful! You’re saying there’s a fifty percent chance of being well? Go for it. What’s six weeks?”

  Her face remained dark, and she wouldn’t look at me.

  “I don’t want to go through that,” she said flatly, her chin pointing out with determination.

  “Go through what? Dying? You might not have to.”

  “The treatment. It sounds worse than the disease.”

>   It was beginning to dawn on me she was serious.

  “Are you crazy, Shelly? You have to give it a try.”

  “Crazy?” she snorted, turning fiercely on me, her eyes hot with tears and rage. “Loco, I am now? I come to you for support and this is what I get?”

  Shelly tossed her coffee into the flowers and spit on the ground, walking away from me. I was too stunned to move.

  “Shell! Come on, woman, talk to me. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I took off running after her.

  “Get your fucking hands off me, traitor,” she yelled when I caught her arm. “Touch me like that one more time and I will slit your fucking throat. Are we clear? You think we are some buddy-buddy friends all cuddly and shit but when the shit goes down for real you tell me it’s wonderful I have a goddamn 50-50 chance of survival?”

  She was standing in the middle of 15th Avenue, fists at her sides. I put my hands in the air, walking backwards toward the curb, trying to coax her out of the way of oncoming traffic.

  “Problem here?” came a voice over a loudspeaker, a patrol car pulling up to Shelly with the cherry suddenly turned on.

  “Goddammit,” I whispered to myself as the cops shone a light in Shelly’s eyes. This would so not be cool, to haul her away as she’s digesting this shattering diagnosis. She desperately needed a break, not harassment. But her anger issues and her police record seemed about to collide.

  “I got no problem,” Shelly said, shielding her eyes as the cop walked slowly up to her.

  “Hey! Four-Way!” the cop said, and began to laugh.

  “Officer Smartley?” Shelly asked and they pumped hands, Shelly’s crisis suddenly turning into old home week.

  “Everything okay, Shell? You look a little pissed off and standing in the middle of the street isn’t the way to get home alive.”

  I watched Shelly’s face melt into her calmer persona, the transformation genuine.

  “Just having a bad day, is all. Hey Al, c’mere. This is Officer Smartley who scooped my ass off the street and sent me to rehab four times over.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the barrel-chested black cop said. “Looks like it took. Fourth time seems to be the charm. I’m no MixALot but I still count. You ladies need a ride home? I’ve got an extra ten minutes and you can tell me your troubles as we go, Four-Way.”

  “You turn the siren on?”

  “Only for a sec. But I’ll leave the lights flashing for you.”

  Drake drew in a deep breath and sighed into the phone.

  “Darling, tell me again why I live here? This place is as grey as my grandfather’s flannel suit and I’m about ready to go all Dorothy Parker.”

  “Now, now, Precious, you might as well live. Even Dorothy said so. What has you so wrapped around the axle?”

  “I feel like an animal caught in a trap and I want to gnaw off my own leg to get out. I hate my job, except for when we go out to lunch at The Metropolitan, I’m fat and ugly so no one will ever love me and the weather makes me want to open a vertical vein. I have lived here how long and the weather still gets to me.”

  “When’s your vacation?”

  “It can’t come soon enough. How’s your world, darling?”

  “Let’s see….I heard Diane has decided to…are you ready…get a sex change. She, excuse me, he will now be referred to as Andrew. The pill stages have already begun and he is sprouting a fine moustache.”

  “Get out of town on a stagecoach, sister! You are kidding! The woman you were just out with a few months ago, the motorcycle babe who owns Lesbian-in-a-box bookstore?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where did you get this dish?”

  “From Shelly, who heard it in the Madison Beach meeting gossip mill.”

  “Well, I just have one question.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Of course, as does everyone. The whole lesbian community, whatever that means, is fighting over this and there’s a write-up in the SGN about it. The headline was, ‘Local Lesbian Lineage Threatened.’”

  “Omigod, this is wild. What will become of the lesbian store if it’s owned by a man?”

  “How’s the man-free space feel?”

  Malcolm sipped Jack and coffee, keeping me company over my lunch.

  “Kind of odd, really. It’s weird to turn down sex and company. Like throwing away good food. I have a hard time with that. However, I’m keeping the big picture in mind. Speaking of which, I’m thinking about writing a piece called ‘The Five Rules of Safe Driving As Applied To Life.’”

  “Five rules?”

  “Patented. Swear to God. They’re called ‘The Smith System,’ after Uncle Fred himself.”

  “Lemme hear ‘em.”

  He relaxed back into the polished blond-oak booth and smiled at me.

  “Well, they make it easy to remember with All Good Kids Love Milk, using the first letter of each rule as a prompt: AGKLM. They couldn’t make it a snappy acronym which FedEx loves to do so they gave it that memory phrase.”

  “Making it easier by complicating it further, elongating the things to remember, in my book. Not only do you have to memorize the rules themselves, you have to remember All Good Kids Love Milk? Man, that Smith guy is wack.”

  “Aim High In Steering.”

  “That’s a good life motto. Go on.”

  “Get the Big Picture.”

  “Always necessary.”

  “Keep Your Eyes Moving.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Malcolm started to grin.

  “Leave Yourself An Out.”

  He whooped and I smiled back at him.

  “I knew you’d like that one,” I said.

  “Make Sure They See You.”

  “Damn. You could write a self-help book using those rules. White women’d buy it like crazy.”

  “How’s your wife?”

  “Speaking of white women? Much better, thanks. PT and some pushing from me and she’ll lose the cane pretty soon. How’s Shelly?”

  I stopped eating and looked out the window.

  “I can’t reach her, Malcolm. It almost feels like she doesn’t want to live through this. Go out all James Dean, quick and young. She seems almost comfortable, like the other shoe finally dropped.”

  “Is she gonna go through treatment?”

  “That’s what I mean. No, she’s not. She’s not fighting for her own life.”

  “What’s that about, you suppose?”

  “I dunno. Maybe…maybe she doesn’t feel she deserves to live?”

  “Maybe. Who can know what’s really in another person’s head?”

  Malcolm’s fingers rubbed together and he raised one seductive eyebrow at me.

  “Stop that. If it was a one-time deal, no fair teasing.”

  “I’ll always tease, baby, sorry, jessa way I am.”

  “Okay. I’ll just…soak it up.”

  “Seriously, how is it without a man every night? The voices getting quieter, you can listen to your inner self better?”

  “Matter of fact, yes. It does seem to center me somehow, to focus more on me. But how will this perfect man I’m conjuring find me if I am just going about my own little life? Will he knock on my door?”

  “It will just happen, Annalee. Trust me here. And I have to say, you look radiant lately.”

  “It’s the exercise.”

  “It’s good. Keep it.”

  “I need a bar crawl,” Drake informed me. “I’m totally restless waiting for everything to happen, waiting for vacation, waiting to begin my future, waiting for Prince Charming to awaken me with a candy kiss. Let’s just go out and get loaded and hit all the gay bars.”

  “I can’t, I’m in a new program to get centered.”

  “How is a pub jump through gay bars going to jeopardize your latest Man Trap? We’d be going to boy bars so a.) you’re not gonna see any of your sober lesbo friends and b.) the boys there don’t even know you exist. I can’t see what harm it would do. The wo
rlds do not meet.”

  “Agreed. I can be ready at eight.”

  “Call the gang. Make it nine and meet me at The Cuff.”

  By the time I met up with Drake, Birgitte was already waiting, leaning on her car.

  “Shelly’s already inside,” she said, pointing at the bar. “She seemed kinda drunk already when she got here. Is Malcolm coming?”

  “He’s working tonight.”

  “Too bad. I’d like to see the men go wild for him.”

  “Poor Drake’s gonna have three women hanging off his arm. I’m sure it will make him totally popular.”

  “Do you think he uses women as a shield? ‘Stay away from me’ kind of thing to other gay men?”

  I was stunned. I’d never thought of such a thing. Suddenly it occurred to me that nearly all of Drake’s friends were middle-aged white women.

  “Well,” I answered, leaning on her car with her, “it makes sense. He leaves town to be gay, do gay things. This trip around the gay bars is a departure for him but I agree, if he wanted to see some action, he would not have invited us along.”

  “There he is,” Birgitte said, brushing off the ass of her perfect jeans.

  “Drake, darling, you look mah-velous,” I said, hugging him close. “Just the thing, a night on the town. What a great idea.”

  “Well, I figured we all could use it. The rain is never going to stop, is it? Everyone had their disco nap? I heard there’s exotic dancers at Ram and tonight’s wet t-shirt night at Steel. I’m leading the way, girls,” he tootled, throwing an imaginary boa around his neck and pulling us into the pounding music of the dark, black-lit cave.

  “Shelly ever come home that night?” Birgitte asked two days later, when we’d all recovered from massive gin hangovers.

  “No. Not til this morning. Shelly went home with some meth head gay boy and swears she was trying to get him sober. I kinda wonder, ya know, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, what the fuck. She’s really got me all wrapped around the axle, Gitta. She’s not the person I knew and she’s getting sicker, I can see it in her eyes. She’s lost some weight and she’s on leave of absence from work. And I couldn’t tear her away from the bar at any of the places we went to.”