Valentine's Day

[Los Angeles, 1991]

I met Gary about a week ago, we’ve only seen each other twice, but I’m surprised at how happy I am around him – beautiful, sharp-edged features, a strong soldier’s face and warm Southern voice, and of course his fierce enthusiasm in bed. And he seems to like me so much.

I’m at the laundromat too late at night with six loads of clothes, sheets, the tablecloth. Piped-in music, the same station they always play here: all your favorite love songs, all the time. ‘You’re / Too cool / To fall in love...’

Today I was standing at the AIDS food bank looking at the free book shelves, mesmerized by dark rows of paperbacks, wondering who had owned them before. And then, such a private touch on my side, his warm, gravelly, ‘Hey, guy...’ Gary had been volunteering, he had just finished for the day, I was surprised to see him there. An intense hug, burying my face in his neck and breathing him in. His skin is warmer than mine. And talking: he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see me again – I’m surprised: was I that distant, that self-involved? But I’ve been so busy.

I think this must be Michael Jackson: ‘I really want ya babe’ – or maybe just someone imitating him. If I put this shirt in with the whites, it’ll get ruined.

Do you want a ride? Because he doesn’t have a car, that’s been our recurrent subject: the logistics of getting to each other. He’s waiting to go to a potluck and volunteer meeting, but that won’t be for another two hours. Well, why don’t you come with me while I do errands, and then you can pick up the shirt you left at my apartment. It sounds like a sensible plan to me, but I have to admit that I love his grin, and he slaps me on the butt.

This is that new girl group, what’s their names, the blondes. ‘Cause I know / You’re in love / But you’re not in love with me...’ I need more quarters but don’t want to break a five.

He’d never been to this store and he likes it, we make pointless jokes and laugh like idiots. He remembers he needs to bring something to the potluck, so I grab his shoulders and turn him towards the chips and salsa. I start to give him a playful push, but I hold on for just a moment – and then I let him go.

‘I will be right here waiting for you...’ Richard Marx, now there’s a beautiful man, and such a lovely voice. Another minute and I’ll put the bleach in.

At the register, he says, it’s hot in here, or is it just me. His forehead is warm. Are you okay? Oh, sure. We argue over how to pay for his chips; he makes me take a couple of bucks, I write a check. When we get to my apartment, I try to put away the groceries and hold on to Gary at the same time, which isn’t particularly effective. I’m already running late, there’s a meeting at my house tomorrow and the place ought to look nice, there are things that need to be put away, and I need to do all of the laundry.

I left the shirts in too long, they’re wrinkling, and I try to hang them all up at once. This song is a surprise, kind of rude for this station, but funny: ‘Don’t hand me no lines / And keep your hands to your self...’

Lying on the bed, his hand on my back, I lick his neck, his skin is hot to the touch. Happy Valentine’s day. You too. Is it just me or is it hot in here? He says his chest hurts, his lungs hurt. I sit up, look at him in surprise. While he talks about how this reminds him of having pneumonia as a child, I rummage around for the thermometer. He’s running a slight temperature, about ninety-nine-five. What do you mean, your lungs hurt? Why didn’t you say something? It’s okay, I’m going to the clinic in the morning. But you know what that could – Yeah, sure, I know.

Is this Sting? ‘Stop before you start, / Be still, my beating heart.’ Yes, the second solo album, the one with the turtle.

I make him lie down and I stand there, looking at him, holding the thermometer. I can see the groceries on the table through the open doorway. I have to change those sheets he’s lying on, I need to go to the laundromat. The phone rings, I fend off a friend who wants to talk. When I hang up, he gets up off the bed and stands behind me, kneading my shoulders: can I drive him to the potluck, it starts in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you stay here, or I could drive you home? I pause for a breath. Or, maybe, we should go to the veteran’s hospital. He says, No, I’ll go the clinic in the morning, I don’t like the veteran’s hospital. Shouldn’t I be doing something about this? I ought to take him to the hospital anyway, whether he wants to go or not. He says, no, I’m fine. There are still the groceries, the laundry, I haven’t even started vacuuming. But what if he’s really –

I remember this song, I think it must be from the sixties. ‘Shower the people you love with love...’ These sheets could have gotten a lot whiter.

So I drop him off, give him his bag of chips and a hug. You’re sure you can get a ride home? I point out that it’s just like leaving a child off at a party, and he grins. This handsome man with his dark eyes, mustache, hair in that old-fashioned marine cut, says: Thanks, Dad.

‘Bring back the days / When we were crazy in love.’ The laundromat is empty now except for me. The husky voice rings through the room, softening the fluorescent glare of the machines.

What should I have done? What if he dies tonight, or tomorrow? People die so quickly from pneumonia. I put away the bags of groceries but I keep dropping things. I try to slow down, put the clothes and the detergent in the car. Pneumonia takes the handsome men so fast, like a bitter wind cutting across the glacier, it rips them away from the mountain face. Another phone call, I listen to the complaints of a friend, and now I’m running even later. This man likes me, and I like him. And maybe it’s more than that, it feels almost as though, I don’t know. He said, happy Valentine’s Day. Have I left him to be sick, alone, so that I can get my laundry done? I’m driving badly, and I park my car crooked across the space at the laundromat.

Who sings this? ‘You can count on me, ’cause I will always be around.’ I think of the drunken Canadian who fell into me in a bar a couple of weeks ago, who cried on my shoulder because I looked like his dead friend. He said: Don’t you die on me, too.

When my clothes are in the machines, I call him at home. I took so long with the groceries, and then the phone call, so he’s home already. His chest still hurts. Can I drive you anywhere? No, I feel too lousy, I’ll check it out at the clinic in the morning. I hang up so he can go back to sleep. His face felt so hot, and I forgot to give him the aspirin, it’s still in my pocket. I can feel the wind cutting across the mountain face, the searing snow.

This load is done. Oh God, just what I need, Dionne Warwick and Friends. ‘Count on me for sure, / That’s what friends are for...’ I fold the sheet carefully, lining up all the corners.

What should I do? Another load is dry. I want someone to take care of me, but I should be taking care of him. I still need to vacuum the living room, but now it has to wait until morning. Should I call him again? It’s so late, I’d wake him up, sleep is good for him. If he’s okay. Maybe he only has a cold. A bad cold, and I’ll get it. He likes me, and I just met him, he can’t get really sick now. What if he is really sick? What have I done?

I pile the clothes into a bag, look around to see if I’ve dropped anything. It’s that new song of Midler’s – boy, does she sell it: ‘From a distance – God is watching us, from a distance...’

Happy Valentine’s Day.

[Los Angeles, 2 / 14-5 / 25 / 91]