[1991]
This is the third apartment I’ve seen today; it doesn’t look too bad, the rent is only mildly outrageous. The paper with the landlord’s number is damp and crumpled in my hand, and the backs of my thighs are so tired; it’s clear that I’ll have to give up on my Los Angeles hamstrings – chiefly made from working out with the brake and accelerator pedals – to work on the powerful legs, those fine San Francisco butts, made by the high, cool hills. But it’s like coming home, the air is clear and people are friendly, and I can almost imagine that Reid is still alive and will call me tonight. He lived just over the hill, I remember that, and the bus that goes to his old apartment leaves from the next corner, I can see it from the doorway.
I like the tree that stands near the front window, thick and green, with light leaves; perhaps it is birch or ash. The room I grew up in – my own room in my parents’ house – was on the second floor, I looked straight out into a mass of Virginia green, great oaks and chestnuts, and it was like living in a treehouse. There was a peace and completeness about that world, at least as long as I was facing away from the door, looking out the window into green. I always wanted to fly out into it, to be held up by the leaves, by the fragments of light that held them apart.
The landlord opens the door, and he has some trouble with the key. I’m going to live here now, and give up on all my other cities; the people I love in Los Angeles will finally be left behind, just like those in the cities of the east and the north. Sometimes it seems as though everyone moves away, and no one ever moves towards. I’ll never live in New York again, that’s a little sad, but also a relief. I remember Sid’s tiny, bizarre Village loft; I know now that his cheery notes were love letters, but I didn’t pay enough attention, I was too young and I didn’t know. And he’s dead of cancer, and I never told him how I felt. And there were so many others there, the fastest city I’ve ever lived in, the most painful. Holding men during long nights, trying to rub the city out of their tense shoulders, but I never could quite do it. I remind myself: the disorientation, the loss of not living in New York, of being away from the light and sound of the violent center of culture, it must be less than the pain of living there.
And Los Angeles, I’m sorry to lose the sun and heat, but I can’t stay there anymore. The decision is made, I tell myself firmly, but silently, trying to look interested in the cabinets that the landlord has been showing me. He coughs, a hacking cough, and I move away, trying not to show revulsion or my instinct to protect my fragile immune system. He is certainly different from the landlord of my first San Francisco apartment, who came out, tanned, sweating and covered with paint chips, to show me the living room, then the bedroom, and I brushed paint chips out of his chest hair while we made love. He later gave me a teapot, something chic of Milanese metal, as a housewarming gift; perhaps it was intended to keep me from blabbing to his lover. I wonder if he’s still around anywhere.
The living room has that bright peace typical of empty rooms in sunlight, with no furniture cluttering it, couches and tables that speak of living and of time. The floor is hardwood, and there is some damage in the corner; I make a show of examining it, although I have no idea how to fix the marred spot, and I know I’ll just put something over it. I always liked hardwood best, another legacy from my parents’ home. The Los Angeles apartment, the bedrooms and the living room, all with the old wood that was so kind to feet, that made me feel as though I was touching the earth. Mornings when I would lie on the living room couch, reading, wearing the gray cotton robe, and maybe Patrick would drop by during his run. It was later that he packed up and moved to Houston, or perhaps Dallas, I never heard from him again. I go into the bedroom, and the door creaks as I open it.
The closets have doors with pine moldings, small echoes of Ron’s house, the wood A-frame full of light and air, and when we were lying in his vast waterbed in the morning sun he said he loved me. But I couldn’t stay there, he was handsome, affectionate, I can’t understand why I couldn’t bear to see my reflection in those adoring blue eyes. Last year I wrote to a national association of graphic artists, and I asked them: Where is he? He’s not in the phone book anymore. Tell me he’s still alive, tell me he’s moved somewhere where I can’t find him, please find him for me.
Back out into the living room, and I go across to the small door that leads into the kitchen. An empty space where the refrigerator should be, that is annoying. I don’t want to bring the refrigerator from Los Angeles, the broken thermostat has been freezing vegetables and mustard for seven years. The relief of leaving the Los Angeles apartment, which is so worn out for me now, full of crowded and exhausting feelings, although no one else can see it in the sunlight across the living room floor. Actually it was almost like the apartment in Washington, so long ago now, from the time that I was fleeing from my parents into the city. At first Randy and I shared his bed, but I wandered too much and moved too fast. When I saw him at Christmas, he looked so athletic, so grand, as always. He and his lover are both utterly healthy, and I’m glad; I wouldn’t want to worry about them. But I can’t understand why he looked at me with a faint, distant suspicion, as though he wondered what I really thought, whether I ever cared about him at all.
The kitchen has shelves all along one wall, like the kitchen in Steve’s apartment. I would have been so happy to live there, I dreamt about it for several years. I would visit him in the large, open living room, and occasionally see the dark, small bedroom, which looked so warmly comfortable, like the lair of a big, clean animal. I wanted to spend time in that room, in the large, loosely made bed that smelled faintly of his skin, his arms; but by then my life were already falling apart, the skies were darker and my flesh was visibly ruined. Mornings when I looked particularly bad, I would walk alone, cushioned in a silent, unending rage. The polarity of me and other men had changed, it was no longer that they were asking me and I was forgetting to answer. I was the one asking for attention now, and I didn’t want to listen for oblique, embarrassed refusals.
The bedroom is all right, a little small. It has none of the charm of my last San Francisco apartment, an efficiency in the Castro, hardwood floors supporting rows of bookshelves, and the garden, which was kept up by the man from the third floor who wore his leather vest while digging around the plants. Right outside my glass window, there it was: a tiny green sanctuary with a high wall, like a monastery garden. On festival days, when the Castro a hundred yards away was packed with handsome bodies, you could only hear a faint roar, like a seashell, and I would think: out there, he’s out there somewhere, all you have to do is go look. And then I would go look, and my resolve would collapse, and I would be lonely, walking past people as though they were great, silent buildings, and I were lost in an unknown city.
I check my list to remind myself of what to watch for: plumbing, electric heating, is it on the ground floor? But the real questions, the ones I won’t ask the landlord, are: can I put a table with books and medicines in easy reach, can I get to the phone and window from the bed? Which means of course: could I be sick here, could I die here? As opposed to going home to the room in the trees, where I would be with my parents, so well taken care of, but so far from all the other people I love. Every place I go has more empty spaces than full ones, there is no city that isn’t drenched with the loss of those who don’t live there, or who don’t live anywhere anymore.
I go back into the living room. The landlord is standing by the door, peering at the heater, which is hammering strangely and sounds broken. I gaze away from him at the walls, seeing in the cracks faces and rooms, the air of many places, people who have passed by and have vanished. I pivot slowly on my left heel, and I feel my face making a bright smile that’s just for him. “It’s perfect,” I say, “I’ll take it.”
[Los Angeles, 5/3-7/91]