Read Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others for Free Online

naked with him and two dozen naked guys and beat the old … No, it was too embarrassing.
    Think of it as the Explorers, his loins argued. That camping trip in north Georgia, 1964. Guys around the campfire, weary from the hike. The sunburned necks, the smell of Off, Billy Branson’s perfect smile flashing in the firelight, tantalizing beyond belief. The circle jerk that almost happened but didn’t.
    Well, now it could happen.
    When he arrived at 28 Barbary Lane, Mrs. Madrigal confronted him on the landing. “You’d better hurry,” she said. “It starts in less than an hour.”
    He felt his jaw go slack. If she wasn’t a closet clairvoyant, she sure as hell acted like one.
    “I heard about it on the radio,” she explained, as if that took care of things.
    “You heard about what?” he asked.
    “The welcome home,” she said, “for those gay hostages.”
    The light dawned. Two of the thirty-nine American tourists held hostage by terrorists in Beirut had proved to be gay San Franciscans—lovers, no less. Upon their return to the States, they had faced the cameras as a couple, beaming proudly, moments before accepting the unconditional gratitude of Ronald and Nancy Reagan.
    Michael had thrilled to the sight and had told Mrs. Madrigal as much.
    “Where’s the ceremony?” he asked.
    “Eighteenth and Castro,” she said. “They’re blocking off the street.”
    He did some hasty calculation. The JO party was on Noe at Twenty-first, only four blocks up the hill from the rally. If he hurried, the evening might be made to accommodate both the erotic and the patriotic. “Thanks for the tip,” he told his landlady.
    She bent and picked up a plastic bucket full of cleaning gear. “Well, I thought you’d want to know, dear.”
    He pointed to the bucket. “Did Boris barf on the stairwell again?”
    She chuckled. “Brian’s nephew is staying with us for a few days.”
    “His nephew? Is he … grown?” Everything made him feel older these days. At thirty-four, he still had trouble remembering that some of his contemporaries were the parents of teenagers.
    “He’s nineteen,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I’m fixing up Mary Ann and Brian’s old place for him. Perhaps later you could give me a hand with that twin bed in the basement?”
    “Sure,” he answered. “Yeah … sure … be glad to.”
    His antsiness must have been obvious, for the landlady smiled at him. “I won’t keep you,” she said. “I know you’ve got a busy, busy evening.”
    That extra “busy” made him wonder again.
    Back at his apartment, he took a quick shower and trimmed his mustache. Tonight especially, he was glad he hadn’t shaved his mustache when everyone else had. It suited him, he felt, so to hell with the fashion victims who found him lacking in the new-wave department.
    When it came time to dress, he dug to the bottom of his bottom drawer and found his oldest 501’s. The denim was chamois smooth and parchment thin, and the very feel of it against his legs filled him with exquisite melancholy.
    He left undone the middle button of his fly, just for old times’ sake.
    When he reached the Castro, he found a parking place on the steep part of Noe, then strode downhill in the direction of the music. On a platform in front of the Hibernia Bank, a gay chorale was already singing “America the Beautiful.” Hundreds of people, some of them crying, had gathered in the street.
    He wriggled through the crowd until he could catch a glimpse of the hostage/lovers. One was lean and blond and bearded. The other was also bearded, but he was darker and somewhat older, more of a daddy type. Michael could picture them together quite easily. He could see them on that hijacked plane, desperate when death seemed imminent, passing love notes under the murderous gaze of their captors.
    Then the gay band broke into the national anthem, and the crowd began to sing. Michael noticed how many couples there were, how many broad backs settled against broad