Joseph Conrad: Lord Jim
fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly
489-491
the bull of the dragon
492-497
498-501
502-507
508-510
511-514
515-517
oh sweet and lovely lady be good
518-520
521-526
527-532
533-536
goodbye, gemini
537-541
542-547
plenty of fish in the sea
548-550
551-553
554-556
and the cotton is high
557-562
563-569
570-574
489
The morning after those fool moon's eyes. Absolutely classic."I can't believe it happened. I was all drunk and everything."
Poor fellow sat for a couple of smokes and some coffee, then said he'd better go. I was treading very, very carefully. Adjusting to a new phase in the long dance with the Sleeptalker is something neither of us can escape or ignore after that full moon night, and I know how difficult it must be for him.
He was apparently waiting outside the door of the State Library on Tuesday morning, appeared in the game just moments after the nine o'clock opening. He seemed in high spirits, after awhile asked if I could get some beer because he felt like drinking for the first time in weeks. I said I could try. He left the game and not long afterwards arrived on campus.
We played until early afternoon, then went down to the supermarket to get lunch. Sitting in the secluded grove, and with him at his sweetest, most coherent, I was able to say all the things I'd wanted to tell him. He seemed to have little or no memory of what he'd already told me, repeated much of the information but in extraordinarily direct, straightforward narrative.
His caseworker is trying to get SSI financial assistance for him. I had to smile when he said all he needed to do was go to the interview and act like Mondo. He may be right, Mondo did manage to qualify for a time. But what the Sleeptalker said and the way in which he said it led me to think much of his recent "craziness" has been inspired by the need to act "crazy". He said if he got it, he'd also get a place to live and that I could stay with him, then rather touchingly pondered how he'd explain that to his friends. But he also has the notion of moving to Maui if he gets SSI, a way to escape the "drug dealers". So much energy put into planning for something that might not happen.
He went back to the game, I went off to borrow money so I could get that beer he wanted. Another interlude in the secluded grove, drinking and talking. He pulled out a book from his backpack to show me what he's reading. Sophocles. Oedipus Rex. I felt faint. He wants to read all the "classics", he said. And he showed me that notebook he had been writing in. All phrases in Spanish, since he's decided he wants to learn the language. His handwriting is suprisingly neat, almost elegant.
Never a dull moment, never a shortage of surprises.
We went back to the game for awhile and then I set off on a snipe hunt. He was playing at the computer lab and since my hunt took me across campus, I stopped in Sinclair Library, logged into the game and asked him if he wanted more beer. Definitely. Another trip downhill and back, two bottles of Colt45 in backpack.
In the game, there are specific quests one can do, accumulating "quest points" for each completed one. The major prize for the effort is a special sword which the Sleeptalker badly wants. He said jokingly over the beer that I could have his body in exchange for one of those swords. It's a deal, I told him, but I get you first, am not giving you the sword until afterwards. I thought it was just one of his usual flirtatious gambits but he must have been pondering it further because as we opened the second bottle, he said, "okay, you can have it."
Tender, sweet, passionate, the birthday gift of my fantasies, a dream come true under that beautiful moon. Nectar of the gods.
I am a lucky man.
490
The Morning After interlude was, of course, only the beginning. The entire Day After was utterly, overwhelmingly dominated by thoughts of the Sleeptalker.I have never experienced a more loaded aftermath of a sexual adventure, but then I have rarely experienced a more loaded sexual adventure. You can interpret that in any of the possible ways, since all apply.
Although he hadn't mentioned it before, the Sleeptalker had discovered a secluded place very near campus which is hidden by dense foliage, an ideal sleeping spot when it isn't raining. Mercifully, it didn't rain on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. He led me there when it was possibly too late for a bus to the hacienda and settled down to sleep beside me, feet to head.
I woke first, sat up and smoked a snipe. He stirred, smiled at me, and snuggled up against my leg. I gently rubbed his back as he returned to sleep for a little while, one extreme of the see-saw reaction during our morning interlude. On the other side was his disgust and disbelief that he had allowed it to happen, balanced by, for example, asking with a big grin, "I was very drunk?"
Yes, I assured him, he was very drunk. I feel almost certain that he had decided to let me have his body before the beer and the matter of the special sword ever entered the picture, but he is more than welcome to any rationalizations which make the decision more comfortable for him.
And it was a wise choice on his part to leave after that brief time together in the morning. We both had a lot of thinking to do.
There was, for me, the emotional sag. Wanting something so very, very much and for an incredibly long time, then finally getting it leaves something of a vacuum. Heaven knows it wasn't disappointing, it far surpassed anything I had been able to imagine. I played the memory tape over several times, making sure all the delightful details were fully recorded, as if there could be any chance of it being otherwise.
And as I am sure he does, I felt guilty. Even when he lay back, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, I had the thought that I should stop it there, assure him again, as I had earlier, that I love him for himself, not for his body. I didn't, of course. I wanted it too much. He had asked me earlier why that was the case, he really didn't understand. "There are plenty of fish in the sea." "You've never really been in love, then?" I asked. He thought for a bit and said "no". I told him I wanted something of him inside me, that was why I wanted it so much, and it could only be from him, none of the other "fish" would do.
Still, even if offered it as I was, there is the idea that it would have been far more noble to sacrifice my desire, to resist adding yet another burden to the poor fellow's already overloaded mental state.
He, I am sure, will feel guilty, if he allows himself to remember it, for having been so actively passionate. It certainly surprised me, I expected him to lay there like a zombie, never mind he's twenty-four years old with little outlet for that age's natural sexual desire.
And there is the suspense. How will he handle it? It could be the extreme of breaking off our friendship altogether, if it's too painful for him to accept what happened. I've always considered that as the major gamble. As I've said, I could never give up the notion that it could happen, even when it seemed highly unlikely, and so I've contemplated not only what it could be, but what the repercussions might be.
I don't think he'll go that far. I hope not.
But I would be surprised if he doesn't withdraw altogether for awhile, no matter how carefully I tried to act during the Morning After interlude. I would, of course, be delighted to be proven wrong, to get the opportunity sooner rather than later to let him know that no matter how much I treasure that night under the Full Moon, it doesn't change at all how much I care for him or how much we can both enjoy our unusual friendship.
What a long, strange trip it's been from Tale 165 and "As I said before, Rocky must have been the kind of kid who took stray dogs home. His latest puppy is such a cutie ..."
491
When you make the inner as the outer ...Or was that the other way around, Saint Thomas? Whichever, Maundy Thursday dawned with a perfect match. A more gray, dreary sky one could not imagine, inside and out. But the cloud cover broke, the sun came out, and I cheered myself up with the naughty thought of the ideal solution to the Aftermath Dilemma.
The Sleeptalker had provided it. When he was talking about me sharing his SSI-provided quarters, he teased, "you could give me head every night." That's the solution! Do it again. And again and again and again. Do it until I finally say, "not tonight, sweetheart, I've got a headache." And it would happen, too. Just might take a LOT of agains.
I considered zapping 490 altogether. I just want to remember the wonderful night of the Fool Moon, not all the twisted thinking that followed it. But then I had considered not writing about that night, too. Not much point in writing these things, though, without making them as accurate as possible a portrait of the Artist as an Old Man.
By sunset on Wednesday, I was feeling utterly exhausted. Sleeping in a strange place is always a restless experience, made far more so by having the Sleeptalker snuggled up beside me. He seemed to sleep very soundly but I woke up many times, never really fell deeply asleep. And all that confounded thinking during the day was exhausting. I had tried to read to distract myself, with little success. I'd spent more time than usual in Seventh Circle. Got to get that sword for the lad. But as sunset time approached, I headed off to the mall.
The bankroll was down to a few pennies. Since the morning routine of coffee at McD's had been broken with the shared flask of coffee on campus that morning, I didn't much care if I found any quarters or not. But as I walked over to get the bus for the hacienda, I spotted a cart sitting there and returned it. In the corral was another with its quarter, that one firmly stuck in slot. Swiss Army knife to the rescue, coffee financing in coin bag, off to the bench.
The two Bicycle Boys were there having an argument. They've both apparently lost their wheels, and it seemed to be yet another broken buddy act since they hadn't appeared together in some time. Maybe the argument was a make-up one, because they eventually settled down on adjoining benches.
It was just as well I'd gotten there earlier than usual since it turned out to be more than a full house, every bench occupied and five bodies on the floor. The temperature had dropped considerably in the late afternoon after being a warm enough day to temporarily shed the sweatshirt, and it got quite damp during the night. Lucky me, lucky us, that hadn't happened the night before.
And I really should have put that solution into practice already, should have gotten him again the Morning After.
I'm so bad.
492
"There are plenty of fish in the sea." True words, my dear Sleeptalker, true words, especially in this town of brown-skinned young men.On Good Friday morning, I went for the first time this year to sit by the seaside. Lest this be interpreted as a major expedition, I should explain for those unfamiliar with the terrain that Ala Moana Shopping Center, happy hunting ground for snipes, quarters and other goodies, sprawls alongside a six-lane "boulevard". Across that ever-busy thoroughfare is a pleasant park, a long sandy beach and the Pacific Ocean. One end of the beach is dominated by tourists, the other end by locals.
I walked down to the locals end and sat on a bench watching the early surfer dudes arrive for their romp in the waves. A fine young specimen of that breed walked past me, wearing only dark blue surfer shorts. This is not as commonplace as one might think. Surfing does not appear to be sufficiently strenuous exercise to burn off the results of those plate-lunch boxes and many of the surfer dudes are a little too Rubenesque for my taste. But in this case I had already reached the conclusion that he had a great body and a cute butt, there was really no need for him to take up position on the beach in front of me and do his limbering-up exercises, bending over and grabbing his ankles.
Not long after his entertaining exposition, two even-younger lads arrived with their boards. One was blonde, had a body which belonged on the cover of a twink magazine. His name was Michael, I learned from his father who told them he'd be back to get them at 11:30. Daddy left, two other lads walked up to join them. I told myself to behave, Michael was far too young for the thoughts I was having. One of his friends asked something about "Mark", and Michael said, "he gave me a blowjob". "How long did it take?" "Oh, just a few minutes," said Michael. I might as well have been invisible for all the notice they took of my eavesdropping. Just a few minutes. Gulp.
There's a new snipe hunter at the mall. I can't guess his ethnic origin, he looks more Caribbean than local. Young, very slim, very brown. Wears tan shorts and a lightweight tan jacket over a tee shirt, all quite grubby. Bare feet. He walks with a lilting little bounce which is so endearing I don't mind at all his being a competitor.
And I finally got a good look at that new young fellow who stays at the hacienda now and then, the one who had walked off with the Sleeptalker not long ago. He really is a sweet little guy and looks amazingly like a young (okay, even younger) version of Rocky. Absolutely no complaint whatever about him as a next-bench sleeping mate.
Yes, plenty of fish in the sea. None of this, of course, halted the ever-continuing thoughts of the Sleeptalker, but I reconcile myself to recalling at least once each day for the rest of my life the vision of him laying there under the full moon.
On Maundy Thursday evening, Helen R and I went to see the University production of "Summer Festival: A Mirror of Osaka". It was my first experience of Kabuki theatre so I can't say whether it was a good performance or not, but it certainly was fascinating and entertaining. Although in English, the program notes said they had tried to do it in a style authentic to its first production some 250 years ago. The only thing in my experience which is anything remotely close is Gilbert & Sullivan, and the only familiar moments were the classic frozen poses known from Japanese woodblock prints. As I told Helen later, I was grateful it had been explained before the performance that audience participation was welcome in the Kabuki tradition. Otherwise I would have thought some folks in the audience quite crazy for shouting out Japanese phrases now and then.
That evening of classic entertainment was followed by a double-feature movie expedition on Good Friday, starting with "U-571", a WW2 submarine epic. It was certainly well done although it seemed to miss the intense claustrophia of other sub movies I've seen and there was the almost-certainty the good guys would survive which weakened the suspense element. Unlike most Hollywood films these days, it did have a generous share of handsome men. With few exceptions (Brad Pitt comes instantly to mind), the current leading men in Hollywood films are really not very interesting physically.
After a quick lunch break at McD's, it was on to Friedkin's "Rules of Engagement". It, too, was well done but certainly not a film I'd want to see a second time. The Vietnam scenes suggest that Spielberg with his "Ryan" has set a new standard for graphic, bloody depiction of combat. Shudder.
Movie-going was followed up with dinner at Bubba Gump's, my first time there. No doubt about it, they do the best cheeseburger in town and their "Boiler" is my favorite menu item anywhere. A Boiler is a sixteen-ounce glass of draft beer plus a shooter of choice. Budweiser and tequila, my first taste of the latter since pre-hospital days. Yummmmm.
Then I did the "just hanging-out" routine until it was time for the bench and that little sweetie on the one next to me.
Take me down to Paradise City where the grass is green and the boys are pretty ... The Sleeptalker's favorite sing-along track at the moment. Okay, so I changed one word of the lyrics.
493
Three cheers for the Sleeptalker. He seems to be doing fine with it, appeared in the game on Saturday morning, playing from the State Library. I had expected him to stay away for at least a week. He reminded me that I owed him the sword. I assured him he'd get the sword. "I still need three thousand more quest points, my friend". I gave him a hug. He shivered. Heh. The first thing I did when we got up after that splendid evening interlude was ask for a hug. "You want a hug, too?!" Yep, a hug seemed the best way to say thank you. We had a few more amusing exchanges in the game before he left, presumably bound for free lunch. It would have been very much nicer had he made the trip to campus, but I'm sure it was easier for him via virtual contact. Certainly not for the first time, I was grateful for Seventh Circle.I was very happy with the virtual reunion but after some debate decided not to tell him the surprise news that the computer lab on campus was going to be open on Easter Sunday. He would no doubt have been torn between wanting to play the game and being, I think, not quite ready to see me face-to-face. Maybe I misjudge his thoughts, but better to play it extra careful for awhile.
He returned briefly to the game in mid-afternoon. I had been playing almost continuously. To explain just what a price I've paid for that beautiful body of his, the sword costs 20,000 quest points. Each quest yields a random reward, can be anything from less than 50 to more than 150. Making it more difficult, or at least more time-consuming, there is a twenty-minute delay after completing a quest before another can be asked for, and the time is only measured while in the game, alas. We're talking a LOT of time. But it surely was worth it.
The lab was closing at 4:30, so I left and joined Helen R for dinner at that pseudo-Cajun place at Daiei. Helen played Easter Bunny this year, and did a most excellent, and much appreciated, job of it, too.
Little Rocky was already asleep when I got to the hacienda and settled on the bench beside him. He wears a dark jacket with a hood which hides most of his face, light-blue jeans which have been cut off at the bottom, sweet bare feet. While I was waiting for a bus in the morning, I saw him get up, take off the jacket and the white tanktop he'd been wearing under it, switching to a dark tanktop. What a fine body. I wished I had stayed on my bench a little longer to have had a closer view. Bring on the warmer weather!
Most unusually, the mall McD's was closed for Easter, as I'd found out the day before. So I stayed on the bus until we got to Waikiki and I saw an open McD's there, had my coffee and then walked through the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center on a snipes hunt. "Is this the place with shops they're all talking about?" asked a mainland tourist. Hmmmm, can't say I've ever heard anyone talking about the place, but I said, "I guess so, it's the main shopping center here in Waikiki."
It's such a mess along the beach. Rather than doing the "beautification" a bit at a time, they've extended the construction work from one end of the beach almost to the other, and they certainly don't seem to be making very speedy progress on it or the work also going on in Kapiolani Park. It will no doubt look quite fine when finished, judging by the illustrations of the plans, but right now walking through Waikiki is a stroll through demolition city.
After walking the length of the beach, I got a bus to campus. The dreary False Prophet was hanging around outside the computer lab. I can't imagine why he does it, he gets comfort from the proximity of forbidden computers? Checked mail, played the game for awhile, scoured the campus for snipes, washed my hair. I remembered some past Easters, the first one in London when it snowed, much to everyone's surprise. That one spent in an office way up in the Seagram Building, watching the sun rise. One at the Vanderbilt YMCA when a young fellow who was there with some church group became aroused in the shower and got an Easter present I doubt he had expected. "Happy Easter!" I said to him afterwards and he grinned broadly.
where the grass is green ... and the boys are pretty ...
Maybe I'm finally turning into a Dirty Old Man.
494
A charmed life, indeed.Surprisingly, Thursday had been the first brew-less day of April. Saturday was the second because I'd nonsensically tucked away the funds for an Easter sunset beer. I had $2.06 for the beer, needed one more penny. But I also had a quarter, needed a dime and a penny for the next morning's coffee. I was prepared to sacrifice the quarter and the coffee for that sunset bottle. But I walked past a vending machine area on campus which is not usually a rewarding one. On the floor was one dime and two pennies.
That kind of thing makes me feel like I've stepped down the rabbit hole with Alice.
Of course, with such exactitude, once the coffee was purchased I was in the amazingly rare state of being utterly penniless. It's odd that after all this time, it makes any difference. But it does.
The beer was not entirely a success. I was feeling low. I went to the State Library to get reading material for what I thought would be more time offline than it turned out to be. Although I've grumbled about every book of his I've read, I spotted John Grisham's thick volume, The Chamber. No grumbles this time, it's a fine piece of work. But thoroughly grim and depressing.
And maybe I'm finally turning into a Dirty Old Man didn't help. Okay, I wasn't entirely serious (although in some ways I've always been one, no matter what age). But that's not what I really want, I think. I want to be the old guy the young lads can trust, confide in, turn to when in trouble. The one who gives them a cigarette or occasionally buys them a beer without strings attached, without sitting there hoping they'll unzip their pants.
One voice I've dubbed the Grand Romantic says quit, retire, give it up on the crest of the wave. You know there isn't going to be another that will mean as much as the Sleeptalker, just resign and give up sex, grow old(er) gracefully with the memory that the last time was one of the best ever.
A large chorus shouts him down. Get real! You know damned well if you end up in the beach shower with Little Rocky and he offers it, you're going to oblige and most happily so.
I do get weary of these confounded internal dialogues.
495
Tell me he's lazy, tell me he's slowTell me I'm crazy, maybe I know ...
The Sleeptalker knelt by my bench and asked softly, "where were you?"
"At lunchtime? Went Ala Moana to have a shower."
"Then you went back?"
"Yes, was there until about eight o'clock."
I rubbed my hand through his hair and he got that wonderful goofy dog expression on his face. Then he bounced off to an outside bench where I had a fine view of his sprawled body. I've never known anyone who so hates being on his own. Even with the game to occupy him, he hadn't been able to stay on campus by himself for a couple of hours.
And sound asleep on the bench beside me was "Little Rocky". BUT ... it isn't "little" Rocky at all, it's the Man himself! That boy must have located the Fountain of Youth. He looks at least three or four years younger. Little wonder I thought he looked "amazingly like Rocky". I suppose it's because I've gotten so used to seeing him when he's either totally wasted or recovering from having been so. And little wonder I'd thought the view from a distance suggested he has a great body. He does, indeed. I definitely should've stayed on the bench awhile longer that morning. He wouldn't have minded my admiring close-up gaze.
Old-timers night at the hacienda. Rocky, the Sleeptalker, even the Snorer stopped by. I guess he was just checking the place out, he didn't spend the night. No problem with that, there's another snorer there who is more than a match for him. The two of them together would have been horrendous.
Spring has sprung ... at last. Easter Monday was a sunny, warm day, perfect for the first beach shower of the year. Can't say the first shower companions of the new season were very interesting, but as my old friend Felix used to say, "even in New York City a naked body has some worth." In Honolulu, too.
On Tuesday, at midday, the Sleeptalker arrived on campus. Yet again I borrowed money to finance some beer. We played the game awhile, went downhill to get some food and a beer, sat in the secluded grove. We talked about early memories of our first encounters. It's funny how differently we remember some of those moments.
We went back to the computer lab and played some more, later took a smoke break together. The Cherub happened by, as those say who don't accept "no accidents". Off to the Garden to drink some more beer. A conversation which absolutely no editor would have accepted had it been part of a novel. I was well out-numbered. Two twenty-four-year olds against an old man. The Cherub utterly shocked me at one point when I realized I had lost contact, he simply hadn't understood what I had been saying, or I had done an even worse job of saying it than I thought.
The Sleeptalker had picked a fight with one of the game players earlier, one of the guys I most like. I tried through private chat to explain that the Sleeptalker was a bit drunk, that he really isn't the bastid he sometimes seems to be in the game, etc., and managed to calm the stormy waters. But of course the Sleeptalker fretted over the incident throughout the evening and it eventually turned into a shouting match outside the Garden. I walked off and left him and the Cherub, returned to the computer lab and wished I'd never met the Sleeptalker.
Love me or leave me and let me be lonely ...
After awhile I headed off to the bus stop, ran into the Sleeptalker and the Cherub. Apologies, bear hugs. Sigh.
The Cherub went on his way, the Sleeptalker and I walked downhill for more beer and took it to where we'd slept on that Fool Moon night. A light drizzle started, so we had to move closer together to take advantage of the small roof overhang and that meant sleeping very, very close to each other. An exercise, I guess, in proving we could get drunk together and sleep with constant body contact, nothing more than that happening.
If there is some other way to prove that I love you
I swear I don't know how
You'll never know if you don't know now
In the morning he decided to head off for the soup kitchen and an early appointment with his caseworker. I brewed myself a flask of coffee and sat there under a beautiful dawn sky.
And wished I'd never met him.
But probably didn't mean it.
496
My Tijuana backpack. My heavy Tijuana backpack. I stopped down on Wednesday morning to visit Kory K who was busy packing for a five-day trip home to Hilo, Merry Monarch Festival and all. He gave me a bottle of tequila. Damn, I should have birthdays more often.Amazingly enough, I didn't open the bottle on Wednesday. That was partly because he also gave me the remains of a vodka bottle. Off to the supermarket for a ham sandwich, cottage cheese and a can of tomato juice. A Bloody Mary, even without ice and sauce, is a nice alternative to beer for lunch. If only I could manage to lug around one of those huge bottles of cheap vodka they sell at the drugstore.
Then later, in the game, I got the other component of my ammo for Sleeptalker Round Two. There's another sword he badly wants, this one special because it no longer exists. In the last major revision of the game, they removed the "Dragonslicer", so the only available ones are from old-timers who still have some. They are very reluctant to part with them, understandably, but I managed to complete a special quest and was awarded a "Gold Shard", valuable enough to trade for two of those swords. A Dragonslicer and a bottle of tequila ... what more do I need?
The Sleeptalker and I had discussed all this bribery stuff. I noted that I am generally very kind to him so there's no reason why he should have to be bribed to be kind in return. He agreed. Hmmmm. He lamented the fact that he just isn't a generous person, an accurate piece of self analysis. I noted the truth of it later when the Cherub gave the Sleeptalker three dollars for beer. Since I was buying the beer, he bought cigarettes. I was allowed to smoke three of the twenty, and he didn't even offer one in the morning before jumping on the bus for the soup kitchen. Nope, not a generous person. At least he's honest about it.
But he also complained about a friend who comes running everytime he hears the Sleeptalker has money and then when the money is gone, totally ignores him. I guess that's one reason the Sleeptalker always avoids me in the first few days of the month.
I had a quiet day on my own, trying to make more sense out of my jumbled batch of thoughts. There are some cliches of gay thinking I've always found repellent. One is the notion that all men are really homosexual and can be had. The flip side of that is trying to convince oneself the object of desire is really straight. I've seen some queens pull that one on themselves when the boyfriend was a blatant faggot.
Determined to avoid either of those pitfalls, I probably fall into another one by feeling convinced the Sleeptalker is bisexual. Maybe he's just a thoroughly repressed gay guy. I'm not sure, and it certainly doesn't matter to me.
Another pitfall I thoroughly dislike is the trophy one. Chase a guy until you get him, then go on to the next. Some readers may think that applies in this case, but not so. A reader wrote:
"It's so much easier to deal with desire that's never been quenched than to get a taste and then not be able to have your fill. (Somehow the metaphor seems apt.)"
Most apt, indeed.
And equally apt was:
"Given that you're going to have the ups and downs anyway, I guess being in love with a young drifter is not the worst thing that could happen."
Ain't it the truth.
497
As I do now and then, was reading an old Tale and came across this in Tale 99:I'd gotten to the hacienda early and was relaxing on the bench, looking around me with the increasing admiration I have for that space, those noble arches, the esoteric elegance of the use of threes, the strange but wonderful blend of Moorish, Egyptian, Mughal, Mayan.
Oh yes, there is absolutely no doubt about it. The "hacienda" is THE greatest blessing of my life. I'd considered on Wednesday evening staying in the Fool Moon Spot, cuddling up to the phantom memory of the Sleeptalker's warm body, but decided instead to grab my bench next to the non-phantom body of Rocky at the hacienda.
The Sleeptalker answered my question, after I asked it three times. Rocky lost both his job and the place where he has been living. No details provided. My guess is, he's feeling pretty low and that morning recently when I saw him could well have been the first day after his losses. Every night he's already soundly asleep, so unlike him. Here we go again. I do wish I could help him somehow, he's really a very sweet guy.
Kory K said, "don't get too drunk." I told him what I really wouldn't mind doing was to get VERY drunk, but all by myself. As I've said before, alcohol is a lousy drug. I'd much rather be living with 30 milligrams of Valium and a couple of decent joints every day, but this wonderful society we live in won't allow that. So I have to make do with what's legally (and affordably) available. I definitely don't have the patience or perseverance to escape the utter boredom of a not-in-some-way-drugged state of mind by resorting to meditation, fasting and such.
And if one has to make do with alcohol, tequila certainly is one of the best methods of consuming it.
I didn't get too drunk, but I did take sufficient swigs from that bottle to reach a warm, wuzzy state of contentment. Wasting the ammo, I thought, but phooey. Talk about cliche attitudes, what about cliche scenarios. Get 'em drunk to get in their pants. A lousy classic, gay or otherwise, and a game I know I'd get bored with very quickly. I don't really want it that much. Of course, it was easier to reach that conclusion after two days without the Sleeptalker's presence and in that tequila glow. In vino veritas, nonetheless.
Katherine Kingsley's The Sound of Snow had caught my eye at the State Library. I figured anyone who could come up with such a fine title must be worth reading and even though it doesn't really live up to the elegance of the title, it's amusing enough and, woe is me, the sex scenes are very well done. Did I really need this, Dame Fortune?
No, but it did go well with the wuzziness and the pleasant afternoon in the secluded grove. Me, my bottle and book, and those fluffy little zebra doves. And no sexy young man for company.
498
Auspicious morning, the last Saturday of April 2000. I woke to see Rocky asleep on the bench behind me, the Sleeptalker on the one in front. He was laying on his back, that most desirable part of him standing tall and clearly outlined in his dark jeans. And he wonders why gay men are always hitting up on him. I left that enticing vision, walked down to the bus stop. A handsome young fellow crossed the street, said "the focking cops, they won't focking leave you alone." I assume he'd been roused from his sleeping spot. He had a wonderful nose which looked as if it had been broken at some time, adding significantly to his allure. He walked off toward the mall but got on the bus a couple of stops down, then oddly disembarked a short distance later instead of staying on until it reached the mall. Just as well. I probably would've offered to buy him a coffee just to spend some more time with him.After enjoying my coffee without his company, I made my usual circuit to hunt snipes, then noticed one of the strollers hadn't been properly returned to the corral. An easy two quarters. Amazing no one else had spotted it.
Tequila certainly doesn't have the deep soul-cleansing power of LSD or mescaline, but it does have the power to break chains, sweep away lesser cobwebs. That bottle was a fine gift. I'd begun the process of finishing it off at lunchtime. A roast beef sandwich, potato salad, and a generous swig of tequila in tomato juice, accompanied by an interesting historical romance set in Victorian England and Spain, Came Forth the Sun by Elizabeth de Guise. I'd made a quick pre-lunch visit to the State Library, got it and another book, briefly went snipe hunting at the mall before returning to campus and the secluded grove.
The Sleeptalker had been in the game earlier, after two days' absence. He said nothing to me, so I followed my usual habit of saying nothing to him first, waiting to see what mood he was in. But I enjoyed dangling the bait, stood in the main square until he happened by, then made it appear that "Reting polishes his beautiful slicer." "How did you get that!" I smiled and walked away. A little later he asked again, I didn't reply, just said publicly "smoke break time" and left. Turnabout's fair play.
A major revision of the game is to be installed this weekend or Monday and it will enable me to get that other sword I owe him. Not only that, but I'll be able to get a second one of them. Hmmmm, three swords he wants and it's Fabled Pension Check time. Am I loaded for the hunt, or what? But that chain-breaking tequila had definitely shifted the balance. Thinking about it, I felt certain I would be getting his body again but there's no hurry. And I was very happy to feel that urgent desire fade back into a low simmer. Yes, that's much more comfortable. So I'd been pleased by my reaction to that morning vision of the Sleeptalker, grateful seeing him in such a totally desirable state hadn't turned the flames back up.
He didn't return to the game in the afternoon. I played off and on in between swigs from the bottle and reading. Pure Heart was playing for an hour in Waikiki but by the time arrived I was feeling far too mellow and content to leave the secluded grove until benchtime. I reminded myself I should make more of an effort to do things only if I really want to, and that includes seducing a cute guy from Waianae.
499
"You take it much too seriously.""What?"
"Sex."
He quickly shifted the conversation back to the safer territory of the game, but he had been the one, as always, to open the topic. Once again he mulled over his difficulty in believing he'd let it happen, again used the exact same phrase, "I was all drunk and everything." Since he has been "all drunk" on numerous occasions, I guess "everything" is the key phrase. Maybe it's a euphemism for "horny"? That he was fully erect by the time he opened his pants was rather ... err ... solid evidence. But it wouldn't have been kind or politic to suggest he had actually wanted it.
"I'm not your boyfriend."
"I know, I wish you were."
But thinking about that later, I know it's not really true. I wouldn't want all the baggage that would come of thinking of the Sleeptalker as my "boyfriend". I'd thought on Saturday how good it would be to know a young man I cared about even half as much as I do the Sleeptalker, but one who would be casual enough about it to let me have his body now and then without it being such a fuss. Him, I could think of as a "boyfriend". The Sleeptalker is in another league.
That's the problem. The Sleeptalker and I both enjoy our friendship, but we both wish it were something else. He wants a buddy, one who doesn't turn authority figure on him when he misbehaves. Now and then he turns into a little kid, gets a big thrill out of spitting at the birds, rejoices when he hits one. I absolutely banned the game in the secluded grove, said I wouldn't drink with him there again if he was going to do that. I told him I think he just likes to push it, see how far he can go before I grumble. He admitted it, laughed, and said, "and you get all mad over nothing." Sigh.
He was sitting at a computer in the lab when I got to campus on Sunday morning. We played in the game until the outside connection from UH went down temporarily and we sat on a bench outside talking, now and then getting up to see if the connection was back. At one point we almost decided to go off to the beach together and if I hadn't been due downtown in mid-afternoon, I probably would have encouraged it. I quite like the idea of sitting on the sand with him beside me in just shorts, watching him go into the water and coming out with those pants clinging to his body. Yes, a nice idea. I must try and arrange that now and then this summer.
If ... he's around. He was due in court at noon on Monday. Since I still don't know why, I've no idea how serious it is. He didn't seem to think there was any chance of jail time since he said he'd arrive on campus Monday afternoon, but he has so little connection with "reality" sometimes, I won't feel relieved until I actually see him, either in person or in the game.
As Friday had been, Saturday was a wonderfully quiet day alone. I had scrounged the nickels and dimes from Kory K's change box so the coin bag was stocked for a lunchtime beer and another at sunset. That historical novel is fine reading, appears to have been well researched with sufficient detail to make it even more fascinating. And those quiet days alone are such an essential part of my life, time to sort and arrange, to sweep out, to just sit back and enjoy the sunshine, the trees, the birds, and to relax without worrying about whether I'm doing or saying the "right" thing.
499a
His "friend", the Sleeptalker told me without saying which friend (even though I think I know most of them), is going to get a "house" this week, and the Sleeptalker might move in with him. "I'm a two-timing guy," he said, with a leer that made me feel like slapping him. Okay, I gave it my best effort not to react to either statement. A minute or so later he said, "if I get SSI, I'll probably stay at IHS for another month or two."Did I really have to fall in love with a madman?!
I had a restless night, had difficulty getting to sleep and every time I woke up during the night, had as much trouble returning to sleep. The Snorer had arrived somewhat later than I had, with a woman. I've seen her hanging out around McD's now-and-then in the early morning for several months. A woman of a certain age. Okay, so I'm utterly sexist, thought it was quite un-ladylike of her to cuddle against a man on the floor, never mind I'm more than happy to do it with a young man. But then I think it is tacky of any man to expect a woman to live that way with him, too, especially when it's an able-bodied man like the Snorer who is more than capable of making some money and treating the woman to a real bed. None of my business, I told myself, none of my business.
I woke again, watered the bushes, lighted a snipe. The Snorer was vigorously stroking himself, laying there beside the woman. Yikes.
At last, I finally fell asleep soundly enough to stay that way until morning. Was awakened by the Snorer yakking away to one of the other residents. I really dislike people waking up in motormouth mode.
After coffee at McD's, I took the bus to campus, logged on, checked email, popped into the game to see the new revision still wasn't there, and went off to the secluded grove to enjoy some leftover fried chicken from Sunday afternoon's lunch. Then I went to Sinclair Library and saw the Sleeptalker sitting there.
He was wearing a white tanktop. I'm not sure whether I'm most glad he doesn't wear those things more often or wish he wore one all the time. Local boys certainly do know how well that particular garment shows off their shoulders and arms.
He was in big trouble, yet again, in the game, had stumbled into a place where one loses all one's equipment. I've tried again and again to explain to him exactly how that particular area works. No success. So of course I went in and helped him as much as I could before time ran out.
He did have his court date. On a smoke break he finally told me, after I almost pounded it out of him, that he'd been busted for "drinking in public". I don't believe it. Maybe drinking in public, drunk and disorderly? And yes, he might go to jail. His lawyer expects a generous helping of community service time. The Sleeptalker would rather go to jail and get it over with, less effort.
Whichever way it goes, I guess I'll get a little respite.
499b
Well, maybe not much of a "respite" after all. And, of course, I'm far from sure I really want one.All the charges were dropped except for "the bag of grass".
Like I said, I didn't believe it.
500
Word came that the Fabled Pension Check had arrived. I went downtown to get it, to Waikiki to cash it, bought beer and cigarettes and returned to campus. I was sitting in the secluded grove enjoying them and the book when the Sleeptalker arrived. He was seemingly in a happy mood and told me, after some prodding, that it had gone well at court. Three of four charges had been dropped and he had been given ten hours community service and probation for the fourth charge, the marijuana bag he hadn't mentioned before.He finished off the beer and we went to the computer lab to play the game for awhile. I was outside later taking a smoke break when the Cherub came down the walk, so engrossed in a book I thought he was going to pass me without even noticing. Kierkegaard, as I saw when he did notice and walked over to say hello. I apologized for his having been a witness to the squabble the Sleeptalker and I had staged last week. "I just don't understand it at all," he said. "I don't think I do either."
I offered to buy him a beer at the Garden but he said he'd better not, he was just on his way to get a twelve-pack and get back to work on some required papers. I thought he might do better without those twelve cans of beer, but none of my business. Rather belatedly, with Finals Week just around the corner, he has realized he might flunk two courses and fall short of the total credits needed to graduate.
He went on his way, I told the Sleeptalker I was going downhill to get beer and would be back. When I returned, we sat at the table where we'd been on that fateful night. He was muttering about that "friend" he'd mentioned earlier who it turns out is not a friend at all, but someone the Sleeptalker had just met. The guy claims not to be gay. The Sleeptalker doesn't believe it. Can't say I do either, why else would he suggest he was going to ask the Sleeptalker to move in with him? And the Waianae Kid has had enough practice to spot a ringer.
He got more and more steamed about it as he was talking. As I observed a very long time ago, the Sleeptalker is a natural flirt, he flirts with everyone. It's a major part of his charm. But it's hardly surprising that when he meets a gay man for the first time his flirting manner leads to misunderstandings, and quite unfair of him to blame the other person.
I had been irked by the "two-timing guy" ploy earlier. Isn't our friendship cluttered enough without transparent attempts to arouse jealousy? So all his ranting reminded me of how annoyed I'd been and when it went on to a general outpouring of bitterness about gay men I thought again how he does like to push a person.
To make it doubly outrageous, he took off his shirt and kept striking poses, even lay back on the low wall behind the table at one point. Flirting is one thing, blatant cockteasing is another. Maybe if the act hadn't been accompanied by that quite tacky verbal outburst I might have enjoyed the show. The combination was too much.
I thought, if I didn't have this absurd, compelling physical desire for his body, I probably wouldn't like the guy at all.
And I was relieved when he decided to return to the game. "Will you be here when I get back?" "I doubt it."
I went over to the Fool Moon Spot and settled down, had been sleeping a short while when he arrived, woke me up asking, "you have more beer?" "Finished, finished," I said, and I didn't just mean beer. He walked off. I was wide awake then, smoked a couple of cigarettes. He returned. He had found someone's stashed bag with a pair of pants, a tee shirt, a blanket and whatever else was in the bag he didn't remove. I thought it was rather mean of him to have taken it, but didn't say so. "You want the blanket?" he asked. "Doesn't matter," I said. He spread it out near me and walked off again.
I thought about it for a few minutes, decided I just didn't want to sleep that near him, packed up my stuff and left, walked downhill to catch a bus. It was too late for one to the hacienda, but I planned to get as close as I could and walk the rest of the way. I'd been there about ten minutes when the Sleeptalker arrived, stood some distance away without saying anything. I turned and walked off.
Fortunately, it was a dry night, would have been quite miserable otherwise. I walked down to the beach park, was surprised to see a vacant bench in the large sheltered bus stop where the four benches are usually occupied by sleeping bodies. A couple of hours sleep, then a cop arrived and woke everyone up. Unnecessary, it seems to me, to bother people who are quietly sleeping at 3:30 in the morning. "Focking cops, won't focking leave you alone." Uh-huh.
I went over and sat on a bench facing the ocean, like all of them far too short and with iron armrests making them unsuitable for sleeping. I didn't mind, sat there for an hour watching the waves and then walked over to 7-Eleven to get coffee.
I'd written to Mme de Crécy earlier in the evening, "I have to get rid of him." But no, that's not really what I have to do. I have to regain my inner life without him being a dominating presence. The way it is now just isn't healthy for either of us.
500a
Mme de Crécy, understandably, wondered if I wished to elucidate on my wail about getting rid of "him". I told her it was mostly explained in Tale 500 although I had failed to capture the mood of the moment. That instant where the seesaw tilts from one direction to the other.Another reader wrote: "You were teased thusly before the last episode. Be patient, your quarry awaits you, who are no longer master of the game. Sword or no..."
Ah, I may well be way ahead of the Sleeptalker in the game of Seventh Circle, but in "real life" I have never even come close to being Master of the Game. He has had the winning hand from the very first moment I saw him.
And yes, I was teased thusly on that Fool Moon extravaganza, but it was as different as any two scenarios can be which have one thing in common, his body bared from the waist up. The first time was delightful, charming, as if he were presenting me with a little thank-you bouquet for the beer I'd bought him. On Monday night it was more a drama of telling me what a scumbag I am, and just look at this, eat your heart out.
I wouldn't put up with a relationship that involved physical abuse, why should I endure one with a verbal equivalent, especially spiced with a wannabe-enticing peep show?
No. It was trashy. Maybe he was "all drunk". Maybe he was also even "all everything". Unlike the first time, I too was "all drunk". And maybe that helped tilt the balance so that I really didn't give a damn if I ever got his body again. I don't think so. I think his extraordinary performance would have done it even if I'd been cold sober.
Perhaps, consciously or unconsciously, that's exactly what he set out to do, be so obnoxious I'd stop desiring him. Again, I don't think so. I don't think he'd really want to gamble that far. I've been too useful for too long as a person he can turn to when everyone else has told him to get lost. And knowing that, of course, makes it even more difficult for me.
500b
Hey, will you guys stop it! How am I supposed to "get rid of" him when my readers encourage hopes of getting his pants down again, make excuses for his boorish behavior!A reader recalled an incident many moons ago when the Sleeptalker had been ranting about gay men and one of the others (Mondo, I think) said, "he doesn't mean you." Yes, I remember that, the "I hate it when he cries" evening.
Monday's tirade, though, included too many arrows aimed directly at me. Both it and the fierce squabble outside the Garden last week were no doubt to-be-expected reactions inspired by that Fool Moon night and that, if there really is one, is the justification.
After the night of wandering and interrupted short moments of sleep, I was really, really happy to collapse on the bench at the hacienda Tuesday night. Rocky arrived later but some fat man had taken the bench between us, alas. The Sleeptalker told me that on the nights Rocky doesn't appear, he's staying at Mondo's place. Now that's an invitation I'd like to receive, even if it would be out of the frying pan into the fire.
It had been a quiet day on my own, alternating between time in the secluded grove with Conrad's Lord Jim and playing in Seventh Circle. Only about 800 more points to go and I can pay my debt to the Sleeptalker whether the promised revisions ever appear or not. No sign of him, in or out of the game.
I can't claim to have made much progress in regaining that control of my inner life I'm after. The stupid internal jukebox has been stuck on classic love songs since the Full Moon. I can force a change, but it sneaks back to them. Every time thoughts started to turn toward the Sleeptalker's so desirable body, though, I stopped them dead in their tracks.
Resist not evil? Uh-huh, I see how the effort to resist tends to feed the flames, the rebellious mind tries even harder to escape discipline. Oh well, gotta start somewhere.
501
Got it! Finally got that sword I owe the lad. Alas, he wasn't there to effect the transfer, but he will be. He had been in the game earlier on Wednesday, bragged that he'd been invited to a hotel party. "Lots of free beer." I resisted the naughty temptation to ask if he'd gotten "all drunk and everything", just replied, "cool".Another quiet day, alternating between reading in the secluded grove and playing in Seventh Circle. I was on my way back to the computer lab after sunset when the Cherub spotted me, got my attention with an amusing bird call. A long evening of beer, wide-ranging conversation and a grilled cheese sandwich that produced all-night indigestion. I don't think I'll ever eat anything again at the University Players bar.
The Cherub is reconciled to returning in the fall, just isn't going to have the credits he needs to graduate now. He had told his father who seems, as always, to have taken it with goodnatured grumbling, and the Cherub plans to spend the summer at home on Kauai.
We talked about the Sleeptalker and our strange dance together. The Cherub said that during their time alone together last week, the Sleeptalker had referred to making me jealous. The Cherub either genuinely didn't remember the exact details or was sparing me. A pity, I'd like to have heard that exchange. He thought it beyond understanding. I suppose I do, too, but I also find it mysteriously intriguing. I said I had noticed on several occasions what seemed very transparent attempts to push me into feeling jealous, but that I had been firmly determined from the beginning not to allow myself that grim indulgence. Jealousy is one emotion (curse?) I want nothing more to do with.
Although neither of us had told him directly, the Cherub had reached the conclusion that the Sleeptalker had finally been seduced (or was it had seduced?). I told him his assumption was correct. He wondered if I had "swallowed it all"! Bizarre. And even more so since the Sleeptalker himself was much impressed that I had, indeed, "swallowed it all." As the inimitable Betka commented: "Besides, it wouldn't be Love if you didn't swallow it all."
The Cherub and I finally left the bar shortly after eleven. I waited awhile to see if a bus would come along to take me within walking distance of the hacienda, then gave up and went to sleep in the Fool Moon Spot. The blanket was still where the Sleeptalker had left it, a comfy soft cotton spread much too large to lug around. I wrapped myself up in it and aside from waking several times wishing I had some Alka-Seltzer enjoyed a rare night by myself, no snoring, no morning motormouths, no sleeptalking.
502
At his best, I can say with solid objectivity the Sleeptalker is as charming, sweet and affectionate as any man it has been my privilege to meet.Did he wonder if he'd gone too far on that unpleasant Monday? I'm not sure. On my first trip to India, one of the most difficult adjustments to make was to the attitude of what seemed the majority of Indians. If in a bad mood, they were in a bad mood. No matter if you were a treasured, regular customer, they made no effort at all to be pleasant. I soon came to see it as far more healthy than our put-on-a-happy-face American method.
Maybe that, too, is the Sleeptalker's way. Or maybe he was mending the almost-burned bridge, making an unspoken apology. Or maybe it's my version of the battered wife syndrome, although not surprisingly, I like that interpretation least.
The Sleeptalker arrived on campus Thursday morning, wearing a white Corona teeshirt and tan corduroy pants which were cut in a way that showed off his cute butt perfectly. I was wearing the Corona teeshirt he'd had on that Fool Moon night. "The Corona Twins," I said.
He brought me a pint bottle of vodka, refused at lunchtime to share it, said, "no, that's for you."
I told him in the game to meet me at an out-of-the-way spot. He arrived. I said, "thank you again", handed him the special sword, and bowed to him. He returned the bow. Sweet.
Sweet, too, those "caught ya'" smiles when he knew I'd drifted into adoring reverie, especially at one point when we were taking a smoke break and he sprawled on his back in the grass beside the bench, his tee shirt riding up to reveal a strip of brown belly. And his utterly delightful rendition of the Oedipus Rex story. Sophocles would no doubt be much pleased that his work survived all those centuries and is still able to reach a Waianae high-school dropout.
Helen R had invited me on a "cheap date" when she got two free tickets to the first showing here of Ridley Scott's "Gladiator", so the Sleeptalker and I left campus a little after six, parted with a touched closed fist "handshake" and another of his wonderful smiles. It had been on all counts one of the best days I've spent with him.
I'm not sure these "freebie" films are really all that free, especially when part of radio station promotional extravaganzas. Packed theatres and lengthy pre-show routines of patter from dee-jays, trivia contests and prize give-a-ways are possibly a higher price to pay than purchasing a ticket. Then, rather incredibly these days, the film broke at one point, so there was an unplanned intermission, followed by two shorter breaks when the attempted repair hadn't worked.
The longest one would have been a good chance to step out for a smoke and that might have made me less impatient as the film meandered on to its conclusion. There are some brilliant, incredible sequences, one battle scene which is probably the best ever made of "primitive" warfare, and the more-aided-by-high-tech grand scenes of ancient Rome are fitting additions to the Griffith-DeMille tradition. But there were some stretches of the long, long film which were utterly boring.
Still, I'm grateful to have seen it and didn't mind finding myself on the streets at Waikiki after eleven at night, especially since a bus quickly came along which took me directly to the hacienda and a vacant bench. Rocky's usual spot. I guess he was with Mondo. Lucky Rocky. Lucky me, too, for that delightful day with the Sleeptalker, a day that made me more than happy I hadn't, after all, gotten "rid of him."
503
"Follow your heart," the Sleeptalker said. "I want you to follow your heart."I'll follow my secret heart ...
I had a colossal hangover on Saturday morning but it wasn't because of the beer we'd drunk on Friday, it was an emotional and psychic hangover. He appeared in the game mid-morning on Friday, playing from the State Library, then disappeared again, then returned. I learned later that the guardians of the terminals there were giving him a hard time, strictly enforcing their absurd fifteen-minute limit. So he arrived on campus.
The next ten hours were soul-jerking. During breaks from the game, he talked and talked, more than I've ever heard from him in one dose. He loves his mother, he loves his father, he insisted, but a little later said he'd gone to see his mother and she told him he shouldn't be there, they had a TRO against him. He hates her.
A mother who would get a legal restraining order to keep her eldest son away is beyond my ability to understand, no matter how well I know what a problem child he is. But then she and I no doubt have in common the tremendous burden of wanting so much to help him but not knowing how, and she has carried it a lot longer than I have.
His caseworker isn't paying enough attention to him, he said, and it's complicated because he has something of a crush on her even if she is "old". I was keeping my comments to an absolute minimum but did remind him he'd said he wasn't doing what the caseworker advised. "I don't want to do all that stuff, I just want to play MUD."
He hadn't gone to his interview for financial assistance. He either has to, or wants to, leave the IHS shelter. I know nothing of how that place works, but apparently he has about a hundred dollars in an account there. To withdraw it, he has to "go off their books". And he doesn't care, except that he'd have no place to keep his stuff. I sympathized, said one thing I really disliked was having to carry my backpack around all the time.
As always, he started the sex game. "It's a sin," he said. "God told Moses that homosexuals and lesbians are sinners." So far as we know, I corrected, all "God" said to Moses is what's in the ten commandments, and there is no mention of homosexuality there. God made you what you are, he said. "I don't mind. You give good head."
"Thank you."
Yes, he decided, I could have his body again in exchange for that other special sword. Then he changed his mind. Jerk, jerk, watch the puppet on a string. "I'm getting tired of this game," I told him.
"I don't want to think about it," he said. "Go to bed, you'll wake up in the morning and I'll be gone."
"No, you'll wake up in the morning and I'll be gone."
And I was. My heart just had to follow me, it had no choice.
504
Don't think twice, it's all right ...There was almost a full flask of beer left, so after our Dylan-ish final exchange I smoked a cigarette and finished the beer, got up and folded my half of the blanket over the Sleeptalker. He was asleep or pretending to be. I left, walked downhill and got a bus downtown, walked on to the hacienda. I was so exhausted I slept very soundly, didn't wake until it was a little after six, already full daylight. For a moment, I felt confused. No guard saying "it's time to wake up"? That usually only happens on Sunday mornings.
A bus to the mall, two cups of coffee, an abundant snipes hunt. The cleaning crew from the night before must have quit early. No quarters, no matter. Surprisingly, the Fabled Pension Check still wasn't fully spent (albeit close enough). And I did better this round with the foodstamps, too, having almost fifteen dollars to carry over. Those lovely free meals in April get the credit, not any feats of self-restraint.
To campus. Reading and writing email. A reader wrote: In short, the dictum "hang loose" is probably well advised. I wouldn't waste too much time with an obviously intractable person and situation.
Oh, I'm not at all concerned about wasting time. It's the one thing I have in abundance and I'm not going to worry about wasting any of it. I'm also not convinced the time I've spent with the Sleeptalker has in any way been a waste. What does deeply bother me is my inability to really be of any help to him, and my fear that I may actually be doing more harm than good to the man. I don't think I can possibly help him break out of his tormented sexual confusion, but I do suspect that is a major part of his overall inner difficulties. I could adjust to the idea that sex was just not going to be part of our friendship, I think. I've been careful to avoid the subject altogether. But he won't let it rest. I don't know if playing puppetmaster really is his motive. I doubt it's as deliberate and conscious as that. Whatever his intent, as I told him, I'm getting tired of the game.
Yes, "hang loose" is no doubt the proper prescription. Live for the day, for the hour, keep on trying to reduce the Sleeptalker's role in my inner life.
Joseph Conrad and his magnificent, almost intoxicating prose is not helping much. Despite the irrelevant dissimilarities, it is impossible not to associate his Jim with my Sleeptalker. And the relationship of an older man to a troubled youth, with such dense undertones of undefined sexuality, so beautifully narrated with so many profound observations -- a splendid book, indeed. But no, not in the least bit helpful when it comes to pushing the Sleeptalker into a less significant, less demanding niche in my world of thoughts.
Nor is Seventh Circle. "Where is he?" they ask, "why isn't he playing this morning?" I don't know where he is, maybe he's too hungover to play today. But yes, I enjoy that game and I enjoy some of the friendships that have formed in there. And yes, it must be admitted that it's a much better way to be friends with a sixteen-year-old lad who lives in New Jersey and seems to find me a warm shoulder to cry on now and then.
And the Sleeptalker's role in my outer world? I honestly don't know what I want. There's a part of me which would, if the means were at hand, simply go away. Travel to distant climes, as I did to escape the Dutchman, that other great Love of My Life. This is a small town. I could avoid the Sleeptalker only with considerable adjustments to my habitual way of life, including giving up life on campus. And I am not at all sure I want to avoid him, no matter how welcome the days of respite may be.
It would no doubt be wiser to give up drinking with him, though. Can I stick with that resolve when he asks, as he did on Friday, if I would buy us some beer and I have money in pocket? Probably not.
"Hang loose." Yes, that's even wiser. Waste no time fretting over what decision can or should be made until the time arrives to make it.
And read on. Read the online journals of other people, like Terri, whose touching essay on infertility took me for a time right out of my own muddy ponderings, or the author of Stitches in Time delightfully, in her latest entry (as of today), mulling over love, and panties left in the back seat of a car.
Dame Fortune, of course, waited in the wings, a book in hand to leave in my path.
Hermann Hesse: Steppenwolf
505
A reader had written: You can't really be as old as you are, and as smart as you are, my dear Panther, and not recognize the functional dynamics of self-loathing, can you?And then clarified in a follow-up mail: On reviewing my comment, I notice its ambiguity. I trust you understood I was referring to Mr. Sleeptalker's self-loathing, not your own. IOW, his arrows (how appropriate!) were aimed not at you at all, but at his projection of an aspect of his personality that he clearly dreads, fears, loathes, desires, needs, wants, and most of the time, manages to suppress.
That's a grimly accurate catalogue, I think. I had interpreted the original remarks as referring to the Sleeptalker but was certainly not going to quibble with any splatters that fell on me through the ambiguity of it. I am not blameless. And while "self-loathing" would be far too strong a term for it, there is dissatisfaction with self to deal with. As I wrote, right up to the last moment I was thinking I should stop it. I'm not fool enough to have expected him to take my attitude, "that was fun, let's do it again." I knew it would complicate our friendship and his inner life. Yes, I accept any splatters.
Saturday was the Dutchman's birthday, so the Sleeptalker had to move over, make room for the customary annual Meditation Upon a Dutchman celebration. In our last conversation together, I told the Dutchman that someday, when we were old enough that his beautiful body and cock no longer stood in the way, we could no doubt be the best of friends. I wonder if we've gotten that far now? Probably not. I've no idea even if he's still alive, it has been a very long time since I've had any news of him. But it wouldn't surprise me at all to meet him and find him as exciting and sexy as I did twenty-eight years ago.
It was a Sleeptalker-free weekend, as expected. I'm surely on his shitlist for abandoning him on Friday night. And it was a quietly pleasant weekend, a little time online, a little time reading, a lot of time thinking. Then it was that so-luxurious time of clean body, clean clothes, clean mind. Hmmm, okay, maybe just the first two. And ...
Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?
Through the miracle of DVD, it was time to re-visit "Going My Way" for the first time in many years. What a sweet film it is. Life could never really have been so innocent and sweet, no more than Norman Rockwell's idyllic scenes could have been real. But our American Dreams are still touching and heartwarming, no matter how distant from our American Reality.
And now it's that most unusual time of the year on campus. Finals Week. A time of abundance for me. Discarded books, students so stressed they buy a lot more food than they can eat, light cigarettes and put them out after a few anxious puffs, leave more change than usual in vending machines. The feast before the quiet famine of the break before summer sessions begin.
I had expected Monday to be the first penniless day of May. I was saving the final chapters of Lord Jim and two dollars for a beer to enjoy while reading them. End of Fabled Pension Check. But when I got to the mall after a dream-filled night on the bench, I noticed the strollers hadn't been fully pushed into their corral. Shove. Clink-clink-clink-clink. Four quarters. Cool.
506
Terri's Saturday morning musings with its tale of a shirt brought a smile. I wrote about this not long ago, but a "crash" zapped it, so far as I can remember. If I'm wrong, and this is repetition, well, it won't be the first in these Tales.In the late Fifties, there were two main gay bars in Atlanta, Wit's End and Mrs. P's. Wit's End was actually mixed, the bar side mostly gay, the tables side mostly straight. It was very near the Georgia Tech campus and was the hangout for a number of hunks from that macho school. Some of them had no objection to giving up their bodies for a little cash or, when the urge was upon them, for free.
It was one of the few times in my life when I was utterly smitten with the beefcake type the Sleeptalker thinks all us queens lust after. Ricky was just the cat's meow and when he walked into the bar, panting heads turned to watch. I'd been told, by someone who supposedly knew from experience, that he wasn't gay but could be had. And he'd only go with someone once, would never repeat it. I wanted my one turn badly. I finally got it, a delicious, still-memorable night with him. For a very long time, I kept that bedsheet without washing it, would now and then take it out to remember his body laying on it. Yes, I understood Terri and her treasured shirt very well.
I guess I'm less romantic in my old age. Although I can't wear it without awareness that it's the shirt the Sleeptalker was wearing at that moment, I have now washed it twice. It doesn't smell like him anymore, alas.
The things we do for love, the things we treasure because of it ... But perhaps I'm not less romantic, just romantic in a different way. In my current case, I admit the most treasured thing is not the shirt but the fact that he admitted he enjoyed it. Okay, so he had to get "all drunk" again to say so, but hearing it was a special gift even if he didn't know he'd given one.
The good luck which began Monday with that dollar from heaven shifted to the other extreme. I made a quick midday trip to the mall, saw a stroller which hadn't been put into the corral properly. Put it in. No clink-clink. The damned device was out of refund quarters. I hate it when that happens, but at least I hadn't wheeled the thing in from the boondocks to get robbed. Back on a campus-bound bus, stopping by the supermarket to buy some lunch. "Denied" said the little machine. My foodstamp allowance for this month hadn't arrived on my card on Friday when it should have. Sigh. I was in no mood to deal with it, did my best Scarlett O'Hara routine and said "tomorrow is another day".
The weather shifted from sunny and pleasant to gray, sultry and drizzly. The campus was a nightmare of hysterical students, shrieking at each other between exams. For some reason (maybe the weather), a lot of them picked the little computer lab for their hyper conversations. They weren't using the computers, just sitting around loudly overacting. And the whole place was so crowded. I suppose students who may rarely, or never, have attended classes can't fail to show up for those final exams.
Dame Fortune, that silent, elegant lady who can be so generous, with her three Fates spinning away, sometimes goes so far in her bitchiness it falls over the edge. We suicidals, as Hesse so aptly defined us, at the first frown from that Lady, wish we were dead. But then she goes on and on and it gets too silly.
I waited till near sunset. It was still very cloudy, but seemed to be breaking up a bit, moments of sunshine. So I went downhill, got that last beer, returned to the secluded grove and the tortuous last pages of Lord Jim. Nope, Madame wasn't having it. Drizzled a bit on me ... and the book. I persevered. She relented. With perhaps a half-inch of the flask still amber with brew, she let loose. I gulped the remainder of the beer, put the almost-finished book in my backpack and fled to shelter, laughing silently.
You silly cow!
507
Plenty of fish in the sea, uh-huh. There certainly is no shortage of attractive young men in this town. All the more unfortunate then, the Navy should pick such a poor specimen for their high-profile guardhouse at the gate to Pearl Harbor. With that beer belly, not even the sexy white uniform could compensate.What, you may wonder, was I doing inspecting the potbellied sentry from a bus window passing Pearl Harbor? Well, I was sightseeing, of course.
Hmmmm. To tell the truth, I'd gotten lost. I had called the foodstamps hotline number when I got to campus. It was one of those "push x for doo-dah" kind of things, starting with "1" for English, "2" for Spanish. After I entered my card number and pressed "#" as instructed, the chirpy computer voice confirmed my lordly balance of just over two dollars. I explored the options further, jumping to a second set of them, but every time it got to where one might have hoped for a "press 1 for a real, live human person" it instead said "contact your local office".
My local office doesn't have a toll-free number, so I decided the best thing was just to go to the office. I got on a wrong bus. At a place very near where I would've wanted to get off, it rolled onto the H-1 highway and sped off past Tripler Hospital, the state prison, Aloha Stadium and finally to Pearlridge Mall. Okay, I knew my way back from there, so I got off and explored the mall for a brief time. It was my first visit there in a very long time and it will probably be an even longer time before I repeat it. Free strollers, free shopping carts! Not a quarter to be had. And no smoking in most of the (enclosed) mall, so snipe hunting limited to entrance ashtrays. Humbug.
By the time I returned to civilization, it was lunch time and that didn't seem to be a very smart moment to visit the office of government bureaucrats, so I returned to my Scarlett mode and said, "tommorow is another day."
I didn't mind the unplanned excursion. I had decided I'd avoid campus after an early morning visit, didn't want to repeat Monday's dose of hysteria. I'd had more than enough of squealing young men, far more than enough of squealing young ladies. So I had nothing special to do anyway.
I also felt it was better to avoid Seventh Circle during the hours when the Sleeptalker might be there. I definitely do not want to deprive him of his pleasure in playing that game, and if my being around makes it a less comfortable option, then I'll stay away. A bit of a conflict, because I know he actually feels more comfortable when I am around, I help him so much in that alternate reality.
My discretion was probably not necessary. I think telling him I was tired of his game inspired a major sulk. So far as I know, he has retreated for four days, both from me and from Seventh Circle.
Judging by Ryan's Monday entry, I wasn't the only one Dame Fortune had been spitting at. She wasn't exactly smiling at me on Tuesday, either, but I did score two quarters at the more-fruitful mall when I got back to it. That put me into the beer-buying class, but not the beer+next-morning-coffee level which is so much nicer. She did place a little food in my path, too, proving again that even without foodstamps and without resorting to the soup kitchens, one doesn't have to go hungry. May have to put up with over-fried chicken katsu that had been discarded for good reason, but don't have to go hungry.
Well, being the conservative person that I am, I counted my remaining instant coffee bags. Seven of them. Okay. If I would pay Conrad the honor of finishing his splendid Lord Jim with a beer, I could hardly begin Hesse's incomparable Steppenwolf without the same compliment.
If pushed into a corner and required to answer: "what is the most beloved book in your long life?", I'd have to answer, "Steppenwolf".
There haven't been nearly as many books abandoned on campus as there usually are this time of year, but I certainly can't complain when the two I did decide to acquire came from Joseph Conrad and Hermann Hesse.
I often dream of him at night, and the mere existence of such a man, much as I got to like him, has had a thoroughly disturbing and disquieting effect on me.
Uh-huh.
508
"Good morning," said the Duchess, and I was more than ordinarily pleased to hear it. She has become so withdrawn recently, acquired (probably found) a sun visor and very dark sunglasses, would sit with her head nodded as if she was in a shell. I missed our little waves to each other and her smiling encouragement when I passed by with a bagged cart or stroller. I figured she wanted to be left alone, so I stopped greeting her, walked by her as if not noticing. I was glad she came out of the shell, even if temporarily.And I spotted the Homebound One for the second day in a row. He's a slim man, probably in his fifties, with an almost-shaved head. He never wears anything but white shorts, surprisingly clean, no shirt, no shoes, even in the most chill days of winter. He is, of course, very deeply tanned. For several years he has spent every day on a corner about a block from the mall, asking passers-by for a dollar to "get home". I doubt anyone believed he had a home to get to, but he probably scored enough change from kind strangers to buy those cheap bottles of wine I'd see him drinking near the 7-Eleven in the evening. Then he disappeared. He seems to have relocated to the McCully area. Maybe the passers-by are even kinder there.
Another too-long absent one turned up at the hacienda on Tuesday night, although I didn't know it until the morning when he sat up and I saw who had been huddled under a sheet when I'd gotten there. Angelo. He looked wonderful enough to sigh over. Slap Panther, down boy, life's complicated enough already on that score, leave it be.
As I had the evening before, I lingered on campus longer than was prudent for a man in quest of a bit of dinner and a quarter for next morning's coffee. The mall shops were all closed or closing, the place was rapidly becoming deserted. Eureka, a plate lunch box abandoned on a planter ledge. Generous helpings of stir-fried vegetables and rice reminded me again that I actually eat more without foodstamps than I do with them. Not knowing where, when or if the next food will arrive tends to make a person eat whatever turns up, hungry or not.
But I gave up on the quarter, reconciled myself to a caffeine-free trip to campus next morning. Then, walking to the bus stop, there it was, an abandoned cart with its quarter. Oh lucky man.
Terri and I seem to have something of a tennis match going. Her treasured shirt evoked memories of a cherished bedsheet, my memories of Wit's End (what a great name for a bar) prompted her to recall her adventures working at what sounds like a most amusing bar in Australia. And she wrote: "If nothing else, I'd like my ashes to be strewn over there at some sandy blue-water tropical spot. That ought to at least provide some entertainment for whoever gets the onerous job of dealing with my ashes! Then I want them to throw the urn as far out in the water as possible."
Not long after I emerged from that long hospital adventure and its false alarms, a reader asked if I had given thought to what I wanted done with the remains, when the time finally did arrive. Oh yes, scatter the ashes off the beach near Duke's in Waikiki, then hang out in that fine bar and drink a few to my memory. I'm not so sure about the urn, hadn't thought of that. There's already more than enough trash on the ocean floor off Waikiki. Hmmm, are there biodegradable funeral urns?
509
"Mrs I., your caseworker, did put the authorization through," the young man told me. "But I just put it through again and the credit will be on your card before seven in the morning." I thanked him and left, thinking he must be fairly new to the Bureaucrat Game. Never, especially about supposed positive developments, say anything definite. Far better to have said "should be", not "will be". Despite his confident promise, I knew I'd be checking that hotline first to see if the chirpy voice knows I have, in fact, received my handout.I took that same hinterlands-bound bus again, but this time knew where to get off before it zoomed onto the highway, waited for another bus to take me within walking distance of the DHSS office. Getting there, I was told my case had been transferred to a different office. How kind of them to have informed me. Not! Oh well, at least it's now in town rather than out in the sticks.
The building number meant nothing to me, so I took a bus back into town and walked along the street until I came to it. The whole adventure reminded me of that day in New Delhi when Jonathan and I spent hours and hours arranging for replacements for stolen passports and travelers checks. I suppose one reason I so dread dealing with bureaucracy is that solid training I had with the Grandmasters of the Game in India. Well, even before getting there. As I mentioned in the India Notebooks, in London, at their embassy, I sat waiting a long time looking at my passport in a wire basket, wondering when someone was finally going to hand it to me. Of course, I was an innocent then. Had I left a five pound note discreetly hanging out of my passport when I'd handed it over for a visa stamp, I'd no doubt have had it back far sooner. At least in Honolulu, gratuities are not expected, although maybe even here things would move more quickly if they were offered. And no doubt at certain levels, invisible transfers of inducements are routine.
I took the bus back to the mall. No quarters, no free lunch. Onward to campus. Squealing young men. Sigh. Finals Week just wasn't as bad in previous years as it is in AD2000. Patience, patience ... it's almost over.
Helen R. kindly stepped into the role of Dame Fortune, replacing that other personage who has been so grouchy to me this week. Helen and I went to the fairly-newish Mexican place in the mall's Food Court for dinner. The food, even with their "hottest" salsa, was very bland for South of the Border cuisine, but the portions were generous and I was feeling thoroughly stuffed after consuming it all.
We talked about some on-liners, one of whom has mysteriously vanished into the woodwork, so to speak. I thought I might have offended him somehow, although I hadn't the least clue how I'd done so. Or maybe he's, I considered, one of those who expected something totally different to result from the hospital adventure. But he seems to be ignoring everyone and remaining totally silent even though apparently being on-line now and then. A mystery. Another one isn't a mystery at all, but did oddly disappear for a time. No regrets about that one, just relief to be spared his voluminous, vulgar tirades for awhile. He, alas, returned to the generally more congenial alt.music.hawaiian newsgroup, demonstrating yet again he has zero capability of carrying on a discussion without reams of irrelevant personal attacks.
What a disappointment Usenet is, thus far at least, what a hideous waste of potential.
In between my visits to the world of bureaucracy and going to meet Helen for dinner, I looked in at Seventh Circle. There was a new player named "Paniolo". Heh. Okay, that gave me the clue. I'll create a new player myself, then I can pop in to look over the scene, see who's playing and whether I really want to cramp someone's space by taking in Reting the Ranger. Thanks, my dear Hawaiian Cowboy.
510
Dame Fortune went a bit wacky later on Wednesday evening. Of course, she's a very old lady, as old as Time itself, so must be forgiven her bouts of grouchiness and looniness. Her first, unusual, gift was an ID bracelet. It's made of what I assume is stainless steel with black leather thongs, has a very handsomely designed clasp even if it apparently wasn't very reliable. The ID bar says GUESS in big block letters. No trouble "guess"-ing what shop it came from. It's a bit weird for an old guy like me to be wearing, but what the heck. If the lad ever stops pouting and comes around, he'll probably want it.Then Madame offered half a pizza from California Pizza Kitchen. I declined, still more than full of Mexican food. So she put a Sanrio-type bus-pass folder in my path. It did have a bus pass in it, but last month's, alas. Had it been the current one, I would have given it to Angelo. It also had the noble sum of forty-four cents in it, two phone cards, and some postage stamps. Not exactly major treasure, but an amusing find.
Another dream-filled night, as most have been in recent weeks. I remember very clearly one scene on board a small ship, sailing along peacefully when suddenly we came upon a very high waterfall and went right over. I felt absolutely no panic or distress as I watched the water below coming up to meet us as we fell, and even though the ship did a perfect nosedive, there was no trouble in standing. Talk about over the edge ...
I suppose it was the closest thing to a flying dream I've had in years. My favorite of those is still one I had in New York City. I was going to end it all by jumping off the George Washington Bridge. I did jump, but about halfway to the water, I started flying instead, swooped downriver a ways and landed on the Jersey shore. My most elegant failed suicide attempt.
Much to my surprise, when I got to campus and dialed the foodstamps hotline the chirpy voice said you have two hundred and one dollars and some-forgotten-amount-of cents. That young fellow at DHSS must have known better what he was doing than had Mrs. I., assuming she hadn't simply forgotten to do it altogether. If only I could buy beer with the thing, I thought (and certainly not for the first time).
I'm almost always willing to drink a beer, it's true, but the times when I really, really want one are surprisingly rare. Such was the mood on Thursday, a day which began with another surprisingly rare event, getting drizzled on when walking from the bench to the bus stop. A thoroughly gray, damp dawn it was. And although it eventually cleared, it was one of those days when light drizzle could be expected at any moment. Naturally one of those moments had to be while I was enjoying lunch in the secluded grove. And just as well I hadn't brought a beer along in my backpack. A security guard was sitting on one of the benches. I wondered if he'd been detailed to find out where all the empty Colt bottles in the trashcan were coming from, but it's more likely he was just enjoying his lunch break in what is, after all, one of the most peaceful places on campus.
If, as I suspect, the Sleeptalker is playing the new character "Paniolo" in the game, I'm proud of him. I've long tried to get him to understand the fun of role playing in the game. There's not much point in playing several different characters if you play them all the same, might as well just concentrate the effort on one of them. He has, briefly, managed once before to play a new character in a totally different style, and I'm pretty sure he's doing it now. The fact that Paniolo logged in shortly after the State Library opened and left in time for soup kitchen lunch bolsters my suspicion.
And I'm having good fun playing my new one, as well. It's refreshing to play without people constantly asking for assistance, and it has been so long since I've played such a lowlife, it's doubly amusing.
And in the mailbox:
Hmmm, are there biodegradable funeral urns?
"Umm...yeah. I think they call that a paper bag?"
I like it! Going out in the proverbial Plain Brown Wrapper.
511
For the second day in a row, Bla and I went in at the same time for our McD's refill, handed Victor our cups together. Who knows if we got our original cups back? Certainly didn't matter to me, I wouldn't mind in the least drinking from Bla's cup. Although his chin is lined with a neatly trimmed beard, he keeps the sides closely shaved, up above his ears. He'd gone further than usual with his trimming, had a large shaved area on either side which looked even more strange with the whiteness contrasted to his darkly tanned face."You need to get some sun on that," I said. He admitted he'd gone further than he'd planned with his razor, said it was okay. "Got to keep the women away. Too good looking, and they come around," he said, and laughed. "You poor man," I teased, and thought it would surely take more than a weird haircut to keep me away. Although not "good looking" in a conventional sense, he is an incredibly sexy man. Even if I have to spend all day sitting in the park and waiting for it, I must have a shower with him sometime. I want to see all of him.
And speaking of sexy men, Dame Fortune may be old, but she still knows how to rock.
When Helen R and I had been debating whether to have Mexican food or go to Arby's, she said we should try Mexican and do Arby's the next day. So I went down to the mall to join her for dinner again. No matter how much credit may be on that foodstamps card and how many luxuries like French pate, Dutch cheese and chilled Starbucks mocha it can provide, it won't produce one of my favorite things, the lowly baked potato. So Arby's remains a treat. Leaving Helen, I returned to campus, read Hesse for awhile and then spent the last hour before Sinclair Library closed playing Seventh Circle.
Going back to the mall for a final snipes hunt before heading to the bench, I was walking along so engrossed in thought I didn't even notice until he grabbed my arm. Mondo!
What a sweetheart of a madman he is. Even without those beautiful eyes and those long eyelashes, just his soft and gentle voice would make me melt. He asked if I'd seen the Sleeptalker, and I told him not since last Friday. He asked who was staying at the hacienda these days. I said Rocky was there sometimes, and Angelo, but mostly it was people I didn't know. He'd be talking but now and then he'd look to the side, drift off into whatever reality it is he lives in, and it was as if just the shell of his body was standing there, he had flown off somewhere. No complaints, I'd be more than happy just to have the shell.
He said he had to go, he had to get up very early in the morning to go downtown about a job. I cannot imagine him getting an ordinary job or, if he did, keeping it very long. I told him it was good to have seen him and urged him to take care of himself. You do, too, he said, and went on his way.
Yep, the Old Lady does still know how to rock.
512
The Three Jewels. How strangely interwoven our lives are. All the young men whose paths have crossed mine in this odd new life but it's always Rocky, Mondo and the Sleeptalker who come and go, mix and match, disappear and reappear.Those so-rare moments alone with Mondo on Thursday evening, the Sleeptalker bringing his Main Man into the game on Friday afternoon, the night sleeping on a bench with Rocky on the one behind me. He was already asleep when I got there. I was feeling weary and frazzled from (thank heaven!) the last day of Finals Week, settled down and only woke once in the night to look over at him. When I got up in the morning he was sprawled on his back, one knee up, his stuffed crotch all the more provocative for knowing exactly what was causing that bulge. How not to start a day in a serene state of mind.
It's Rocky I should have an "all drunk and everything" party with, I thought. After all, the one time when we were alone and shared two quarts of brew, he quite voluntarily showed it to me, enjoyed my admiring inspection. Another round, who knows, he might well give it to me. And I'm certain he'd do so without all the fuss and angst of the Sleeptalker. I can't imagine Rocky ever having had the need to say, "I'm not gay."
In any case, it was refreshing to have a sexual fantasy without the Sleeptalker being the star. He hadn't known I was there, of course, in the game. And he was playing in such an unusual way, so quiet and subdued. I wondered if his often outrageous antics are part of his habitual routine of pushing me to see how far he can take it or, more likely, feeling free to misbehave because he knows I'm there to help pick up the pieces if someone kicks his butt. I was happy to see him playing, anyway. He needs that game a lot more than I do.
And I don't really need all these sex-fantasy games, either, or at least a large part of me thinks I don't. For all his problems, the Steppenwolf is largely spared such nonsense. Of course, the book deals with a time of deep crisis in his life, and when I've been in that dark place I, too, had little time for such games. If you're thinking of cutting your throat, stuffed crotches are rather insignificant.
I never thought of cutting my throat, actually. It never seemed a viable method. Two small bowls will do for the sacrifice, the I Ching says, matching that wonderful image in Fellini's "Satyricon", slashed bleeding wrists held over two small bowls. I read that the more practical method is to slash them while sitting in a tub of warm water, since that will be more certain to keep the blood flowing for the necessary time. Of course, that's all rather primitive considering the arsenal of pills which can do the job with less mess, more efficiently.
No, I'm not feeling in the least suicidal, although the weather continues to be dismal enough to inspire such thoughts. I'm much too interested in stuffed crotches to be thinking of giving them up just yet. It was, after all, that Fool Moon night with the Sleeptalker when I finally stopped, once and for all, regretting that I hadn't died in the hospital. That was worth living for. And maybe there are more such magical moments ahead, why not stick around and see ...
513
The libraries at the University are closed on the weekends preceding and following Interim Week but surprisingly, the little computer lab is sticking to its usual schedule. That does mean, though, early closing on the weekend. So shortly after four, I left and went to play Mall Rat for the evening. It was not as crowded as usual despite some elaborate production at Center Stage, taping segments for the Disney Channel. The first part of the thing was "kiddie karaoke" which was quite unbearable. A little girl of perhaps eight or nine years pretending to be Celine Dion tests my patience well beyond endurance. The second part featured teenagers doing the same thing and was no better. One rather cute young man simply couldn't sing although one had the idea his family has for years considered him a major talent. Dismal stuff.Eleven quarters, one dime and two pennies. Not a bad haul for a few hours at the mall. There were no odd finds aside from a rather elegant black leather coin holder, empty alas. It had probably been quite expensive but was too bulky to be of any use to me. A plain plastic bag does quite well enough for my supply of coins. I'd had a late lunch, wasn't at all hungry, and when I came across two sandwiches, individually and neatly wrapped in plastic, there was no need to consider the other options which turned up, much less hauling out the foodstamps card again. Two egg salad sandwiches. Just fine.
I'd had a beer in the secluded grove earlier, continuing Hesse. Although I identify in many ways with the Steppenwolf and certainly have great sympathy for him, there is one thing we just don't share. Every time I read the book, I again carefully examine my thinking but, no, I simply don't fear death as he did. I fear the idea of death arriving painfully, a fear that has more than once made me hesitate about jumping off a tall building. Just those few seconds of pain are a major deterrent. But death itself I don't fear at all.
Perhaps that's at least partly because I don't believe there's any "final judgment" awaiting. Judgment, perhaps. But I am not too worried about that. There are without question some things on the negative side of the scale and I may well be blamed for having wasted too many opportunities in this life, but all in all, there's nothing to be overly worried about, I think. And I seem to have become more and more convinced another life, another chance, will follow. So even if the Tibetans are right and the interim is something of a wild rollercoaster ride, there's nothing really to fear. Poor Steppenwolf.
I got to the bench a little earlier than usual, settled down and fell asleep quickly. Later I woke and saw the McD's Bicycle Lad was on the bench next to me. His shirt was up far enough to reveal a strip of brown belly, quite a sweet vision. Angelo was several benches away, laying face down and doing a gentle bump-and-grind in his sleep. I hope it was as good for the bench as it was for me.
The weather had, at last, shifted and Saturday afternoon had been sunny and pleasant despite a few light drizzles, even in the sunshine. And it was a welcome change to wake at dawn and see a clear sky, be able to walk to the bus stop without getting damp. Summer is upon us. I stashed the heavy cotton sleeping shirt, retrieved the light nylon windbreaker which has seen two summers as a pajama top. I hadn't looked in that stash box in so long I'd forgotten there are four tee shirts in there, one which once belonged to the Sleeptalker. And there are quite a few books. Maybe toward the end of the month I'll read the seventh volume of the Robert Jordan epic again, then buy the eighth, still unread. Now and then someone gets into that stashbox but rarely takes anything, and I never put anything in there I'd mind losing.
It felt good to have the backpack reduced in weight, even if only by one heavy cotton shirt. Now it's time to find a summer "blanket", since I insisted the tablecloth I'd been using be thrown away when in the hospital. Summertime, and may the livin' be easy.
I'm a-livin' on the easy, with a bottle of whisky. Ain't got no money, to see my honey .... Well, I've got ten quarters, but that's not enough for my honey.
514
"Truth seekers are forbidden to escape life's experience through suicide. However, in cases of terminal illness, under strict community regulation, tradition does allow fasting as a means of mors voluntaria religiosa."Mors voluntaria religiosa. Cool phrase.
I resisted the (strong) temptation to spend my mall loot on a Sunday lunchtime beer, saved it instead until late afternoon, enjoying the brew and Hesse in the secluded grove. Consequently I didn't get to the mall until almost sunset time. Given such a late arrival and the early Sunday closing, I had little hope for anything but a box of decent snipes. With some effort, I did get that but also, much to my surprise, I bagged five quarters. Those fifty-cent-refund strollers are such a welcome addition to my life.
Food offerings were again abundant but I wasn't hungry, didn't even inspect the abandoned plate lunch boxes. I spotted a severely overweight nomad wolfing down the contents of one I'd declined, thought I would have been doing him a favor had I eaten it. It's a mystery to me how so many of the street people maintain their obesity, even given the frequent largesse at the mall. My own abstinence was tested, though, when I saw a white box from Leonard's Bakery on a bench. Looked inside. Half a dozen fresh malasadas! I would have preferred to tuck them in my backpack for Monday's breakfast but I long ago learned those delectable pastries just aren't as delicious held over to the next day, so I sat and pigged out on four of them, leaving two for another wanderer. Yummy stuff.
On Saturday night I'd taken the bench Rocky had been sleeping on the night before. Of course, every bench there has at some time had one of the Three Jewels sleeping on it, but I enjoyed knowing that bench had so recently had Rocky's body sprawled on it. When I got there Sunday, though, I had a hunch I should take the middle of the three benches. Good intuiting. I woke up later and saw Rocky had taken his usual one behind me. I never see them without being amazed at what delicate feet he has.
Feet, legs, now shoulders. I go through phases when a particular body area fascinates me and shoulders right now rule. That is no doubt partly because the Sleeptalker has such fine ones. I can walk along behind him quite happily entranced by watching his shoulders move under a tee shirt, even more happily when they're exposed by a tank top. And on both Sunday and Monday mornings, I sat equally happily gazing at a pair of shoulders on the campus-bound bus. A new young man, tall, slim, very brown. I can't guess his ethnic mix, although I suspect it is partly Filipino, partly Hawaiian, but his darkness is mostly tan as I saw on Monday when he removed his glasses temporarily, revealing narrow white strips where the earpieces blocked the sun. He has too severe a haircut, would be even more lust-provoking with less shaven sides, but his long, thin neck and broad, wonderful shoulders more than make up for the less attractive haircut. I won't complain at all if every morning finds us on the mall-to-campus bus.
The Steppenwolf may not have grumbled on his solitary walks about wanting to cuddle up to a desirable body, but in such a profound tale of the human condition, sex could hardly be entirely absent. And he did have his wonderful gift, Maria. Even if he knew it was a fleeting gift, he had it, and I'm always a bit jealous of that sequence in his life. I paused in my reading, as I usually do, at the beginning of the Magick Theatre adventure, and smiled again as I reminded myself I was NOT going to fall into the trap I'd seen lurking from the moment I picked up the book. The Sleeptalker is not my Hermine. That Fool Moon evening was not Magick Theatre, delightful though it was. Nope, ain't gawna do it, not falling into that trap.
Going with the Steppenwolf into that special place might not have found me with the glasses of exotic drink and the special smoke he'd had beforehand, but then I've gone through that door with him having had equally splendid refreshment. The best I could hope for this time was a full bottle of brew. But I needed three more quarters for that.
Monday was too beautiful a day to sit inside at a computer, even if the Sleeptalker was in the game, so I left campus around ten and headed for the beach. At the mall bus stop, there was a cart-with-quarter waiting. Two more quarters ...
One soon turned up, but the daytime competition was too intense, several other possibilities were snatched. I gave up, decided it was time to have a shower and sit in the sun for awhile. On the floor of the shower room was a quarter. Ha! I love it when stuff like that happens.
A smiling young Japanese lad joined me in the shower. His equipment was so tiny, it barely peeked out from the bushy hair. Despite that [cough] shortcoming, he had a fine body and it was fun to be naked with him. I had a tee shirt to wash, so was still there when he left and a forty-ish Korean man, equally ill-equipped, came in. He obviously wanted to play. Erk. Well, after my endless dance with the Waianae Coquette, I'm more resolved than ever. If anyone is crazy enough or desperate enough to want me for a playmate, they've got it, no matter how uninterested I may be. In this case, the disinterest was so complete, I doubted I'd be able to even get it up. Rescued. An old nomad who I was not in the least bit interested to see naked came in. So he had a huge one, big deal. I finished my laundry and went over to sit in the sun. My face and arms are very brown but my still-hospital-scrawny chest looks as white as a Minnesota tourist in January. I should spend more time at the beach, not just for the tan but for the amusing shower adventures.
The campus had been very crowded on Sunday. The formal graduation ceremonies were being held in the sports arena on the lower campus, but the entire place was pressed into parking service, so there were people everywhere. I'd thought Monday, the first day of the Interim Break, would be less populated but not so. The small mob of people waiting all day at the parking permit office didn't surprise me, but the others roaming the campus did. I suppose they're the incoming summer people, and a fine, fine crop it is. I saw one young man in black tee shirt and white trousers walking toward me and said to myself, "ohmygawd."
Summertime, and the livin' is easy ...
515
The prior-to-penultimate Tuesday of May 2000 certainly got off to a rousing start. I was sitting on a bench enjoying my refill cup of coffee. A quite hunky Filipino fellow sat down on the other end of the bench, slouched down with his knees wide apart. He pulled up his tee shirt and rubbed his brown belly. The front of his shorts clearly indicated he was in need of service. What am I doing, I wonder, sitting with a sign that says "get your head here"? If so, don't take the sign out of the window, please.Never mind resolutions about always saying yes, this time there was no need to consider such things, I was more than happy to oblige. It was most amusing that he was such a close match to the Sleeptalker in size and shape, and he was even more passionate. After he exploded, he waited a bit while I softly rubbed his body, then withdrew, ruffled my hair with his hand, wedding band and all, and said, "that was good." I certainly agreed.
He went on his way, and as I set out on my usual morning snipes hunt, I laughed aloud when the music system started playing "Livin' on the Easy". A fine cosmic jest.
Two splendid intimate encounters with handsome young men in the space of one moon. Is this to be a Summer of Debauchery? No complaints, if so.
"What's up, dog?" asked the Sleeptalker on Monday afternoon in the game. How romantic, what a follow-up to "you'll wake up in the morning and I'll be gone." Hmmmmm. I'd used my stash of quarters to buy a bottle of Colt on my way back to campus, sat in the secluded grove with it and Hesse. By the time I returned to a computer it was quite late in the afternoon. I looked in on the game, no sign of the lad, so I took Reting in. The measure of wealth in the game is the gold coin. For a high level player like Reting, it's an easy matter to pick up ten or fifteen million coins in a few minutes of play. Since there is little to spend them on, he had accumulated quite a vast fortune. However, more than 150 million had been invested in the new character, so it was time to replenish the treasury.
The Sleeptalker entered the game. There are Guilds for the peaceful types, Clans for the killers. He had long been a member of a Clan called the Suicidal Stalkers. The leader of that clan, about whom we often had heated arguments, hasn't played for a very long time. After asking that a warning be sent to him via "real life" friends, the managers of the game replaced him ... with the Sleeptalker. A dream come true for the lad. He was very happy about it, and I was happy for him.
Later he proved his sulk is over and that he has adjusted his perception of our last meeting sufficiently to treat it with humor. The suggested price the little whore had offered for Round Two was one of the special swords and twenty million gold coins. I had, of course, not the slightest difficulty with that, he could easily have said 100 million and I would have agreed. But then, as I said, he changed his mind. I auctioned off a special item I had no need for. He lamented publicly that he had only two million gold, couldn't join in the bidding which went to ten times that. And he said, "but Reting owes me fifty million." Ha! I just replied, "[cough]". So the price has gone up? No problem, but shall we wait until the Fool Moon on Friday?
Meanwhile, Betka tells me Asteroid Albert was "re-found" on May 10th.
516
I am proceeding very, very carefully and slowly through the Magick Theatre with the Steppenwolf. And despite the unusual scarcity of discarded books on campus at this time of year, another volume did find its way into my backpack: Norman Cohn's The Pursuit of the Millennium, in a revised and expanded edition since I last read it. This classic has, of course, little connection with the absurdities the arrival of 2000/2001 has subjected us to, but is, as the subtitle says, a study of "revolutionary millenarians and mystical anarchists of the Middle Ages". And it is providing most excellent intertwined reading as I walk with the Steppenwolf.From that fascinating text comes: "And to anyone familiar with anthropological findings concerning mana, or indwelling power, and the ways it can be transmitted ...".
Indeed.
And some of the more obscure Taoist alchemists hinted at that so intimate method of mana transmittal which led me in the Acid Years to the conclusion that the "Fountain of Youth" was that fountain which only young men can provide and that drinking from it was a certain method of retaining youthfulness. Romantic and fanciful as that may be, I see no way to discount the certainty of its transmitting mana.
How the luck of the hunter varies at the mall. Since we both have some discount movie tickets which will expire at the end of June, Helen R suggested on Monday that we make what is a relatively rare visit to the Varsity Theatre to see "Deterrence". What a weird movie. Its weirdness was matched by the taxi driver we found asleep in the back seat of his vehicle afterwards, Helen having decided to splurge and ride home in a car. We agreed that should we come across that taxi driver again, we'd let him sleep on. Then I made a quick trip through the mall hunting snipes where the harvest was slim indeed.
It's odd that competition for snipes is generally heavier than for quarters, but I suppose if a man is getting foodstamps, smokes but doesn't drink, snipes are more important than quarters. And then there are the youngsters who can't legally buy tobacco anymore so will grab any extra-long snipes. But I finally managed to get enough for at least the next morning's senior coffee time and went on to the bench.
On Tuesday night, though, it took only a stroll through one-eighth of the mall to bag two boxes full of long snipes. As I was heading to the bus stop, I ran into Helen who was doing some late shopping, asked if I wanted something to eat. My appetite has been exceptionally low recently, maybe because of warmer weather's arrival, so I declined but was more than happy to have a Gloria Jean's chilled mocha instead of food. I enjoy those little bottles of Starbucks chilled mocha, but Gloria J's are in another class altogether. If I make it to SocSec time, I'll be a regular customer at that coffee emporium.
Coffee that late, of course, did nothing to ease me into sleep. As I was walking up the path to the hacienda, I was surprised to see Rocky on the first of the three grouped benches rather than his usual spot at the back. Getting nearer, I saw why. There was a huge mound of blubber on the floor behind the back bench. We already have one Fat Man staying there, a regular for some weeks now. He's so big it's a mystery how he can sleep on those narrow benches without falling off. The new one, I guess, just can't manage it so has to make do with the floor. And I had to make do with the view of Rocky through the back-slats of the bench, but at least had the pleasure of sleeping beside him.
The Sleeptalker had been in the game earlier and was in a very strange mood, ignored me directly but said things publicly which were clearly directed at me. And he now and then, out of the blue, said weird things like, "can any man save his brother?" and "I guess I don't have any friends anymore". Honey, if you're trying to make me feel guilty, too, forget it. Aint' gawna do it.
A Summer of Debauchery? Bring on the mega-vitamin pills, please, I'll need them. Wednesday morning's unexpected playmate didn't want help. He wanted to do it himself, but with an audience. I was happy to provide one. Fascinating.
517
They are tearing up the mall sidewalk near McD's in preparation for the opening of a huge new Old Navy store and as part of that, have demolished the planter box which has long been my spot for the first cup of morning coffee. So I relocated to a bench further away, waiting until I get my refill to move even further to the Orchid Walk. On Wednesday, before the amusing autoerotic display, I was sitting with my first cup. The Bicycle Boy arrived, walked back and forth several times as if looking for someone. Then he came over to me, asked if I'd buy him a cup of senior coffee. I declined, with the rather lame excuse that I didn't want to walk back down there.It wasn't, of course, that I minded cheating McD's for a cheap cup of coffee, I've done it for the Sleeptalker and Rocky. But after having observed the Bicycle Boy for a long time, I know he's very much a creature of habit and I just didn't want to establish a precedent. I treasure the quiet solitude in the morning with those cups of coffee. He then asked if I had a cigarette. I said I only had snipes and didn't offer him one. After all, we were in the mall, he could go find his own. He said, "sorry" and walked off.
Okay, I'm a slut, I want his body but I don't want to get involved. And since he has become such an established regular at the hacienda, that doesn't seem a very feasible combination. Oh well, I thought, you've surely messed up any chance of getting those flowery surfer shorts off him now, haven't you.
But when I got to the hacienda that evening, he was still sitting up on one of the facing benches, getting ready to settle for the night. He had his back to me, turned around, smiled and nodded. I returned the gesture. He walked over and asked again if I had a cigarette. I again said I only had snipes, but offered him the box to select one. He needed a light as well, then went out to smoke on an outside bench. His expression, smile, and the way he stood in front of me very clearly suggested he is available, he can be had.
I considered moving over to the bench facing his but said, no, take it easy, go slow with this one. You'd think I would be delighted to make contact with a cute young man who is so obviously lonely and is no doubt willing to give his body in exchange for company. Instead, I see it as something of a dilemma. Shine on, Fool Moon, shine on.
Meanwhile, trouble in paradise. A sweet little tiger tabby cat, just beyond the kitten stage, evidently thinks I share my lunch with the birds in the secluded grove just to lure in his own luncheon options. He's delightful to watch, lurking behind a bench, his tail twitching madly, his little jaw chattering. He gets especially excited by the fat ringneck doves and I'm so irked by those greedy pigs I wouldn't mind if he did ambush one of them. The zebra doves cluster closer to me and keep a wary eye on him, but don't seem terribly concerned. I don't suppose I can buy cat food with the foodstamps card but maybe I'll get the little fellow some tuna fish now and then.
Cute little cats are much easier to think about than cute little Filipino lads.
Seventh Circle was down when I tried to login. The Boss had explained the day before that the revised version of the game would be running on a new machine and that was causing the further delays. Old-timers in the game know it's more likely the fact that he stays stoned out of his gourd much of the time which is causing the delays. And his enthusiasm for running the game, which he has done for many years, runs very high when talking about what will happen and much lower when it comes to sitting down and making it happen. But with it totally unavailable, I thought maybe he was finally getting on with it. He was. But ye gawds, what a mess. I knew it would be, but it surpassed my worst expectations. He is putting in stuff piecemeal, so when I logged in late afternoon, only the main town of that alternate world was available, all roads out of it were missing. The other towns were there, okay, but you had to have a special teleport spell to reach them. Rangers don't have that capability. So there wasn't much to do but sit and bitch about the mess.
Since it hadn't been available, I'd left campus in the early morning and headed to the beach. I took it a step further this time, actually changed into shorts and lay on the sand for a couple of hours. I'd drifted into at least semi-sleep for about half of that time. Just as well, since laying in the sun on the beach is something I get quickly bored with despite all the interesting distractions to watch. A young woman with a little squealing girl brought me out of my semi-consciousness. Why, with all the vacant options, she had to settle so near me, I don't know. It was obviously one of those parents who think their offspring is so adorable it's quite unthinkable that everyone else in the world couldn't agree. Fortunately, they didn't stay long. And I lingered longer than I would have, hoping there would be a break in the nonstop parade of old nomads using the shower. No such luck, so I gave up and showered with one of them.
That end of the beach is populated by locals, all right, but the park alongside the beach there seems to be the main hangout for the more loony nomads. The Behemoth was striding around, his loud speeches accented by aggressive gestures with his arms. He's a shaggy, incredibly dirty man with a huge, hairy potbelly, usually wears only a pair of grubby tan trousers. One morning recently he was standing right in front of McD's, stripped stark naked and turned his undershorts inside-out (or vice versa) before putting them and his trousers back on. The one blessing is that I don't have to fear sharing a shower with him. It doesn't look like he has been in one for a very long time.
The Orator was there, too, at his usual picnic table. I don't think he has ever forgotten the day when he parked himself too near me and I grumbled, "shut up! who's listening to you anyway!" If a man could commit suicide by boring himself to death, the Orator would be a prime candidate. He absolutely never shuts up and just as absolutely has nothing of interest to say.
Maybe I should recommend that he become an online journal keeper.
518
Cohn writes: "The Brethren of the Free Spirit did not hesitate to say: 'God is all that there is.' 'God is in every stone and in each limb of the human body as surely as in the Eucharist bread.' 'Every created thing is divine.'And what is "heresy" about that, Professor Cohn?
Looks like Dame Fortune has also decided to take it slow and easy in the case of the Bicycle Boy and let the perfect set-up pass by. When I got to the hacienda on Thursday evening, all benches were taken except the two facing ones. So I settled on one of those, Rocky already asleep on the bench behind me. There was a rather rough looking guy sitting on the steps. I wasn't very keen on him as a sleeping companion and I guess he felt the same way because he settled on the floor. The facing bench was still empty when I fell asleep, surprised the Bicycle Boy hadn't arrived to occupy it. I opened my eyes later and saw it had been occupied, but by a stranger, a quite handsome fellow in a Hugh Grant sort of way. Oh well, I still hadn't reached any conclusion about the Bicycle Boy, anyway.
Nothing new under the sun, a phrase which often comes to mind while reading the Cohn book. I had to smile over the strange, charismatic itinerant preachers, especially a few who had such devoted followers it was considered a great honor and blessing to drink the water they had bathed in. Now I would deeply enjoy watching the Sleeptalker take a bath but the idea of drinking the water afterwards? No, that just doesn't turn me on in the slightest.
That brought to mind the bizarre evening with the Sleeptalker and the Cherub. At one point the kinky Cherub asked if I'd let the Sleeptalker piss in my mouth! I said sure, confident they wouldn't call my bluff. They didn't, but the Sleeptalker was obviously intrigued by the idea. Heaven knows where the Cherub got it from. I'm afraid neither bathwater nor urine are quite the means of mana transmittal I'd prefer, but sure, I would've gone through with it if those two rascals hadn't backed down.
I had somehow completely forgotten the weird Flagellants, crowds of crazed pilgrims who wandered Europe staging public self-whippings. That, too, does absolutely nothing to turn me on. After some discussion of the subject, during an acid trip I let my friend give me a sound whack on the back with a belt. It just made me angry, very angry. [wave to Daddy].
I'm not sure what role I would have played in the Middle Ages (or did play), but I don't think I would have been following some "prophet" around, drinking his bathwater, and I don't think I'd have been standing outside a church using a cat-of-nine-tails on myself either. But I suspect burning at the stake, for whatever reason, might well have been the conclusion of such a life. And yes, I no doubt would have been [or was] a member of the Free Spirit.
Cohn really tries hard to be objective, but every time he talks about the Free Spirit movement, he says "heresy" with it. Odd. He abandons it after awhile, but not until after having made it strangely obvious.
Thursday was a luckless day for mall hunting. That was partly because, alas, the Whore was back. After a blessedly long absence, there he was again, rushing around with his little clutch purse. I doubt he managed to bag enough quarters to acquire his aimed-for pack of cigarettes. There just weren't that many people at the mall and the stroller and cart corrals were all pretty full. I found only one quarter. But at least the snipe hunting went fairly well and during a midday visit I'd found a plate lunch box with half an enormous club sandwich in it along with a generous supply of fries. No need to haul out the foodstamps card for lunch, and I was sufficiently satisfied that a late afternoon beer sufficed for dinner as well.
On Friday, the Sleeptalker asked in the game in a rather cryptic way, wording of which I don't exactly recall, if he came to campus, would I "be good"? I replied, "say what?" Silence. A bit later he asked, "should I go there?" "No," I said, "not if I have to 'be good'". "Oh, Reting," he said, "be fair." I assume that comes from some comedian I don't know, it has long been a stock turn of the Sleeptalker. He says it in an exaggerated faggy voice, with flipped wrist, which is quite amusing.
Then he said he was going to make the journey and I fled out, went over to an already pre-arranged meeting with the Banker, and then downhill to get myself a beer. I sat in the secluded grove and enjoyed it with the Cohn book. If I have to 'be good', the Sleeptalker can find someone else to hang out with. He wasn't at the computer lab when I returned, and wasn't in the game, so if he did make the trip to campus, he must have been, as usual, unable to stay on his own until my return.
It has been two weeks since I've seen him, and it's the "lunaversary" of that special evening, but I really did mean it when I told him I was tired of his game.
Yes, I would've very much liked to see him. Yes, I would have bought him beer, food, and shared my tobacco. But c'mon, dude, let's stop the crap, okay? I'll share my all-too-limited resources with you. You give me the one thing I want the most which won't cost you a penny. Okay, maybe a lot of spiritual anguish, and I truly do feel sorry that you have to go through that shit.
519
"Oh Reting, be fair." Standard patter, but I'm sure the Sleeptalker was quite serious and from his point of view, I'm undoubtedly not being "fair". On that night when he said, "okay, you can have it", he'd added, "I hope you don't turn into a monster afterwards." Odd thing to say, I'd thought. But then, I did. I'm the Cookie Monster and you're the Cookie, my boy.I'd treated myself to a second beer, the bottle I would've bought him if he'd s