From Pathetic Life #12
Friday, May 12, 1995
“My prayer… is a rapture in bloom, with the world far away, and your lips close to mine…”
Yeah, I was singing on the sidewalk in front of the shop, because what else am I gonna do if there’s thirty seconds with no-one walking by?
LeeAnn called down to me from the shop’s second-floor patio, and said she wanted me to come upstairs and clean some place settings for sale. As I climbed the stairs she said, “You should join the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus.”
I said I’d never sing in public, but oddly hesitated to say I’m not gay, and while washing dishes I wondered about my hesitation.
All across the world, LBGT people are expected to keep quiet about their orientation, so as not to shock or offend co-workers or neighbors, or simply for job security and personal safety. This is San Francisco, though, and the Castro — everybody’s out. LeeAnn and Stevi are out, and I guess they’ve assumed I’m gay and out, too.
Never intended to mislead them, and it’s a logical guess, I guess. I do enjoy singing and dancing a bit, love wearing the skirt, and we’re at work so I don’t talk about which way my boner points. Should I explain it to them? Nah, what business is it of theirs?
If word got out that I’m straight, the gay men might stop hitting on me on the sidewalk, but they’re rarely a bother and sometimes quite flattering. The pretty lesbians probably wouldn’t be so talkative either, so I’m staying in the closet.
♦ ♦ ♦
When I got home from working at the shop, Pike was puffing, and offered to share some of his pot, but I declined. All the anti-drug lectures in school sorta worked on me — I imbibe, but not often, and Pike being Pike, something of a stereotypical pot-head, he’s an inspiration to say no.
It’s the first time he’s offered, and it’s only been a few days since we went to that movie together. God, I hope he’s not trying to make friends with me. He’s a decent kid, but we’ve been flatmates for a couple of months, and we have nothing in common.
Nothing personal, Pike, but nothing personal is what I prefer. Let’s stay semi-strangers in the next room.
♦ ♦ ♦
The Cacophony Society did one of their wacko events tonight, a communally-written short story and/or zine with all the participants contributing one pre-written page each, to be somehow merged together into one big whatever.
Top Cacophonist Stuart Mangrum invited me to participate, and though I’m utterly antisocial I said I would. It sounded like something I’d hate, but they’re doing something I like, so I was slightly looking forward to it, hoping it might be worth emerging from my shell for. I even wrote my page!
But then Stevi asked me to work a little later than scheduled, and that was a relief. I don’t need much of an excuse not to be part of anything. By habit I love not being part of anything, so it was sad but not very.
Sorry, Stuart, but anyway, ① my page kinda stank ② I’m exhausted and in a lousy mood and ③ you and Paizley would’ve been the only people I knew there, and I hate being the stranger. Maybe next time, but probably not.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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