3
14 3 I’d yanked a coarse blue thread off the seat cush ion on the BART train that day we’d met as we sped along under the bay to ward San Fran cisco, lights flash ing by that I al ways liked to be lieve were those deep-sea fish with or ganic light bulbs on their heads. But they weren’t; the tube was con crete and not a win dow in it any where. “Here, Jimmy, your final string.” He gave me that quick smile of his, leaned for ward, and tied it onto the frame, right under the han dle bars, which brought me face to face with Chief Jo seph. “What’s with the name?” He looked at me, like I’d al ready asked too many ques tions, and then he looked at it, and con tem plated it for a min ute. “There’s a long an swer and a short one to that,” he of fered some what re luc tantly, en ig mat i cally. “You don’t gotta tell me at all, if you don’t want to; I was just cu ri ous.” Whoosh, whoosh, went the BART train, peo ple yam mer ing above the din. “Chief Jo seph said, ‘I will fight no more for ever.’ That’s why.” But he wasn’t look ing at me when he said it. The short an swer. I let it drop as the train beeped and we emerged under down town, the plat form a scur ry ing ant hill of suits and hair dos. Jimmy perked up and looked slightly alarmed, but I shook my head no: “Four more stops, Jimmy.” 15 Beep, beep, like the road run ner, and the win dows ex ploded with light and faces for the fifth time. We came up the es ca la tor from under neath, the BART tube under the Bay hav ing now de livered us from Oak land like a birth canal to the gar den of earthly de lights at 16th and Mis sion, ground zero for the lost youth of Amer ica come to San Fran cisco. They were all there in their skinny check ered pants and knit caps, with their tat toos and their pierc ings, among the ven dors of elotes and pork skins and tacos, a portly Mex i can in a white shirt and tie bel low ing out Span ish Jesus-talk from a bull horn. And there were the home less too, heaped in coats and plas tic bags, and the ubiq ui tous Cen tral American women, kids in tow, wear ing their T-shirtsand skirtsandgrimbrownshoes—andonthe uncomfortablelooking benches: in di gent youths and hus tlers, speed freaks and men with canes deal ing crack co caine and her oin. On the chained-to-a-pole news paper vend ing ma chine, a pleth ora of Queer Na tion stick ers barked out their mes sages in pri mary col ors: Rug muncher, Butt fucker, and What Causes Hetero sex u al ity? “You made it, Jimmy.” His side ways grin, rat tling the bike off the es ca la tor and across the din ful plaza. He played it cool, but I could see he was tak ing it all in. I should have put him back up on the bike and led him by the hal ter so he could bet ter look around as I guided him along to ward my own pri vate man ger in Beth le hem on Shot well Street, just a few blocks be yond. I had a slew of room mates, a sort of mu si cal chairs of room mates, in the big flat where I’d lived the past year. They’d come and go with circum stances, or fall in love and get driven out by the oth ers who didn’t want a fifth or sixth to share the bath room with and to clean up after. I was the only one who hadn’t pulled that, but now here I was—and he had a bike with him too, and stuffed-to-bursting pan niers that hung on ei ther side of the back wheel. They wouldn’t read him as a one-night stand, no sir ree. “I don’t know how long you can stay, Jimmy, but at least a few nights be fore they turn on you,” I sheep...
OR
Buy This Book in Print