When my father died, Billy returned from New York City to be with me during that difficult time, but his agenda seemed to be more about exploiting my inheritance than giving me support. He had big plans, which included us getting back together, moving to Puerto Rico, and buying a guest house. He was doing everything in his power to entice me, but he didn’t realize that he no longer had any power. He invited me to New York City for a few days, where he wined me and dined me, and bestowed upon me an abundance of heady reminders as to how good we had been together … if you know what I mean. Yet nothing produced his desired result.
During my time in Peacedale, a PhD psychologist must have dropped out of the sky, because he ended up in my life for a while, in three different capacities, yet I have no recollection as to how, when or where we met. In any event (I’m not sure which of these two events came first), he had a lovely house in Providence’s tony East Side, and hired me to redecorate the kitchen and a bathroom. We also dated a few times, the last of which ended with us in bed, but not before he shot-up with something, I have no idea what. When I was curious about what he was doing, he mistook it for interest, but that was not even remotely the case.
Despite what I may or may not have inhaled or ingested during my wilder twenties, there was never any question in my mind that nothing would ever get injected into my body, unless it was prescribed by a medical doctor for a legitimate reason, and administered by a licensed health care professional. Hopefully, whatever the PhD injected worked for him, but for me he was the only shag of my extensive and varied experience that left me feeling as though I was nothing more than an object being used. That was the end of our dating.
Sometime later he contacted me regarding a “men’s discussion group” that he was to be facilitating, and wanted to know if I would be interested in participating. I was, and the group started meeting once a week. It was for the most part a support group, a term that I would not become familiar with until a few years later … so I don’t know why the PhD didn’t call it a support group, maybe that wasn’t the term in vogue at the time. There were six other men, plus the PhD and me, of whom he and I were the only openly ‘gay’ participates. One of the other fellows was married with three children, and he planned to divorce his wife and be ‘gay’ once the kids were all over eighteen. Okay. As far as I know the other five were ‘straight’ … I wasn‘t entirely convinced.
The group was a relatively helpful outlet for me, especially during the time before and after my father’s death. And it got me to Providence one night a week, which gave me an excuse to hit a bar or The Club afterwards, which was a perk. After Billy redux and the few days in New York, I was toying with the idea of going away for a week or so, which Dr Keller (my shrink, not the PhD) enthusiastically supported. He had recently returned from a few days in San Francisco, his first visit there, and had nothing but praise for that extraordinary city. Nonetheless, I had something more exotic in mind, and mentioned to the group that I was thinking of going to Hawaii. They thought that it was a great idea, yet every one of them believed that I’d never have the “testicular fortitude” (borrowed from Dr Bill Wattenberg of KGO radio in San Francisco) to go alone. I was so pissed that I called Jim the next day (we were still speaking) and booked a week in Waikiki … but I never went back to that group.
Talk about a life changing decision. First, this wasn’t a flight to Michigan, it was serious airtime, and I was frightened and fascinated the whole way. Had a two hour layover in San Francisco, and then the final flight to Honolulu International Airport. My first impression was … this is Hawaii? It looked like everywhere else. My hotel was nice and conveniently located, a block from Kalakaua Avenue, a main thoroughfare, on the other side of which was Waikiki Beach … adjacent to that, Queen’s Beach, the ‘gay’ beach. Yes, that is its official name. How cool is that? Talk about obvious. This proved to be an interesting week, and a time for self-discovery. Since childhood I had devoted so much of my time to looking for that special friend, landing that special friend, and doing whatever it took to keep that special friend, that I didn’t know who I was, or what I liked.
Not that it had occurred often, but I was always loath to eat in a restaurant alone, yet didn’t want to do take-out all week in Waikiki, so I discovered that reading a book at the table was an excellent solution. Although it didn’t work at an intimate candlelight restaurant, so those I avoided. One night I went to Hamburger Mary’s—I would later discover that another of its outlets was a San Francisco institution—where in an empty restaurant they sat me all alone at a table for eight. Even with a book I couldn’t pull that one off, so I asked to be moved to a table for two … for “a party of one!” Get sick of hearing that after a while.
Being a tourist worked for me and I walked for hours around Waikiki and Honolulu, seeing the sights, shopping. One day I took a cruise to Pearl Harbour, but intentionally not one that included a stop at the Arizona monument. Another day I rented a car, and drove all the way to the northern tip of the island, then back down the west coast midway, and east through miles and miles of pineapple plantations back to Waikiki. Driving was always cathartic for me, a refuge since the day I first got my license. And I had the Damron, or was it Spartacus, guide for ‘gay’ travelers, so I would hit a bar or two in the evenings, and spent some time at the Club Honolulu as well.
Needless to say the beach worked wonders, it had been my lifetime companion. As long as there were waves and sand, it didn’t matter where it was located or which direction it faced … it too was a haven. It was there that I met Brian Buchanan, whom at first I thought to be a little too old for me. I never told him that—it turned out he was seven years younger. He lived in San Francisco, and was destined to become one of the best friends of my lifetime. We spent the next two days together, and the night before our departures—his on to Maui for a week, mine back to Rhode Island—we had dinner at a restaurant on Kalakaua Avenue. Out on the street we were saying our good-byes, when he gave me an exuberant hug and a long passionate kiss. The street was crowded with people! I was mortified! I had always considered myself very out and open, but that was apparently by Rhode Island standards. I had a lot to learn, and more lessons would begin in less than twenty-four hours.
By the time the plane landed at San Francisco International Airport, I realized that I wasn’t ready to go home. Except for calling the kennel and telling them to keep Daffy a few more days, Ray and Mal were the only ones that would have missed me if I didn’t show up as scheduled. For fifty bucks I changed my flight for five days hence, and found my way to the shuttle bus to The City. Once there I took a taxi to the York Hotel, which I had remembered was where Dr Keller had stayed. Fortunately they had a vacancy. It was quite elegant, and only two blocks from Polk Street, one of the two major ‘gay’ areas in The City. I went for a walk.
Checked out a few pubs, settled on one that I was comfortable with, sauntered up to the bar and started flirting with the bartender … oh, I ordered a beer too. In the meantime this blond fellow started chatting me up, and we hit it off a tad. He was a tourist as well, visiting from the Big Apple, where he was second violin (second fiddle, so to speak, he‘d heard that one before) with the New York Philharmonic. He had been in town for a week, and loved the place. We made a date to meet the next day for lunch, followed by some sightseeing. He left, and when the place closed the bartender joined me back at the York.
Most of my time was spent with the fiddle player, who served as my tour guide. Proving to be a good one at that, as having only recently discovered San Francisco himself, his enthusiasm was genuine and quite contagious. No doubt more so than a professional guide would have been, one doing the same routine for years. It only took one episode in the sack for me to shift this relationship to the plutonic track, and I managed to finagle my nights free for some “independent study!” By the time my sojourn was at its end, the fiddle player had made a decision to forgo New York, and stay on in San Francisco. Or so he said, there was something a little fishy about him.
By the time my plane touched Rhode Island soil, I knew I was moving to San Francisco. Billy showed up once again, determined to thwart my decision to relocate. He insisted that I couldn’t just up and move across country because of some “trick” with whom I had fallen in love. I assured him that the only person I had fallen in love with was myself (about time), but that in point of fact I was perfectly free to move wherever I chose for whatever reason … thanks for your concern, I’ll send you a postcard. We would never see each other again.
By now it was May 1982, and first I had to get Dad’s house cleaned out, refurbished, and ready for summer rental … officially returning it to its status as a “cottage“. That project was moving along, when out of the blue I got a phone call from the fiddle player … he was at Kingston Station, would I pick him up. Well, um, yeah, sure. So I did, despite the fact that I was confused and pissed. He had spent the last of his money on a flight to New York and the train to Kingston, and I had no idea what his intentions or expectations were.
Nonetheless, after a few days at Sweet Fern Lane I had had enough. I told him he could stay at the cottage for a while, so I dumped him there with a couple of bags of groceries … plus paint and brushes and told him to get busy. After about a week the work was done, so I told him to get his things together, he was leaving. At Kingston Station I bought him a ticket to New York, gave him twenty dollars, and said, “I’m sure you know someone there who can help you out, good luck.” He had done a good job at the cottage though, it was ready for rental.
In the meantime, I had been moving forward on my impending exodus … weeding out, sorting, packing, storing things in the garage at the cottage, where I had also stored all of Dad’s yet to be gone through belongings. Did a lot of research on San Francisco (not so easy without a pc and the Internet) and planned to spend the month of August in that lovely city by the bay. One ad was all it took to get the cottage rented for the season, five two week rentals from mid-June through Labor Day. Then I went to Ogunquit for a few days over the Memorial Day holiday, and rather than a motel I stayed at the quirky Yellow Monkey, a ‘gay’ guest house. What would become my regular room there, was a former porch quaintly enclosed with wraparound windows, overlooking the village.
During that weekend in Ogunquit I had met a fellow named David, quite a striking blond, who was working at one of the shops there. Consequently, from that time on through the end of July, I spent most of my time at the Yellow Monkey … returning home every other week for a few days, when guests were checking in and out of the cottage. Things were starting to get so serious with David and me, that by the time I left for my month in San Francisco, I wasn’t certain if it was to be a pre-move fact finding mission as planned, or a farewell.
My elder niece, Jayna, would be staying at Sweet Fern Lane while I was away, taking care of Daffy and the ins and outs at the cottage. The night before my departure I was too excited to sleep, so I took a Phenobarbital left over from Dad’s stash … then slept through two alarms, and didn’t regain consciousness until Jayna shook me awake, a half hour before my flight. Oops. Not that it mattered, but I was determined to get to San Francisco that day, and for three hundred dollars more booked First Class, all that was available, on a later flight. Jayna made certain that I made it to that one.
San Francisco was everything that I remembered it to be, and I checked in at the Atherton Hotel, a few blocks from the York. Not as classy, a lesser neighborhood, but cheaper and quite satisfactory. The next morning I called Brian, and he told me how to get to his place via the bus. He lived at the end of 16th Street, above the Castro, the other ‘gay’ hub. I had only spent one evening there during my previous visit, and I did not like it at all, but this trip would quickly change my mind. Brian asked what I was wearing, and when I said shorts and a tank top, he said put jeans and a sweatshirt in my backpack. Why? It’s summer! Just do it. The first thing I did when I got to the bus stop on Market Street was put on the jeans and sweatshirt. Summer in San Francisco! I was learning.
One day I rented a motorbike and just rode around, covering one end of the city to the other. The first week or so was wonderful, I enjoyed every minute, even though David was always on my mind, and I thought I was seeing everything in San Francisco for the first and last time. David notwithstanding, many times I was up half the night shagging, and sleeping much of the day. Brian and I usually hooked up for dinner, and when he’d ask about my day, I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I told him I went to Fisherman’s Wharf. He could never figure out why I liked the touristy Wharf so much. It would be years later before I finally fessed up.
While in San Francisco I kept hearing about the Russian River, and learned that there was a town on the river called Guerneville, alleged to be San Francisco’s answer to Provincetown. Considering how amazing San Francisco was, I figured Guerneville must be absolutely fabulous … I had to go. First I found out how to get there by public bus, which turned out to be quite an adventure in its own right, and then made reservations for six nights at a resort called the Wildhorse Ranch. It was billed as a clothing optional paradise, located on secluded acreage 1500 feet above the river, or was it 3500? Either way, it was up there, it was secluded.
Arriving in Guerneville I thought there must have been some terrible mistake, because there was nothing there that even remotely resembled Provincetown, and I didn’t see a particularly ‘gay’ presence either. Following my instructions I found the Safeway supermarket, and from the phone booth I called the ranch to have them come down and pick me up. While waiting I noticed a fellow who may have been kicked out of the Hell’s Angels for being too frightening. On one strap of his backpack was written, “How do you get ten faggots on a bar stool?“ On the other strap the answer. “Turn it upside down, and ram them on one at a time.“ Interesting sentiment, I never encountered anyone like that in P-Town. While praying that my ride would arrive soon, I did my best to be invisible or look butch, whichever I could muster.
The ranch was a lovely place nestled in the hills amongst the trees, a bucolic location that was everything that I had ever imagined California would be. My room was small but comfortable, and situated by the edge of the pool. The only thing it lacked was a swinging door … Wildhorse Ranch proved to be a paradise in more ways than one. Arriving on a Wednesday afternoon was very good timing, because it gave me the opportunity to shag all of the staff that sparked my interest, before the weekend crowd started arriving on Friday evening. By then I was free to focus on the quests.
One fellow, Arya Levi, arrived with a small group. This was one of the first outings of his new business called Great Outdoor Adventures (goa), a social and travel club for ‘gay’ men. I shagged him and joined GOA, or vice versa, I don’t remember which order, but either way I never got a discount. Only a handful of people stayed on after Sunday night, enough to keep me occupied, and one couple offered to give me a ride back to San Francisco on Tuesday. They lived in Palo Alto, but San Francisco was on the way. All new to me.
That morning I called Dr Keller, and shared with him my amazement about what had been transpiring. After so many years of derision, harassment, and self-image abuse, whenever someone did seem interested I always felt grateful. Now that I was coming into my own, my dear frustrated psychiatrist finally asked, “Why is it that when you connect with someone you think that you are lucky, why don’t you ever think that they are lucky?” Good point, I was still healing. Next I called Jayna, and the first thing she said was, “You sound so different, I’ve never heard you sound so relaxed.” And the second thing, “You’re moving to California, aren’t you?” A fait accompli.
Back in The City the fellows dropped me off in front of a gargantuan gothic relic, The Brothel Hotel. What’s in a name? My room was a windowless cubbyhole, doubtless a former broom closet. As promised, I called Arya. When I told him where I was staying, he said he’d pick me up in the morning, I could stay with him. He lived in a big, three story Victorian on Castro Street in Noe Valley, just over a huge hill from the center of the Castro. At this time the community was all a flutter about the first Gay Olympics. Despite the IOC winning an injunction preventing the use of the word “Olympics” it will always me the Gay Olympics to me, and not the Gay Games. In the end, we all found out what a bastion of corruption, what a morally bankrupt institution the self-righteous IOC is didn’t we?
The games would begin before my looming departure, and Arya threw his doors open to any of the Olympiads who needed a place to stay. So the remainder of my days in San Francisco, I was staying in a house crawling with ‘gay’ athletes from all over the world. How cool was that?! The sleeping arrangements were unconstrained, the beds were first come first served, after that grab a sofa, a place on the floor, or the nearest hot body … there were plenty to choose from. One night I went bar hopping with an Aussie bodybuilder, and when we ended up at the Trocadero I took a pass.
It was too loud and too big and too crowded and too late and I was too tired, and I didn’t feel like paying ten bucks to enter a place I didn’t want to be. The Aussie stayed, and I went back to Arya’s. All of the beds were taken except the king-sized bed in Arya’s room, so I hopped in. A few hours later I awoke to the sensation of hands caressing my body. The Aussie had returned … he wasn’t sleepy.
Kezar Stadium at Golden Gate Park was the venue for the opening ceremonies of the first Gay Olympics (I won’t let that go). It was August 28th 1982 and I joined over ten thousand of my ‘gay’ brothers and sisters on that historic day … a very proud time to be ‘gay‘ to say the least. During the proceedings I realized that that day would have been my brother’s 40th birthday, which seemed so appropriate it was almost poetic. In his heart I know that he struggled to find peace with my orientation, and he spoke a sincere advocacy for the rights of homosexuals (just as long as no same gender couples held hands in front of him). The tears rolled down my face as I thought of Jay, and hoped that it was a day that he would have been proud for me as well. Needless to say, it was an extremely emotional finale to an awesome life-changing month.
Before leaving San Francisco I rented a private mail box at P.O. Plus on Castro Street, establishing a business address, then I collected maps, Yellow Pages, and just about everything I might need to get a few balls rolling during the month that I would be back in Rhode Island. Once home I called David in Maine. The first thing he asked was, “Well, are we moving to California?” “No, David, I’m moving to California.” “Alone?” “Yes, sorry.” Who was this person that had taken possession of my body?
My Toyota SR5 was traded-in towards a new Datsun long-bed pickup, fire engine red with a matching cap, shell, whatever they call it. Then I spent the month packing, planning my cross-country trip, compiling a mailing list of potential clients, studying the maps of San Francisco, and foiling all of the negative comments from all of the naysayers. You‘ll never find an apartment that allows a dog. You‘ll never find work. There will be too much competition. And so on.
After thanking everyone for their concern, I assured them that I had always had a dog and had always found suitable housing. That thanks to my experience, integrity, ingenuity, sincerity, and manifold talents, I had always been successful in whatever I pursued. And that I didn’t see why I couldn’t expect the same in San Francisco. Through a mutual friend I heard that Marion was curmudgeonly predicting that, “He’ll be back!” She was right, I did go back. Five visits over the next twenty-three years. Yep, I’m smirking again.
On September 30th I finished packing my truck, and early on the morning of October 1st Daffy and I embarked on our three week, 6000 mile (we took the long way) cross country journey to San Francisco.
Peacedale adieu!
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