My father realized I was a Friend of Dorothy [he would have
said C--- S-----] when I was in the third grade. He had been clueless
all through Preschool and Kindergarten, even though all the evidence was in and
properly tagged. He had had reassuring messages from the teachers already by
first grade. Maybe I am exaggerating. By all indications however, Dad was in a
growing homosexual panic, but the nineties, for him, were still dare not speak
its name time. He was still in denial when I was in 1st and 2nd
grade. But by the third grade he was ready to face the facts. His acceptance of
this reality revolutionized his life immediately. He was dumbfounded but
resolute: His son was a fairy. No getting around it.
He had of
course always been homophobic. I am not going to say that it was as natural to
him as breathing. That is too weak a comparison. I would prefer to say
gay-bashing was as innate and automatic, as natural to him as shitting because
it was not only inevitable and biological in its truth, but it was also one of
the very few activities that gave him an undiluted and unqualified pleasure in
his life. Before he spoke directly to me about being gay, he constantly
bombarded me with epithets and abuse. I am sure he would now congratulate himself
on preparing me for the intolerance of society, which he never tired of
lecturing me on in later years, an intolerance for which he was the
archetype. But when he realized that I was a fact that not going
away, he out of the blue stopped using homophobic slurs, rather suddenly when I
was 16. He switched with the ease of a skilled tactician to misogynist slurs. I
was a pussy or a bitch, instead of a wimp and a punk and whatever words he had
picked up in high school in the sixties and seventies to describe what he
called pillow biters. He was amuseum of slurs. I learned so much from him. Merc
stopped and looked Jack directly in the eye. All that hateful history might
have been lost. He is the archivist of bigotry. I would say he was small-minded
but it doesn’t do him justice. In fact, his mental archive of evil was the
equal of the Library of Congress.
I discovered when I was old enough
for him to talk dirty to me—that would be just 16 for him. He is precocious.
Well he did not … he could not exactly say it, but he thought that people are
gay because they want to literally fuck themselves in some bizarre monstrous
image of sexual perversity out of the Marquis de Sade. And for him unlike what
Clint Eastwood said at the GOP convention, he thought that Yes, of course, you
could go fuck yourself, only it took a majorly articulate joint of course,
something even surpassing Boogie Nights.
But that is the prototype. So he thought, Yes, I would like that if I could
then go fuck myself. For him no one was more alluring than he was.
It is
peculiar that anti-gay feelings were in fact a kind of inexplicable jealousy
and might come from the desire to literally fuck yourself. To him, the
homosexual is the person who for whom everything is forbidden, who is outlawed,
who is not allowed to act, but seems to have been given the most permission.
Free run of the house. Incidentally and coincidentally, that’s why he actually
envies illegal immigrants. They have the most freedom he thinks. They are
getting away with everything and they can do everything, including sex, without
being held accountable. They can even have pleasures that are not permitted to
him. He sees them as deviant, but admirable and detestable at the same time.
Now my father is a scholar of self-pleasuring. I know it. It is in his eyes.
Merc pointed at his own eyes with a signal flourish. I have his eyes. He batted
his eyelashes. I could see his proclivities when I was fifteen. He was an open
book to me—and, I might add, to my mother, who grew weary of his misogyny and
who grew a pair and walked out on him when I was 18, too late for me to get
away unscathed. Merc’s tone changed suddenly: Where do you want to eat?
Do you want to have lunch with me? Jack said. Yes, Merc said
exaggerating his tone of disbelief that Jack would feel he had to suggest something so
obvious. Where? A food truck a few blocks down 4th.. Over by
Harrison. I think it’s on Harrison. It’s usually parked on a side street, which
one I can’t remember but I’ll find it. It moves. But it is good. It is called The Unlawful Waffle. Merc started to get
tired of the long walk. Is it somewhere this side of San Jose? It’s worth the
walk, Jack said, very cheap and the food is inspired. You can get things like
“The Gawdawful Waffle" with everything on it, the Falafel Waffle, that’s
self-explanatory, "The Baffling Waffle" is a mystery, "The Whiffle Waffle" has a
sausage and mustard on it, you know because we are close to the baseball
stadium, and "The Slothful Waffle" is covered with jam and nutella. It is the
best food you can get south of Market Street, nothing better between Embarcadero
Center and China Basin.
Merc had
come to the Yellow Dick’s Electronics
to give his father the rent for June, two weeks late as usual. His father,
Lonnie was Jack’s boss, Merc was Jack’s housemate. It was no accident that Jack
was so connected to the family. Merc had directed him to get a job at the store
after Jack had a problem at his job at Radio Shack. The rent had to be paid and
Merc knew the job was open with Yellow Dick’s.
When you
walked in the store, Jack said to him, I noticed he called you Pooncey. Is that
one of his slurs? Yeah. Don’t ask. Merc said. He’s the Serena
Williams of abuse—Of course, probably Serena Williams is the Serena
Williams of abuse—but he thinks he is funny. Does he say the
homophobic shit at work? Merc asked in an offhand way.
At a sales meeting he does, but
mostly it’s just Pussy and Bitch and like that. Merc nodded. He stared into space.
He seemed to be recalling something. Is he abusive? I worked in his dealership
when I was 17 for a summer. His so-called sales meetings were pretty scary, a
kind of torture session. He really enjoyed it, especially when he was married
to my mother. It was his outlet, his hobby, fucking with people. I was pretty
sure sometimes, when he would really get going on someone, that I could take him to The Hague for violating the Geneva Convention. He made
people squirm and beg for their jobs in those days, really disgusting. Jack shifted the topic: Why did
Lonnie call the business Yellow Dick’s? Jack asked Merc.
Good
question. His name was Alonzo di Mercurio. He was called Lonnie by his family.
The story goes: He started to sell cars when he was in his teens or early
twenties and he was a flop. People didn’t seem to notice him. He was invisible.
He told me. Lonnie was not invented to be invisible. But no matter how
energetic or enthusiastic or even obnoxious he would be, no one ever remembered
his name. Lonnie was a daffodil name, lame, he said to me. When a customer came
back to the dealership, they would never ask for him and he would lose the
sale. So he decided to make up a name that people would not forget. Yellow for
his hair and Dick, I guess, for his personality. Sure enough, it worked and he
hasn’t stopped using this humiliating moniker for his Salesman avatar or
nickname or alias or what have you, ever since.
They were
walking down the Street in the general direction of China Basin. The Sunday
afternoon traffic was thin. The Braves -- Giants game wasn’t until 7pm. But
some people were already in the bars. Merc saw something that looked like
eagerness in Jack’s face and his walk. He commented with his eyebrows without
saying anything. A block away Merc saw the Waffle truck, a catering van with
Belgian waffles painted on the side with fruit and chocolate and even a fish on
them. Then Merc saw the two women come around the corner. Jack speeded up. Oh
yeah, Merc said. Now I know why Waffles are in such demand in the SOMA.
The women
were talking with animation. Well Maryam was apparently doing almost all the
talking, but Noor was doing some active listening. Merc could see that her face
showed reactions with the genius and he broadness of silent film star. Now
compassion, now sympathy, now puzzlement, now hilarity, now tension, now
relief. She was the perfect audience, but Merc somehow doubted the sincerity of
her attention to Maryam. She seemed to be distracted. Then he saw that Noor was
looking peripherally at Jack who was looming ever faster. She had a kind of
sheepish reluctance. Like Juliet Montague had with Romeo Capulet. Or is it the
other way around? Seems that we have an acquaintanceship here. Merc said. Please
no set-ups for me. I’m on a diet. Merc threw up his hand to signal a stop.
The groups
then collided gently. Hi, Jack said. Hi, Noor said. I’m from the Muni. Jack
said. I know. Noor said. The encounter never quite ascended much higher than
that, this trading of inanities. Jack turned to the small window in the van,
where a gruff man was asking, What’ll you have? Jack said, A Doppel Waffle.
Noor used this as a point of entry. What’s that? Jack pointed at the menu on
the side of the truck. I guess it is everything. On one waffle you get salty
and on the other you get sweet. Noor looked at the menu, thinking that the
Doppel sounded like it was probably too much. I want a crepe with Nutella, she
was speaking softly almost distantly toward the small opening. What? The man said. You know I needed to ask
you a question about the Muni. Jack tried to leverage a bigger encounter before
the ordering rituals were concluded and it was too late. This was the time for
action he thought. Sure. Noor said.
When they
got their food, they found a place to sit nearby on some flimsy chairs The Unlawful Waffle truck obviously
carried around on its roof. The chairs were filthy. As Noor and Jack sauntered
away from the other two, Merc looked at Maryam and said, How Rude! Maryam
looked at Merc with some mixture of interest and unease. I guess you are
disposable too, Merc said. Do they serve Martinis in this establishment? Maryam
said. Only if the sommelier left a drizzle of vodka in the abandoned gallon jug
over in the bushes. Merc said and continued
immediately, Do they know each other? Or is this some kind of lightning strike
of Boy meets Girl? Merc asked Maryam. I think they have been casting longing
looks on the N Judah or something. It is a transit romance, Maryam said. A
commuter passion. Merc responded. Maryam said, A smoldering fire on the street
car named desire. Merc smiled at her wit. He said, I must admit the lure of the
wild waffle was until now a puzzle for me. Maryam paused and looked at him with
an analytical stare. I guess this is not a double date? No, Merc said with a
wry gasp. No. I have very selective tastes, a special orientation. In other
words, I don’t date waffle eaters. Sorry. Merc said it with a lilting
intonation. Maryam said, Neither do I.
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