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New Voices From San Francisco |
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New Voices From San Francisco |
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Circuit Stories By Ken Cimino Chapter One - Blue Ball
The
Versace sunglasses framing Jerry Kessler's round face reflected the
sunlight pouring through the airplane window. Jerry had chosen the
wide-framed, rectangular style purely because the fierce queen at Sunglass
Hut had said they looked fabulous. Now he snatched them off his face as he
woke with a start from his dreamlike state. His hour-long K trip was
ending. Jerry had wanted to trip the entire plane ride, but he only had a
small amount of Ketamine left. He
reached into his pocket, grabbed a vial containing a minuscule amount of
white powder and snorted another bump up his nose before slipping the
sunglasses back on to block out any light. Then Jerry closed his eyes once
more and waited in the darkness to see what would happen. His mind began
to wander. He could feel his Dolce and Gabbana form-fitting blue tank top
pressing tightly against his chest. Jerry smiled. This shirt was his
favorite. It made his pectoral muscles look like they were about to
explode underneath it. Everyone wanted him when he wore this shirt, and
how he looked to other people was important to Jerry. Jerry
began to feel the K more and more. He prayed it would take him out of
himself, allow him to leave the confines of the plane. He knew he was
starting his journey because he felt the space behind his eyes changing.
The darkness seemed to crinkle upon itself and twist into strange shapes.
He heard a familiar melody in his portable CD player: --
Let all the hurt inside of
you die Dazed,
he focused on the long twisting headphones, murmuring to himself. Jerry
was Jerry no more. He had stepped into a strange new level of reality –
one in which he could no longer tell if his whispers were screams. His
ears filled with echoes and reverberations. He struggled to talk louder.
Paranoid thoughts of persecution lined up at the forefront of his mind. He
felt strangely sober, even though he knew he wasn't. Suddenly, he managed
to bring his words into clarity. --
Lilman! Wake up, you big mo! Jerry
caught and rode this lucid wave into sobriety and realized what seemed
like shouting was actually mumbling. He must have stated this command a
few times. Suddenly he became aware of the airplane. Light split the
darkness of the trip. Glancing quickly around him he noticed that his
fellow passengers were giving him strange look, and he didn't know whether
to panic or feel relieved. He was used to strange looks. Next to him sat
Jack, his on-off lover. Since both Jack and he were experiencing drug come
down, they would remain together for another few days. Or at least until
Jerry could see if his thing with Caesar would last more than a week. Jerry
started imagining Caesar’s body. Man, Caesar looked like an older
version of the guy from “Saved by the Bell”. He remembered the Latino
God’s dark bronze shaved chest for a moment, comparing it to Jack’s
pale, hairy one. Both were hot in their own ways. "I
need them both," he thought. "Jack for money, Caesar for drugs,
both for sex."
Abruptly,
Jerry’s desire for Caesar progressed into a craving to do more K.
Reaching into his jean pocket he searched for the cat tranquilizer only to
find the plastic vial empty. Out of habit he unscrewed the lid anyway and
placed the small plastic container under his nose. He rummaged for any of
traces of the K that his nose would inhale. He felt a sort of wobbly
sensation come upon him. Jerry feared sobriety more than anything. He
could feel his physical body starting to detach from his emotional
identity. He should be pissed, but he was too far removed from his
emotions. He
wondered if Jack had any K on him? "I
better check one more time," he thought. "Jack can be such a
downer on plane trips. In fact, he's a downer at circuit parties too. Just
a downer in life." He glanced over at the short, stocky redhead
sitting next to him. Jack looked miserable, crouched up like a ball on his
seat, staring out the window. Jerry could see bits of blondish red chest
hair peering out of his tank top. Although, he hated the fact that Jack
had shaved his head a few weeks ago, the chest hair was sexy. He
better rummage through his pockets one more time, he thought, maybe sniff
the K still stuck to the top of the lid. Cool, just enough for one last
bump... Jerry
knew that he was going to return to another other state of consciousness
soon. He wasn’t even sure what that state might be. Would he ever
reintegrate into his "normal" form again? Did he even remember
what that was? Music, shapes of men and colorful lights were spinning in
his head. He wasn't at all sure what those things would become but he was
going to enjoy the ride. Jack
Ryker, disgruntled and quiet, moved his hands away from the window and
looked absently out the window. "Four
years of college," he thought. “Three years of law school”
"A combined seven years of higher education and I can barely hold my
thoughts together for more than thirty seconds." Jack
removed his fake Ralph Lauren sunglasses. He'd bought them in San
Francisco’s financial district for ten bucks. Jerry mocked him all the
time for wearing phony glasses. But Jack couldn’t see spending a ton of
money for accessories he would most likely lose at the Folsom Street Fair.
Jack looked down at the tight J-Crew navy blue T-shirt which perfectly
matched his glued on jeans. He rubbed his hand against his chin. He had
about five days worth of facial hair and knew that he looked scruffy. Jack
had such a baby face, though, that he was secretly hoping the growth would
give him an edge. Make him a Master. Make him a Daddy. Make him someone he
was not. Jack
knew he looked shady. He was in need of an hour-long shower, one in which
he could scrub every part of his body five or six times. Most of all,
though, he needed sleep. As soon as the plane landed he planned to take
some of the Valium his dentist had given him and sleep for two days
straight. He figured sleep was like a credit card. As long as you pay back
the debt, you'll be OK. Jack fully intended to pay back the sleep he owed
first chance he got... He didn’t think about the interest rate. But then
again, a circuit boy never thinks about the interest. Jerry’s
voice broke Jack’s contemplation of his place in the universe. "Yo
Jack! Can you hear me? I need another bump of K?" Jack
stared at him, puzzled. All he'd heard was “beat ass is so tan.” Worse
than Jerry’s illogical words was Jack’s inability not to laugh and
scream out loud at the same time as Jerry’s face began to dissolve into
the aisle next to him. They had both partied hard at the Blue Ball. Jack and Jerry had
been putting illegal substances up their noses since last Thursday. In
fact, they had been high now for about four days straight. He couldn’t
recall how many drugs they'd taken, but he knew it was a lot. And, as
usual, they would take a trip down
the alphabet street. Drugs like GHB, X and K would take them there. His
mind crammed with odd questions. "Why
haven’t they created a designer drug and labeled it Z yet?" Jack
wondered. "Where did he put that can of Ensure? If I can’t eat
protein, can I drink it? Can you get scabies from dancing too close to
someone?" He
began to notice his K dimension was alternating. The plane was becoming
more and more real and staying around longer. Unfortunately he was also
very, very nauseous. He thought
about the weekend, when time had flown backwards, forwards and
sideways. The best thing about the circuit was that it was a traveling gay
ghetto of semi naked men, most of them on steroids, designer drugs and
strict protein diets. Jerry would lecture Jack that if a guy didn’t have
a six pack Jack shouldn’t bother to give him a second look. Suddenly,
Jerry’s profile and words became clearer. "Ryker
give me more K!" Erratically,
Jerry rambled on. "You
know it's really funny. Your last name, of a porn star with a big
dick…" Jerry stopped mid sentence knowing he was going to upset
Jack and lessen his chances of scoring more drugs from him. If Jack even
had any more left, that was. It was too much to risk. Jerry couldn’t
take the plane ride sober. He decided his best move was to try a passive
aggressive approach, just in case Jack had anymore K. "And,
well, you’ve got a great ass…The best ass in San Francisco. And in a
city of bottoms that’s a big compliment…Best fuck I’ve ever had…
But you really need to get rid of the second rate Ralph Lauren sunglasses.
They embarrass me." Jack
only had one bump of K left. It was a toss up. He could do it himself and
tune Jerry out. Or he could give the K to Jerry and make him shut up. Jack
decided on the former. He grabbed his bumper placed it under his nose and
snorted. Jerry’s
voice trailed off as Jack ignored the mocking. Jack contemplated the idea
that what Jerry did best was talk about himself. And what Jack did best
was think about himself. He did it all the time. Worse than that, he spent
a lot of time doubting himself, too. The
plane began to spin. He felt very ill and disconnected. The seat in front
of him seemed malleable and artificial. His life unfolded before him. He
had visions of both loved ones and enemies. Jack thought about regrets and
missed opportunities. His reality twisted into new shapes. Just
like Jerry’s, Jack’s mind left his body. "Maybe
I should grow a goatee," he thought, quickly dismissing the idea when
he realized that his boss at the law firm would make a comment. A shaved
head didn’t go over too well with his boss or the partners. He
remembered the remarks he got from his co-workers after he decided to
shave all his hair off: his boss cornering him in the elevator telling
Jack that some men pay to have hair like his, he shouldn’t ever shave it
off again. But why should he care what they think of him at the law firm
anyway? He wanted to be writer. He knew he could tell stories. And all
these adventures would make him a better storyteller. The
K began slanting his consciousness. Lights of all colors consumed him,
their brightness a new reality. Jack
thought of police breaking into the plane and arresting him. Was he having
a near death experience? He looked around and the entire plane seemed
bent. Like the entire plane was in a Batman episode from the 1960s
television show. His life was now diagonal. Jack
rubbed his recently shaved head. His grandmother once described his hair
as the color of wheat stalks. Now his hair was gone. He was flooded with
memories of the first time he'd looked at himself in the mirror after he'd
done it. He'd looked as if he had cancer. Minus his hair, his fair
complexion was even fairer, his blue eyes more pronounced. "Maybe
I do have cancer!" he thought suddenly. He pictured himself lying in
a casket. Was he dead, then? Did he have cancer? Now the vision
changed: he saw a bright white light lift his body into another space. Now
the light was glowing from his shaved head. "Oh yeah," thought
Jack, "My shaved head." His thoughts moved back on track. "I
don’t like the type of guys attracted to my shaved head," he
thought. "All those daddies and leather guys hitting on me when I
ride the Muni in a suit and tie at 7:30 am." But his shaved head had
its good points. He remembered a few weeks ago, when he'd jacked off with
a guy in the sauna right after his hair cut. The guy told him he looked
hot with or without hair and that his boyfriend was a lucky man. Jerry
was certainly something, that was for sure. Even with a cloudy mind,
though, Jack knew "lucky" wasn't it. Jerry’s
voice broke through Jack’s K strip once again. "Where
is Caesar? I bet he has some K on him! Donde estata Caesar? Donde K?" Jack
knew Caesar was somewhere on the plane, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to
see him. He had already caught Jerry and Caesar messing around behind his
back a few times. He'd woken up yesterday in the hotel room and saw them
going at it. But he didn’t even bother to ask Jerry this time. Why
bother? Jerry would just deny it. He would tell Jack he was paranoid. It
was the same exchange every few months. The only thing new was the guy. People
were starting to stare at Jerry and Jack. Jack looked at the passengers
nearest them on the plane. All of them looked so boring. So mundane.
Average people can be so jealous, he thought, especially the breeding
ones. Ever since he was kid people had stared at him. Jack could even
remember old women coming up to him in restaurants and rubbing his reddish hair, envying its natural reddish blond: a strawberry blond that
they had to buy out of a bottle. Anyway,
he thought, when you live to work out, you hope they stare. Because if
they don’t look, well then you don’t exist. And isn’t the point of
looking good to show the world you matter? Wasn’t that the reason Jack
had eaten two cans of Chicken by the Sea for lunch for the last three
month: so that he'd matter? And it wasn’t just tuna. Jack ate 12 egg
whites every morning. He knew that his body could only absorb 30 grams of
protein in a sitting, pissing the rest away, so he had to time eating the
egg whites, eating four every half hour. He would eat some on the Castro
Muni as passengers gave him dirty looks because of the smell. Later, he
would carefully time his baked potato in the microwave in the afternoon,
making sure he had exactly the right amount of natural carbohydrates for
his two-hour evening workout, when he'd lift for an hour and a half and
concentrate on cardio the rest of the time.
He
looked over to Jerry, who had a strange smirk on his face. Jerry wasn't
quite passed out yet, although his skin was a strange colour. Jerry had
been up for a few days now, too. Jack
had been going out with him, on and off, for three years. He really only
kept him around cause he had a big dick. It was a perfect dick. It was
eight inches, thick and upright. It had a large mushroom head. It
invitingly stood out like an open drawbridge from a remote castle. And
Jerry knew it. So, Jerry shared it with the entire population of the
Castro. And
Noe Valley. And
the Tenderloin. And
most likely parts of San Jose during the morning commute. Sadly, though,
Jerry’s big penis was his only accomplishment in life. "Jerry
puts me down all the time," Jack thought. "He's always
complaining about some part of my body, telling me what I lack. I used to
think his put downs were a way to make excuses about cheating on me, but
lately I've been thinking he uses them purely to keep us connected.
Sometimes all a relationship has is the put-downs." When
Jack first met Jerry he'd reminded him of Marky Mark. The
Marky Mark of Calvin Klein underwear. The
Marky Mark with three nipples. The
Marky Mark who was homophobic. Not
Mark Walhberg, talented thespian and occasional side kick of George
Clooney. Although, he was way hot in Boogie
Nights. Anyway,
Jerry didn’t seem so good now. He looked spun out. He was dressed in
tight clothing, but his body looked weak and empty. Anyone could see that
Jerry was worn out and exhausted. Why was Jack with him again? Looking at
him now it was hard to see the reason. Really, there was none. He looked
tired, pale and permanently sad. And if Jack stared hard enough, he could
see a yellowness to Jerry's skin. His jaw looked squarer. They had an
intense and chaotic relationship. But then again, aren’t all young gay
relationships grounded in chaos? "It
must be the K," Jack deliberated. They
were both coming down from their bumps of K, not to mention the many other
drugs they'd taken. They were each a small, walking pharmacy. The K had
been the last to go. They hadn't wanted the party to end, so when they
boarded the plane in Philadelphia, they decided not to stop until they
reached California. As
they headed into the cobalt sky they'd snorted lines of cocaine, managing
to follow it up with bumps of K without anyone else on the plane knowing.
They'd worked out a system: Jack would cough and sneeze, and Jerry would
take the straw and snort. Then Jerry would return the favor. Truly, it was
the only way to fly. Jack
blamed his increased drug use on his recent fear of flying. The fear had
come on suddenly. He'd never been scared of flying before, but all of a
sudden he'd started to have panic attacks during long flights. It was
something about the cramped interior of the airplane, and the feeling of
being trapped. Jack's new rule was to never take flights of more than
three hours, but Jerry had hounded him to attend the Blue Ball, and he'd
finally agreed. Jack had known he'd be making an exception when Jerry told
him Victor would be spinning. Jerry knew how much Jack loved Victor. Jack
had spent the past few weeks checking out websites on how to survive a
plane crash, and reading articles about people who had survived them. He'd
even gone as far as to research the average of plane crashes per year
around the country, and checked to see how many had already occurred this
year. Jack
would analyze each crash he read about over and over again. Plane crashes
were very violent, he realized. The thought of piecing bodies back
together sent chills up and down his spine. Suddenly,
Jerry broke the silence with his singing. "Mmmmmm,
if I could melt your heart Mmmmmm,
we'd never be apart Mmmmmm,
give yourself to me Mmmmmm,
you hold the key" Jerry
stopped butchering the Madonna song for a moment "Are
you thinking about Shane again?" he asked abruptly. "Honey, get
over it already. Heroin was so 1970s." Jack
wasn’t thinking about his best friend Shane’s death six months ago.
But maybe he should. Shane
was a personal trainer at Gold’s Gym. As every gay man knows, personal
trainers are like local football heroes. Shane was handsome, brawny, young
and sensitive. He was 6'2, weighed close to 240 lbs., and was built like a
tank. When he walked across a room, everyone took notice. It was hard not
to. He had died of a heroin overdose six months before the Blue Ball.
Shane had been a personal trainer in the San Francisco for several years.
Towards the end of his life he began partying at local dance clubs, and
snorting speed every night. Shane was so hot that how could he not party?
Of course he got hooked on speed. Of course he escorted. This was the
right of passage to the most of the young good-looking men of San
Francisco. Jack
couldn’t tell if his ears were popping or if he was going deaf. He had
been on the plane about an hour and had done two bumps of K. This K trip
was becoming more intense. The
in-flight movie The American President starring Michael Douglas and
Annette Benning was playing. Jerry sat in the aisle seat so he could watch
the movie, but was so fucked up on the K, that he had trouble following
the plot. He spent most of the flight listening to his Madonna CD instead.
Jack
had started watching the movie, and stuck with it until his perceptions
abandoned him once more. Michael Douglas was sitting next to him on the
plane. He told Jack that it was okay to do drugs. Jack remembered seeing
Michael J Fox at the circuit party. Or did he? Did he have sex with
Michael J Fox in the Oval Office while Victor spun? Jack’s mind was
roaming over sexual and philosophical concepts. As
he mulled this over, a pretty blonde woman in her twenties with rather
large breasts in a blue uniform came into view. He realized it was the
flight attendants serving drinks. As she approached Jack's row, something
told him that this was one of her first flights. He wasn't sure if her
gracious and proud attitude was a result of training by the airline or
simply the way she behaved all the time. Jack perceived insecurity. She
gave Jerry, with his sunglasses on, a puzzled look. Could she tell he was
high on K?
"What
will you have to drink, Sir?" Jerry
asked for a Bloody Mary and then quickly dismissed her. He moved from his
chair and tried to stand up and look for Caesar. His seat belt pulled him
back to his seat. His perception still seemed off. "And
you Sir, what will you have?" Jack
still couldn’t get his thoughts together. "What
do you have?" he managed. The
flight attendant looked Jack straight in the eye with a slightly sarcastic
smile. "Coffee,
Tea, Milk, Hot Chocolate, Coke, Dr. Pepper, 7-UP, Sprite, Club Soda,
Ginger Ale, Tonic, Sparkling Water, Juice, Lemonade…" she reeled
off. Jack
thought for a moment I
think I'll have a Ginger Ale and….Grey Goose Vodka…I mean Vodka. She
gave him an odd look and handed him a clear plastic glass with ice, a can
of Ginger Ale and a bottle of Smirnoff vodka. The flight attendant noticed
that Jack had a journal notebook in his had. "Do
you write?" she asked. At
the moment Jack was thinking about the idea of the universe and her place
in it. "Does she find the fact that Jerry and I are wearing
sunglasses on the plane odd?" he wondered. He realized she was
waiting for an answer. "Only
on long trips," he said. "I look for inspiration in the tedious
aspects of life, such as serving drinks on a plane, and then I make notes.
Who knows you might be my next heroine in my book." The
flight attendant seemed confused by his response. Clearly not sure what to
say in response, she shrugged slightly and moved on to the passenger
sitting across the aisle. Jerry
grew angrier as his high dissolved into disappointment. "You
write a book? Please! I’m amazed when you get out of bed, much less write a
book."
"What
up bitches?" It was Caesar.
"You
men need some K to get out of that hole you’re in?" Jerry's
words jumped out of his mouth before he could say them. "Hey
stud! As always you got what I need." Jerry smiled at his double
entendre. Caesar
searched his pockets and pulled out a bullet full of a white substance. He
leaned into Jerry, pushing his muscled chest into his body. Jack marveled
at how smooth and tan Caesar’s body looked. It was muscular, defined and
hairless. "He must shave it," he thought vaguely, before
removing his second rate sunglasses to examine Jerry's Spanish bull. Caesar’s
brown eyes caught Jack's, which were no longer blue, but pitch black and
dilated until they were as large as saucers. Jerry
did his bump quickly, hoping the approaching flight attendant wouldn’t
see. He handed the vial to Jack. Jack decided to hand the K back to
Caesar. Jerry’s
words began to be inconsistent. "Thank
God for the K. This one here keeps thinking about dead friends. And…I
don’t want a buzz ….kill…" Even
though Jerry wasn’t making too much sense, Jack knew what he meant. At
that moment of clarity, as the K fog lifted, the realization of being so
empty and pointless filled his mind. He couldn’t think about much. It's
amazing how full a mind can be with emptiness. He
looked down at the chest that was no longer bulging under his blue tank
top. He looked leaner. But he couldn’t decide if that was his Winstrol
cycle, the Hydrocut or the weeklong intake of Ensure shakes to make sure
he had the mandatory six pack. He didn’t think it could be water loss.
He'd only really consumed water the entire weekend. Well, that and a blow
pops, gum and the occasional tic tac. Could
he have sweated that much? How does one sweat in the cold? It was January
and freezing. Neither
of them had been to Philadelphia’s Blue Ball – or to Philadelphia, for
that matter. Like any party, though, once you took your hit of E and a
bump of Tina, shirts came off and the muscles came on. For three days
straight, K was the dessert on the menu. Jack
had hoped to see the liberty bell, Betsy Ross’s flag and Benjamin
Franklin’s brick house. Instead, all he saw was the second floor of
Woody's and the sauna of the 12th street gym. But they were
so busy going from party to party to threeway to fiveway to the airport.
Well, they didn’t have a chance to see much of the city known as
brotherly love and sisterly affection. It's
funny being in a city that represents freedom and yet feeling so trapped.
It was just like the plane trip. Jack couldn’t be mad at the party,
though. He couldn’t be mad at his friends. And he couldn’t be mad at
the drugs. How can anyone be depressed at a circuit party? An event with
thousands of men, all of them high and shirtless.
Young, pretty, gay entered into another realm – another state of being.
An alter state, where friendship, dancing, love, spirituality and
self-expression were honored. A chance for young urban gay men to escape
the pressures of our day-to-day existence. Jack
trained for months, sometimes going to the gym twice a day. Before Jerry
and Jack went to the Blue Ball he did a cycle of Cypionate
to bulk up ten pounds and Winstrol to lean up. He didn’t tell Jerry
about the shots of “testosterone” he brought along on the trip. A
circuit boy can never be too big or too lean. Finally, Jerry removed his Versace sunglasses and turned off his portable CD player. "Even
with the music off, I still hearing thumping in my head," he said. Adjusting
his pants and flexing his chest, Caesar snappily replied, "I’ve had
thumping in my head and in my ass for two days straight!" Jerry
gave Caesar an “I know what you mean” smile, as if they had a secret
code that no one but them knew. Jack thought how obvious. Now was not the
time to mention it, though. "
I couldn't believe they let that dyke Susan M. spin such a dark set!
Caesar continued. "She so brought me down. I mean, she knows her
trance, but I didn’t know if she would bring me back up. I think I was
in like three K holes because she dropped so much driving wax. But then
the last set was so intense – I was so high!" Jack
knew what Caesar meant, but at the same time he was so over the music. Dance
music seemed stale and boring to him now. He couldn't remember the last
time he heard a beat on the dance floor that was so brilliant it made him
scribble down the title on a bar napkin to remind himself later to look it
up on the Internet and download all the remixes. A beat that was so
strong that it acted as inspiration to get him through his workout, his
commute on the J, his day at the law firm, his Bay Area weekends and his
circuit boy life. A beat that flowed like liquid energy through his entire
body, keeping the person charged. The kind of music that keeps a person
moving when they feel like the world is trying to suck all the creativity
out of then. Jack
pushed his thoughts into words. "I
really loved Cain’s progressive house. But how come no one ever plays
Victor anymore?" Caesar
cut Jack off mid sentence. "Victor? Hello? Can you say passé? He is
so 1997?" "When
Victor mixed Madonna’s last album he was over," said Jerry as he
snorted the last of Caesar’s K and sat back in his chair dazed, his blue
eyes almost pitch black. Jerry stared at the monitor. "Did
Jerry think he was in the Oval Office too?" Jack wondered. They
went to the Blue Ball so full of life and sorta in love. And this year DJs
Cain and Sergio were amazing. The beats had lives of their own. Six and
half hours later they left looking messy, what remained of Jack's outfit
barely clinging to his well-toned and overly worked-out body. They left
with another hot couple from Los Angeles. One was a doctor and the other
in advertising. Both were amazingly attractive. They gave each two hits of
X and all the cocaine the couple wanted. Yes, for ten hours eight arms
and legs were entwined together. The couples were both connected and
isolated by the drugs and sex. Something about it was so hot, so freeing
and so powerful. Yet Jack regretted and embraced all of it. Would they do
that again? If Jack left, would Caesar take his place in the depravity? He
lost his thoughts as another wave of gloom hit. This negative surge was
really strong. How was he going to make it off the plane? How could he
continue to live this life he had been given? At that moment he felt
cheated. He felt the shame of being gay. Unworthy of love. Guilty of sin.
Angry at God. Useless at life. Apologetic for his existence. The weird
thing was, he seemed to feel each one of those emotions separate and at
the same time. "Man,
drugs will mess you up," he concluded. "And K messes with your
head." He rationalized his depression. The
circuit culture played such a large part of his reality. His entire life
depended on the party of the month. And
his friends? Jack
understood that a person’s culture comes from the people around them.
People tend to associate with those who believe and feel as they do. He
only associated with those boys on the circuit. They’re the only ones
who understood the time it takes to be ready for each event. The working
out twice a day. The three-month diet combined with the right steroid.
Bleaching his teeth. Getting highlights to his hair. The trips to the
tanning salon. Jack
sometime believed he had a part time job – his work at the investment
management firm. But he also had a full time job – the circuit. On his
lunch breaks he went to gym. Or right after work. His regular job always
seemed to be getting in the way. Besides he knew he would never be prefect
enough for the men of the circuit? Weren’t the popular cliques in his
high school just junior version of circuit parties? Maybe that’s why so
many gay men want to go to them. They never were part of the high school
cliques. The
circuit lifestyle was not the norm. But Jack didn’t believe that there
was any "normal" reality, only an average one. A boring one. And
who wants an average reality anyway? Reality is depressing. The fact is,
reality traps a person, just like this plane ride trapped Jack with Jerry,
Caesar, the new flight attendant and all the envious passengers. So
gloomy! Suddenly,
he got paranoid. When
he got depressed, he got bored. Nothing was fun. He could not think of
anything to do that he would enjoy doing. Nothing ever seemed to be
happening. Caesar
saw a flight attendant approaching. "Later,
bitches!" Jack
could already smell a slight burning in the air. The same Flight Attendant
from earlier came back with his tray of food. He had not eaten in over
three days. He told himself he would force himself to eat. "Lemon
chicken with noodles and burnt carrots. Sorry about the carrots," she
apologized. Jack
told her not to worry. He considered himself lucky. Jerry’s food seemed
a bit more burnt. But it was pointless anyway: neither of them would eat
anything for at least another day. The
cabin started getting a little shaky as the plane crossed a zone of
turbulence. The Seat Belt sign was still off. A middle-aged flight
attendant told the same Junior flight attendant who served Jack his drink
earlier on to relax and to hold on to an armrest. Jack looked at the
television screen. Michael Douglas was no longer three-dimensional and the
movie credits were about to role. Jack
realized the plane was starting to make a rather slow descent. He guessed
this was because of the mountains. When he made virtual flights in his
head, from East to West, he always imagined a cruising altitude and making
a quick descent into San Francisco once the plane passed over the Rocky
Mountains. He looked out the window. Not too long ago the plane had been
flying high above the mountains: now they seemed much closer and Jack
noticed that the screen in front of him was now displaying a computerized
image of a map of California and the position of the plane. Its estimated
time of arrival was 2:10 PM. For
the first time in days his mind raced with real questions. Questions that
made sense. Would he see fish on the way down? Maybe seaweed? Or maybe he
would see sharks? You always hear about sharks in the San Francisco bay.
Jack wished he could find some inner peace. Even Madonna seemed to have
found peace through yoga and that new Jewish mysticism thing, Kabbalah.
And she was the angriest bitch of them all. Would
he even bother and try to help Jerry if they crashed? Probably not. But
somehow he got the idea that if they were to die, Jerry would watch him
die first. He would never give Jack the pleasure to watch him die. In
fact, Jack pictured Caesar jumping over all the boring people just to save
Jerry and his big dick. With
his Versace sunglasses off, Jerry’s face still resembled something
alien. His eyes were half open as he continued his K trip in his mind.
Jack reached over and shook him exceptionally hard. "Jerry,
we’re here." Jerry
moaned and forced his eyes open. Jack
followed with the typical circuit boy question. A question he had been
asked about a dozen times over the last three says. "Are
you still in a K –hole?" Jerry
gave a weak smile and a stronger nod. In
some ways Jack felt sorry for Jerry. He looked so helpless. How on earth
would he get him off the plane? Jack’s
thoughts were soaring as he felt the plane’s wheels hit the asphalt. He
needed to write all this down in his journal. Oprah says we should all
journal before going to bed. Jack prayed to his higher power of the moment
that if he survived the landing he would write in his journal every night.
He promised to make his come downs work for him, not against him. But,
Jack knew the problem with manic creativity is that there is usually
little substance to it. At times Jack's visions were brilliant but most of
the time his inspiration lacked solid foundation. Jack
understood that a great deal more work was required to implement a random
thought, than to conceive of one. Plus, he knew it was so hard to stay
focused when he was on come down. Projects were started and soon abandoned
for new ones, or else he would start something very ambitious and then
come crashing down into depression. Before you know it, he would abandon
it. But this time he would start a journal. This time things would be
different. His
latest tirade of thoughts was interrupted by the voice on the intercom of
the woman who'd given him the burnt carrots.
"…beat
ass is so tan…" Jack
wrote that down in his journal.
Copyright © 2006 Ken Cimino |
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Also by Ken Cimino on SoMa Literary Review:
Chapter One: Blue Ball Chapter Two: Fireball Chapter Three: Black Party Chapter Four: White Party Chapter Five: Cherry Ball Chapter Six: San Francisco Pride Chapter Seven: Fire Island Pines Chapter Eight: Lazy Bear Chapter Nine: Labor Day Chapter Ten: HellBall Chapter Eleven: Promises Chapter Twelve: Exits
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Reproduction of material from SoMa Literary Review pages |
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