Here's what I've literally been working on for years. Here's the one thousandth version of this scene. Here's what I've spent the last two days working on, fine-tuning, trying to get it just right, in anticipation of publishing it. Here's what I know is far from perfect, but as good as I can make it–for now.
I hope you enjoy reading it. I also hope I'll make you care enough about the characters to want to know what happens to them.
If you have feedback, good or bad, I'd appreciate hearing it. I've received feedback from two beta readers so far, but I could always use more.
And if you're interested in being a long-term beta reader, even better. Perhaps, if you're working on something, I could be your beta reader too.
Happy reading.
*
October 1988
I would never have met David, if he hadn’t had a hairy chest.
Early on a Wednesday evening, the phone rang. Its sound was out of place in my apartment, like alcohol would have been.
As usual, I’d arrived home late from work. I’d finished dinner and was cleaning up. Entertainment Tonight chatted away on the TV–about a movie, Clara’s Heart, with Whoopi Goldberg and new child actor Neil Patrick Harris.
Tea towel in hand, I walked into the living room.
“Hello?”
“May I speak with Bryan, please?”
“This is Bryan.”
“Oh, hi. I’m David. I put the ad in The West Ender. The one you answered.”
My heart raced. I felt lightheaded.
For months, I’d browsed the personals, in The Georgia-Straight, The Buy & Sell, and The Vancouver Sun, finding nothing. No future husband. Not even a deal on a stereo.
Then, Friday, nearly two weeks earlier, I saw this in The West Ender:
GWM, 30, good looking, NS, SD,
employed, seeks same for LTR. Likes
long walks on the beach, quiet times
at home, and chili. Must love hairy chests.
This one was different from the rest. It sounded like me, like what I was looking for. Especially the hairy chest part.
Over the weekend, I left the newspaper open on the kitchen table, looking at it from time to time. Should I, or shouldn’t I?
Finally, Sunday evening, I sat down to hand-write a response–see what I came up with. If it was good enough, I might even send it in.
Late the following morning, I rode the Skytrain downtown. I walked to Davie Street and hand-delivered my letter to the newspaper office (I hoped the woman there wouldn’t recognize the box number belonged to a gay ad, or misplace my envelope). I wanted whoever had run the personal to receive my response right away. Maybe then he’d call sooner.
But he didn’t. Several days went by, then a week. Nothing.
Finally, I gave up. He wasn’t interested, and I didn’t blame him. He’d figured out I was uptight, boring, and needy. Who’d be interested in someone like that?
Still, I hoped. Maybe…
“Uh, I didn’t think you’d call.” I tried to keep my voice even, cool, though it was shaking with nerves.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I don’t know. Um, I guess, ah, I guess I thought if you were interested, you’d…you’d’ve called by now.”
“Oh, it’s been hell at work lately. This is the first chance I’ve had to get on the phone. Well, not on the phone.” He chuckled. “That could be fun. Might be a cheap thrill.” His comment threw me. I laughed too.
Unfortunately, my excitement soon turned to disappointment. The longer I listened to David talk, the less he sounded like I’d thought he would, like I’d hoped he would.
I’d hoped he’d sound masculine. His chest was hairy, after all. Weren’t hairy-chested men masculine? Didn't they have manly-sounding voices?
Not David.
“I work for a beauty supply company downtown,” he told me. I didn’t know any masculine men who worked for beauty supply companies. Come to think of it, I didn’t know any masculine men? “We supply salons, from Vancouver to the Fraser Valley, with everything from combs to chairs.”
Not only was his voice not masculine, but it sounded…gay–his words too carefully enunciated, his pitch sing-songy, like a woman’s. And, worse, you’d have thought he had a chronic bad cold. Everything came out nasal.
“Oh, please, Louise,” David said. “Don’t get me started. The stories I could tell you about salons. They’d curl your hair–no perm needed.” I cringed at David’s campiness.
He was talking about what he did for a living, but what I heard him say was, I’m not the man for you.
“Your letter makes you sound like a barfly.” David laughed.
“I guess I am.” I laughed too. “If going to the clubs every weekend, hoping to meet the right guy, makes you a barfly.”
“What clubs might I have seen you at?”
“I usually go to the Gandy.”
“Me too. I was there just last Saturday.”
“So was I.” David and I might have seen each other. Had we given the other a second look?
“Please tell me you didn’t have a tie-dyed T-shirt on.”
“No, I didn’t. Why?”
“Thank God. Did you see her on the dance floor, wearing that shit-eating grin?” David chuckled. “She bounced up and down like she had a pogo stick up her ass."
I busted into laughter. "No, I missed that. Sounds like she was something.”
“Oh, she was something, all right. Just what, I’m not sure. Lady Tie-Di–that’s what I called her.” I caught the reference to Lady Diana Spencer.
“I wish I’d seen her.”
“No you don’t. Believe me.”
“Okay, maybe I don’t.”
“And Princess Foo.” David chuckled again.
“Who?”
“Not who.” His voice was louder. “Foo. Princess Foo.”
I laughed. “Never heard of her.”
“She was too much for Hollywood. The way she carried on, you’d’ve thought she was Asian royalty or something.” He laughed again. “What she was wearing, I have no idea. Looked like some kind of military getup. And you should have seen her dance–stood in one spot, shuffled her feet, and smoked cigarettes, like she was fucking Joan Crawford.” I was laughing so hard, I could scarcely hear David.
Whether I was relaxed, in a good mood, or enthralled by David’s stories, I thought he was funny. Seriously funny. It seemed the more animated he became, the funnier he got.
“What does it take to find a goddamn husband around here?” David lamented, our conversation turning from characters in the clubs, to why we went to them. “I’ll be thirty-fucking-one in December. That’s eighty-nine in gay years.” I laughed, understanding what he meant. “My eggs are shrivelling. I have to give birth soon, or that’ll be it for me.”
I’ll never forget how much fun David and I had on that first call. I couldn’t remember when I’d last talked with someone so laugh-out-loud funny.
But what I kept thinking about–what I really wanted to know–was how hairy his chest was.
I went to ask several times, but stopped myself. What if he thought I was too forward?
Be patient, I thought. You’ll see when you meet.
But what if we didn’t meet? Then I’d never know.
“Can I ask a question?” I blurted.
“That depends, on the question.”
I laughed nervously. “Well, I was wondering…you know, about your chest. How hairy is it?”
David went silent. Then: “You girls are all alike. You only want a man for his body.”
His reaction caught me off guard. Was he serious?
“Well, your ad said, ‘Must love hairy chests.’ So I thought…I thought you wouldn’t mind if I, um, asked how hairy yours is.”
David sighed loudly, impatiently.
“I–I guess that was the wrong question.” I attempted a laugh, but I felt awful, concerned I’d ruined the good impression I thought I’d made. “I’m sorry. I–”
David burst into laughter.
I sucked in my breath. “You bugger.” I released my anxiety in a nervous laugh. “You really had me going there. I thought I’d offended you.”
David was oddly quiet, then–quieter than he’d been any time during our call.
“Well?” I persisted.
“What?” He was playing with me, had to be.
“How hairy are you?”
Silence. Then: “Remember Grover on Sesame Street?”
Sesame Street? What? Where was this going?
“Sort of.” Which one was Grover? Big Bird, Ernie and Bert, and a Muppet in a garbage can–I remembered them. But not Grover. “Why?”
“Well, I am hairy like Grover,” David said, breaking into a falsetto growl. Of course. Grover. How could I forget?
I lost it, then. Both of us did. David was comparing himself–how hairy he was–to a puppet. I laughed so hard, tears ran down my face. My cheeks, head, and stomach couldn’t take much more.
“But I am not a pretty blue,” David growled.
Then it hit me. Holy crap. He wasn’t that hairy, was he? Nobody was.
“I don’t know about you,” David said, twenty minutes into our call, “but I want to get together.”
“You mean, now?”
“Yeah. Why not? I can’t wait until the weekend to meet in person.”
“Neither can I.”
“Good. It’s settled, then.”
“Where do you want to meet?” I told him I didn’t have a car, and transit at that time of the day could be iffy.
“I have a car,” David offered.
“How ‘bout my place?” As soon as I’d said it, I panicked. “It’ll take an hour to get here, though. And you might not find parking.”
“Not a problem. I live in the West End, remember? And I walk almost everywhere. So I look for excuses to get in the car and drive.”
“Are you sure?”
I’m the one who wasn’t sure. Would I be ready to meet David–in an hour? Did my apartment look okay? Did I look okay?
I gave him my address.
“Very good.” Then, in that falsetto growl again, he added, “Grover looks forward to meeting you.”
The human Muppet was on his way.
When I hung up, I realized the mistake I'd made. I should have suggested we meet in a coffee shop or restaurant–some public location. Axe murderers were less likely to strike with other people around.
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