Polk Street. Liberty Bathhouse. Five bucks. Clothes in locker. Towel over shoulder. “Boogie Wonderland” blasted. Lower level: toilets, showers, pungent locker room. Main Level: private rooms. Upper level: bunk beds, orgy room. Porno running nonstop. Empty bottles of poppers. Someone yanked my towel. We kissed then fucked. Broke the rules and gave Troy my number.
***
We cheered as motorcycles flew past with riders’ boobs exposed to the rare San Francisco sunshine. Troy and I wore matching white t-shirts tucked into freshly pressed 501s. A plumber next to us shared a joint. Two tokes later and we’re all dancing as the last float sauntered by with Grace Jones dressed like a Brazilian samba dancer in green and yellow.
Garry, from my hometown, surprised me, said he worked as a Go-Go Boy at the Gangway in the Tenderloin, said he earned five bucks for every customer he brought to the bar, said he can get us free drinks. I wanted to go with Garry, to catch up with him, to have a few drinks, and a few laughs. I winked at Troy attempting to indicate yes. Troy interjected that we were late meeting his aunt for burritos at La Taqueria.
***
I despised the smell of Aramis until I met Troy, and then it became the perfect aroma like a warm citrusy drink. He was on a student visa from Switzerland learning English. I helped him with slang, and he taught me French. I was twenty-two and living in San Francisco for only three months, and Troy was my first serious boyfriend. I loved his bushy mustache and how his ass looked in a pair of tight jeans. Walking up Powell Street we said, I love you, in unison. The fog rolled in, and it began to drizzle, then a full-on rainstorm. Troy kissed me under the awning at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, then we took an elevator to the Top of the Mark for a Mai Tai. While waiting for the turbulent weather to improve, I leaned in as Troy told me about his dream for our life together, an apartment with a view of the ocean, a cat named Helene, and weekend picnics in Napa.
For a year, we filled out all the forms, called U.S. senators and Swiss diplomats trying to get Troy a work visa. Met with an immigration attorney who said, Could take ten years, if ever. They’re only issuing Green Cards to immigrants from countries of need, not wealthy countries like Switzerland.
***
Troy returned home and found a job with a music company. We continued to write and call. After a few weeks, I began drinking heavily, a bottle of wine nightly soon became two. Troy encouraged me to see other people, said he was going to, said we were too young, said we might not ever live together. He came back to San Francisco for a surprise visit a year later. I met him for lunch at Sam’s for our favorite clam chowder, but I couldn’t see him that evening since I had a date with my new boyfriend, Don. Never thought I’d meet someone new.
***
Thirty years later, on a rainy day, in the cologne section at Macy’s, I spray on a sample of Aramis. I close my eyes, and for a moment, Troy is waiting for me at home with a Mai Tai in his hand and an I love you on his lips.
*****
Jeff Harvey lives in San Diego and is a member of San Diego Writing Ink. His work is in or will soon be in Ghost Parachute, MoonPark Review, Five South and other places.
