The cannibalistic ghetto.

On Sunday night about a quarter to midnight, I found myself in the Castro after dealing with a friend who has become addicted to crystal meth...to be honest, I was tired and on my way to MJ's house when I ran into my friend Chad, whom I hadn't seen in over a year. He was drunk, giggling like a girlyman, and boisterous, and when he pulled out a cigarette, I asked for one. It had been a surreal night; I had just met some really cool people through my tweaked-out friend, I was full of chardonnay and clam chowder from the seafood restaurant in the Castro, and I just felt like smoking a goddamn cigarette.

"Oh, fuckity fuck!" said Chad.

"What?"

"I don't have a fucking lighter."

"Well, fuck. That just ruins everything, doesn't it? Great. You've completely ruined the evening. My entire day is broken."

"Well, fuck it."

"Fuckballs."

"DOES ANYONE HAVE A FUCKING LIGHT?" Chad yelled. I suspected someone would. You know how homosexuals love to stick nasty things in their mouths.

We walked up 18th Street, stopping in front of the Midnight Sun, looking for someone who could ignite our carcinogenic smokey treats. I saw a tall, slender young man with wire rim glasses, cutoff khaki shorts, a plaid shirt, combat boots, hair shaved on the sides and back, yet long on top; it was flopping into his big, expressive hazel eyes. He was standing all alone, leaning against a parking meter, puffing on a cigarette. He was kinda good-looking, in a strange, geeky goth-nerd sort of way. Just my type. His hair looked quite like mine did back in 1989.

"Hey man, do you have a light?" I asked, approaching him. Wordlessly, he pulled out a lighter, and lit our cigarettes. "Thanks," I said, but he still didn't say a word, and just stood there, puffing thoughtfully on his Marlboro Light. Chad and I stood there, talking, laughing, catching up, and enjoying each other's company. It was a perfect, balmy, early autumn San Francisco evening in the heart of the crowded Castro.

After a few minutes, I saw Cigarette Lighter Boy start carefully walking towards the door of the Midnight Sun, somewhat zombie-like, slightly stumbling. It became apparent to me he was quite drunk, and probably should be thinking about heading home instead of another cocktail. He smacked into the side of the door as he crossed the threshold, paused a second, and continued on. About two minutes later, he came shuffling back out of the bar, and just stood in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at nothing in particular.



Chad bade me farewell, and went tottering off down 18th Street, presumably to find either a booty call or a cab. I suspect the former. I'm not making fun of him...sometimes I'm torn between either of those, opting for whatever comes first. Trust me, after a few hours in the Castro, a booty call or a cab (or both) are the only things that salvage the evening.

And people wonder why I live in North Beach.

Okay, enough hating on the Fagstro. ;-)

I turned to Tall, Nerdy, Somewhat-Goth Boy and said, "You're back."

He nodded and finally said, "Yeah."

"Bad day or something?" I asked.

He looked at me for a second, and replied, "Yeah, you could say that."

"Wanna talk about it? I'm a perfect stranger and won't judge you."

His big hazel eyes blinked behind his wire rim glasses. "Um, well..." He trailed off.

"Well, you don't have to-" I was suddenly cut off.

"My lover died two weeks ago," he interrupted.

"Wow. Dude." I was at a loss for words.

"Yeah." He looked down at his boots, and when he looked back up at me, a tear rolled down his cheek. "We were together...we were..." he stopped talking, and his face crumbled.

It broke my heart.

"Come here," I said, wrapping my arms around his thin frame. He started sobbing into my shoulder. "What's your name?"

He told me.

"How long were you two together?" I asked, gingerly.

"Over two years."

"It was AIDS, wasn't it?" I asked. I've lived in San Francisco long enough to just know these things.

"Yeah." His thin, bony body was wracked with sobs, and I held him close. His neck was damp with sweat.

"How old are you?"

He told me. He was considerably younger than me.

How long have you been positive?" I asked. Call it another hunch.

"Five years." He continued sobbing into my shoulder, and squeezed me tightly.

"How long had he been positive?"

"Over twenty."

"Are you on meds?"

"Yeah," he answered, patting his front pocket. "I have them right here."

"It's almost midnight, you should probably take them soon," I said, lightly kissing him on the neck.

"I know." He started sobbing.

"Babe, I'm so sorry."



As we stood there in front of the Midnight Sun, I watched all the young, drunk gay men skipping past, in the prime of their lives, on this beautiful San Francisco Sunday night, without a care in the world. How is it, I thought, that this young man crying into my shoulder here, in a city as crowded as San Francisco, with an exalted "gay community" (and I use quotes for a reason) was all alone with no support whatsoever? He was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's lover. He had very real feelings, and was soaking the shoulder of my jacket with tears flowing from his shattered heart. I just held him, rocking him gently, still standing in front of the Midnight Sun, leaning against a parking meter under the amber glow of a streetlight.

"This probably isn't the best place for you right now," I finally said.

"I know." He shuddered, then put his head on my shoulder, slightly relaxing. I squeezed him a little bit.

"Why don't I get you a cab, so you can go home, drink a lot of water, and get a good night's sleep, okay?"

"Okay." He hugged me tightly. "Thank you."

"Of course, babe," I said. "Sometimes, all we have is each other, even if we don't know each other."

"It doesn't feel like that sometimes." He stepped back, and looked at me with tears still forming in his eyes.

"Yeah, I know, and it really fucking sucks. This neighborhood can be so self-consuming, it's cannibalistic," I said, shaking my head. "You should go home before someone starts gnawing on your leg or takes a chunk out of your ass or something."

He laughed, and smiled genuinely. "Okay," he said, wiping his tears.

"Where do you live?"

It wasn't the Castro.

I took his hand, and we walked up 18th to Castro Street, where there were several cabs waiting at the corner. We walked up to the first one in line; I opened up the door, and he climbed in. I told the driver where to go.

"Promise me you'll drink a lot of water, take your meds, and go to sleep, okay?" I said, firmly.

"I promise."

"Okay, I'll be thinking about you."

He grabbed my hand. "I'd really like to just lie next to you, if you don't mind."

I didn't mind, and I might have done it, but I actually had plans. Besides, MJ was waiting for me at his house. I thought of MJ, and suddenly had the urge to run, not walk, over the Castro Street hill and through Noe Valley to his house, where I could sob into his shoulder.

"Babe, I can't. Someone is waiting for me." I really needed to see MJ at this point.

"Then go to him."

"I will."

I smiled at him, and he smiled back, slouching down in the seat.

I closed the door and patted the roof. The battered Crown Victoria with the faded Veterans Cab logos chugged off down Castro Street. It turned right on Market, where it disappeared into the night.