Today (July 14) I stumbled upon this new Twitter account called
“Emotional Quotes.” I found their tweets so inspiring, that I decided to send yet more postcards to Larkin, with these heartfelt declarations. Seeing as I’ve been feeling really bummed out since my birthday came and went without his well wishes in any way, shape or form. So far, I have seven postcards ready to go, one for each day. Please note that cards 4 and 6 are my own original contributions added to the mix.
Displayed here is the address side of each postcard.
Click on any card (except #5) to see what I taped to the front. Six postcards to four bars, so two bars will get two postcards each, seperated by several days. Postcard #5 was, I think, sent to Larkin’s own mailbox.
Those were the last postcards from my “Free Me From This Bond” promotional package. So I’ll need to purchase SF-tourist type cards at 35 cents each, in order to send additional quotes such as:
I don’t know what my future holds, but I’m hoping you’re in it.
I care, I will always care.
I still remember the first time I fell for you. I haven’t gotten up since.
I didn’t say “I love you” to hear it back. I said it to make sure you knew.
No love without tears, no happiness without sacrifice, no forever without goodbye.
I feel better when you’re around, so please stay.
But I’m not sure I’ll continue my postcard blitz, as that would sort of water down a great chapter. Somehow I’ll conjure up a whole new way to be a thorn in My Linchpin Lizard’s side. A strategy I have yet to conceive, though I’m certain it will come to me in a flash when the time is ripe; and I’ll keep you all updated.
So here we have another impossible situation, yet one more doomed friendship in my long, unbroken list of failures. I’m batting a thousand! Yet within this tale of broken trust and crushed dreams lies also the promise of spirit fulfilled. Many times over eight-plus years, Larkin has scattered crumbs of such delectable dulzura along my journey, that I’d be a fool to give up so late in the game. He is not yanking my chain, he is playing a Game Of Life. A game that only permits another to participate, who possesses the intelligence to unravel his brilliant script. And the chutzpa to play back with equal force and aplomb. The bastard’s also my teacher.
THIS NEVER HAPPENED
Just a little fantasy where I track down Larkin somewhere in the Castro (such as Twin Peaks Tavern or Moby Dick), and present him each of those seven cards. The scenario goes like this:
Larkin steps out of the bar for his usual smoke, and spots me standing across the street…on the opposite corner by HM Plaza. So he then scowls and marches in my direction brandishing a blameful index finger:
“Zeke, don’t you dare send me another letter to any bar, or I’ll give you what for!”
I say nothing, but whip out the first card. He extracts his reading glasses from an inner pocket, and peruses the postcard (both sides), then tears it up, allowing the pieces to fall to the ground.
So I hand him the next, and the mini-drama repeats. This goes on until the final card…so by this point, a small pile of stiff cardboard segments are gathered about my feet.
All this time Larkin utters not a word…but awaits my comment. Instead I remain silent, salute him and plod on home. What tears stream down my face he does not witness, as my back is turned and I depart across Market Street.
[ Just so you know, Heraldic Reader, I did traverse the Castro with postcards in hand, hoping to manifest just such a scenario. (At least the part where I hand him seven postcards one-by-one; though I was hoping for a happy endgame.) But alas, it never came to light...thus I grew despondent and returned to my hovel to type this latest blog entry. My original plan for these seven postcards was to send off another salvo to the Castro bars he frequents. Odin knows he deserves it! Especially since he totally ignored my birthday, not even a kind word. And continues, AFAIK, to slander me.
But then I deliberated further, and decided I've played out my hand, there was no more point to it. However, you gotta watch these alpha males who insist on having the upper hand, the final say, in every situation. For two days after I settled on this decision, Larkin lumbered up to me with a drunk bar patron in tow, pausing to demand I cease my postcard slam. "Damn it," I obsessed, "Now he's gonna think I ended it because he told me to!"
So I returned to Plan A, but was held back for at least one night, as I needed postage stamps. But four more days passed without any stamps, where I found myself pondering whether or not I really should mail out a third round. "Then, he would probably sic the cops on me," I pondered. "But what can they really do, except demand I knock it off or else? Furthermore," I continued the internal debate, "That would be my opportunity to show them my police report against Larkin Kelsey. That would certainly change their tune, and perhaps inspire them to look into matters by assigning a plainclothes to chummy up to him at these joints."
The police would also come to realize that Larkin's accusations are false...thus he is squandering the SFPD's time that could be spent on truly serious matters such as protecting queer citizens from bashers. They'd see him as The Boy Who Cried Wolf: a corrupt scam artist trying to frame me, manipulating blueshirts in the process.
One thing an alpha male hates like nobody's business, is to be spied and snooped upon. Especially when they have something to hide, such as sucking up to inebriated customers with bulging wallets. Offering to escort them to a taxi, to the next bar, or even home. Coming off like a goody two-shoes while fleecing the herd of doddering sheep. "Larkin's like a kid in a candy store!" I surmised. "He sure doesn't wanna get caught with his dragonly paw in the cookie jar."
Now it is clear to me why he 86'd me from all the local bars: I am a threat to his cushy arrangement, and the Castro his new turf since being evicted from SOMA. He's not a drug dealer, nor has a brain tumor or Alzheimer's: he's a hustler (for looty, not booty)! And he works a crowd with such expertise, I can't help but admire anywayz. He can't risk it by having real friends, only acquaintances, patsies hypnotized by his charisma and convivial talents. He's a regular showman! (And one of the reasons I adore him so much, for he's an immense pleasure simply to observe. I absolutely crave to be in his company again, like yesteryear, even if it's from across the room, pretending we are strangers.)
Which does have an element of great fun. Sometimes he'd stand between my seated legs while facing the pool table, pondering his next move...yet in such a way as to appear incidental to all others present. As long as I didn't actually touch him--even a light pat on the shoulder was verboten--he'd stand that close to me now and then. So close I could feel his warmth. As for "patsies" it's now obvious to me his housemate Zachary is one such...and he covers for Larkin's transgressions to prevent anyone from growing wise. He's sort of a wingman for Larkin's subterfuge. He is the hustler's pimp to Larkin's gigolo. I bet he even takes a cut of the con.
So this is my Damon Runyon fantasy with a gay spin come true. An underworld bristling with gangsters, scammers, male prostitutes and darling young men wandering the streets without a place to rest their weary head. Except now and then, with This Beleaguered Bodhisattva. And Larkin is playing to perfection my tough-as-nails compatriot who suddenly took a wrong turn down Devil's Lane. That I may be his hero and liberator this time around. IOW, it is all an act, a brilliant script produced and directed by My One & Only Guardian Firedrake. He has sacrificed my life, tossed me to the wolves, crushed any good chance I might have had, to promote my novel in our local gay bars. He has caused enmity against me from many patrons who don't know who the fuk I am. Vultures who prey on others' misery, psychic vampires that drink the blood of the innocent for their own dark gain.
All this just because he came to view my patronage as a dire threat to his own dubious career as a muckraker of drunken generosity from lonely old fags. At least, this is the character Larkin chooses to play out before me. His is a direct challenge to harness my outrage into beating him at his own game. And in so doing, become his hero--nay, a Hercules to every father-fukkin queer on the planet! He has played me like a chump, out of sheer compassion! Larkin is the true author of my tales, for he has created so many difficult adventures that I may become the star of this brazen drama. My love for this Boner Fide Man grows in leaps and bounds with each passing day.
NEWS FLASH: It just now occurred to me that those who respect my struggle to resurrect an incredible friendship, just might send postcards to Larkin c/o these four bars. To lend their support in stopping My Beloved Dragon from falling off a cliff. I need your help!
NO, WAIT, I CHANGED MY MIND: I suddenly fell into a rage over all of Larkin's crude malignment of my own integrity and many decades struggle to liberate my gay brothers and sisters (for which I've suffered nothing but hatred and threats with rare exception). I have walked the narrow line of integrity since 1983, and what does it all finally come down to at my ripe age of 64? A man I love terribly (that showed so much potential to be the best friend I've ever known) who suddenly stabs me in the back, slanders me to anyone who'll listen, tells them I'm a psycho and a stalker? No, this is going to court. I have more than enough witnesses to his defamation and threats, to give me a clear slam-dunk victory in the Halls of Justice.
Larkin has deliberately tried to drive me insane, and/or foment such hatred against me that I could be bashed or murdered as a result of his gossip. And he'd walk away with hands clean of my blood! But because I love him beyond anyone's measure, I am proud to fight for his redemption, no matter what, and in spite of his wicked actions over more than one and a half years. "We have no enemies, only teachers" (quoting the Buddha). "Love your enemy" (quoting Jesus Christ).
The man shall go to jail, and I will be miserable the rest of my life, as a result (though I don't expect I'll live much longer after that). Yet there is a great satisfaction in successfully striking back at a handsome and charismatic man who, like Randolph Louis Taylor, eventually cast me to the hyenas without a moment's regret. So I shall get the postage stamps tomorrow, and send them off to the bars.
I grossly resent Fate putting me in this tragic outcome, where I must exert so much energy in standing up for righteous truth...and for my own honor. Plus, I realize now that if I don't fight back with utter outrage, Larkin will perpetuate his slander unto my grave, thus slip into a dark and horrid well of destitution. In which case jail or prison will be a necessary experience, that he may be spared a far worse outcome. Though I'd pay for doing the right thing with an undeserved torment: living out the rest of my Cinderella life without friends or even a sweet doggie for company.
So the first thing I'll do when I wake up tomorrow morning, is march on down to the post office and purchase those stamps. Peace be unto you all. ]
UPDATE JULY 20TH
Jeez, here’s one final Free Me From This Bond postcard I discovered in desk #1′s top drawer. I decided to mail it apart from all the others now stuffed and sealed in a brown envelope, ready for battle.