Date: Thu, 10 Jan 2014 09:26:01
Subject: My FINAL Final Final Pitch
So, Eleanor, I just sent off my latest letter to Arwyn. I’m sure he’ll get such a kick out of it, he’ll spread it round his circle of friends…and they’ll get a kick out of it too. Sure, everyone in the Castro laughs at my expense! And leave me in the lurch, stealing my boyfriends, my friends, my acquaintances all away from me, that I linger on for years and years and years in social isolation.
Yeah, I can take a joke. If that’s what it took to get me here, to mold me into the very /finest/ activist the world has ever seen: so be it. Thank you, everyone, from the bottom of my little ladybug heart.
Anywayz, Morticia, have a good chuckle And don’t forget to leave a lit black candle out for the next four nights, that my spirit be with you. I’m already cracking up about My Letter Of 7 Commandments myself…knowing that it’s now in the mail so he’ll receive it in 2, 3, 4, 5, whatever days. Have /no/ idea when he goes downtown to check his mailbox.
So I’d say I’m safe for a little while longer. Daddy can sometimes be an angry Daddy!
9 January 2014
Dearest Dragon Breath,
I tried mailing you this postcard /twice/, but it kept bouncing back to me! Turns out (according to a clerk at the USPS) that I need to place the address /horizontally/ for the automated process to recognize and send it off. God forbid an actual /human/ should intervene.
Only realized several days ago, there will be /five/ books total, not three, to complete the saga of “Free Me From This Bond.” Two sequels and two prequels plus this first book that just got published in the middle. Prequel 1 will be “The Arwyn Chronicles” (or “The Prickwick Papers”) and prequel 2 will be “Friendly Ghost Detective Agency.”
Obviously, I’d like your gorgeous mug to grace Prequel 1. I’m sure that long before /that/ book comes out, our bumpy relationship will be sailing smooth. In fact, I’m /certain/ that well before my very next novel (Sequel 1, which chapter starts with your shoving me) is ready to be released, our friendship will be on an even keel.
You have set up many difficult and painful rules for me to follow, yet you freely change them at will to suit your own desires. So that my particular arrangement is “damned if I do, damned if I don’t.” That, My Lizardy Friend, is about to change. Now /I/ make some rules:
RULE 1: Don’t bother coming up or talking to me without /first/ giving me a friendly bear hug. Any time you do not oblige, I’ll simply keep my mouth sealed and/or walk away. Believe: I’ll know whether your hug is genuine or not.
RULE 2: Do not ever shove me again or perform any other act of violence upon this person. For I would then be forced to sic the cops on you and press charges. I absolutely /dread/ such a possibility, but that won’t stop me from taking immediate and direct action against you, if it comes to that (and god forbid it should).
RULE 3: If I do not witness clear evidence you are resolving to my satisfaction, your accusation to bartenders and patrons alike that I’m a stalker, within whatever time I feel appropriate…I will proceed with turning the tables and getting you driven out from all gay venues here in the Castro. Easy enough for me to find out, just by stepping into the Mix, Pilsner Inn etc. to discover whether or not they welcome me. I choose not to tell you which date is the deadline, as you don’t deserve to know.
RULE 4: Should I become a `celebrity as a result of my novel, please realize that slander against me thereby becomes a major offense (according to law). And if by then you haven’t resolved my demands under Rule 3, I /will/ press charges against you. Plenty of willing and ready witnesses!
RULE 5: If you haven’t resolved the issues under Rule 3 by the time I become a celebrity, I will seriously consider using your /real/ name in the sequel. Seeing as technically, I already have your signed permission and you cannot sue me. But if you /do/ clear your offenses described in Rule 3 (before the deadline and to my satisfaction), I will keep the pseudonym “Arwyn MIles” in /all/ my five novels.
RULE 6: Assuming Book 3 (sequel to the sequel) has a happy ending (which of course means our friendship is renewed better than ever), I will gladly reveal to the world who the real Arwyn Miles is. If, and only if, you give me permission to do that.
RULE 7: Should you refuse to abide by Rule 3 in the long run, once I become a celebrity and have acquired riches, I will hire the absolute /best/ detective to find out everything about you to my satisfaction. Seeing as you’ve violated my trust in a most egregious manner, I feel no qualms in prying into the most personal aspects of your life. Really, it’s for my own protection, and you’ve forced my hand.
Assuming you don’t behave like a smug little brat (who should win the 2013 Award for Castro Clone Uber Bitch) and gladly follow the above rules, I will gladly promote you for a unique position as a professional party mixer at gay events…and see to it you will be handsomely remunerated. But if such a career does not appeal to you, I will zealously assist you towards whatever goal you desire, that will make you financially independent beyond your wildest dreams. (I just think you’d make the /best/ party mixer on the planet.)
Assuming I have the cash, I’d also like to provide you with the very best health insurance, housing, and so forth. I would also like to make you incredibly happy in all ways possible…so much so, that the cross you bear over the tragedy of your parents’ timely death will be lifted for once and for all. (I do think they brought us together, that you may have a friend who devotes his life to your fulfillment. And I am terribly /proud/ to be such an ally.)
I believe you have run me through the entire gauntlet of what I perceive is an initiation orchestrated by you, and this secret gay organization I’ve described in my writings. (Perhaps I’m deluded, but so many clues have been dropped on my feet that I can’t ignore the possibility.) And that since this test seems to have run its course, I have the obligation to step forward and attempt to force a new direction.
One that will see justice done on my behalf; but also one that provides a win/win outcome for us both. For I do not believe in any form of vengeance that just spreads hatred further only to cause extended grief. But by the same token, you have caused me tremendous grief over many months, during which time I twice came close to taking my life.
A lesser person would be ragingly, insanely angry at you by this point. But I am not like that. For one: you’ve shown great kindness to me for a considerable time (on and off over seven years), and that counts for much! So much in fact, I feel pressed to be very patient with you during this wicked cycle which you, and you alone, have instigated. For two: I practice compassion under all circumstances; and boy have I been tested like a mutthuh!
But now I must declare ENOUGH. And proceed with whatever actions are best suited to deal with the unresolved matters at hand. Should you remain uncooperative as regards Rule 3, it would grieve me to pursue retaliation. In fact, it would plunge me into even more grief than I’ve already experienced by your hand. Nonetheless, I have my own dignity and reputation to protect, which comes first over anything and anyone else…no matter how much I love another.
And I don’t think you’d expect anything /less/ from a good friend. For I believe you set me up to go down this path, to test my mettle and discover if I’m a good enough friend to speak out when I see you headed down a dangerous road. (Or cower in silent fear of losing you, should I confront your demon…under which circumstance I wouldn’t deserve your affections.)
By the way, Arwyn, I’m home every evening, and accept visitors between 8 and 11 PM. Rarely does anyone drop over, so don’t think you’d be intruding, ever. You can call by cell, or buzz two numbers, 07 (zero seven) at the front gate. On the intercom you’ll see those two numbers right by my name.
The intercom is connected to my phone. I screen all calls, so please announce yourself (such as “hey this is Arwyn”) once the answering machine kicks in. If I’m home, I will then pick up the phone. If I don’t pick up, I’m either down the hall in the bathroom, or strolling the Castro for 20 minutes or so.
The way I feel about you, I’ll drop everything and come to your side if need be. Without a moment’s hesitation. Even if I was boinking the hottest man on the planet, I’d kick him out just to enjoy your extraordinary company. (Though since you /are/ the hottest man on the planet, I don’t see how this scenario would arise…unless you have an identical twin I don’t know about!)
All my love and joy for realz,
P.S.: I’m glad if you’re still walking with the Devil. For he’s my Great Lover who I know will protect you under his enormous bat-like wings, and see to it that you will never stray too far down a perilous path. And bring you back home into my arms, safe, happy and whole.
Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 01:35:10
Subject: I’m right…it’s gonna be okay!
Standing catty-corner from Twin Peaks just after the sun set (returned from Howard’s Cafe as usual), I see Arwyn sitting inside. Few minutes later, he steps out and I hope he sees me. But instead of pausing for a smoke, he heads directly for Harvey Milk Plaza, then across Market on his way home (I guess).
So maybe he didn’t see me at all. I am compelled to parallel his stride, from the other side and cross Market, gazing in his direction to see if he notices. He does, but it is too dark for me to be sure. So I swerve right and proceed home, hoping he’s following behind. (Because I saw that he crossed to the other side as if to turn in my direction, rather than step west towards his own home a half-block distant.)
Finally I reach the front gate to my apartment building and look back. He is nowhere to be seen. (Oh Goddess, he plays this game flawlessly.) So I climb up to my hovel and decide to get drunk. Half-cup of Royal Gate with an equal measure of A&W Diet Root Beer.
Two-three-four hours pass. Even more. Midnight I grow restless, a spirit of what-I-don’t-know pulls me outside and I wander back to Twin Peaks Tavern. To my surprise as I pass the glass front I spy Arwyn sitting at the bar, schmoozing it up with a bartender. So I spin around and settle on my perch 40 feet north by the Creme Brulee truck (now closed thank god, as the engine’s rumble gives me a headache). From this position I remain within his line of sight.
I reflect upon how lonely I am, cast out from all the venues of Castro Street and surrounding bars, thanks to his terrible gossip. Yet, still, wish so much to be in his company. I glance back at TPT to see his lank shadow moving about, picking up glasses and chatting with this or that evening patron.
I wait an agonizing 20 minutes or so, begging for his attention in silent torment. No one else draws my interest but I’ll tell you this: I was horny as heck and sure wanted to get laid. If some cute dude came up to me at that moment, I’d hump him in the switch of a rat’s tail…well, once we got to my place (which would only take two minutes of eager prelude up the sidewalk, my denim pants slipping down awkwardly once or twice; I’ve managed to become deliciously skinny again).
IOW: Arwyn comes second. But in my vigil reveries, I realize it is Arwyn himself who called me outdoors at such a late hour.
But this is the first time I know of that I see Arwyn occupying TPT at such a mesonoxian hour! Surely, he wanted me to show up. Some 10 minutes later he steps out (To go home and not look back and see my desperate person, or to cross my view and walk up Market to Church?) Soon enough, I discover he’s going to stroll past me, but not necessarily addressing my presence.
So just before he crosses beyond our line of sight behind the tall shrubs and the automated Decaux toilet, I call to him:
“Ignore me, that’s right! Walk right on by and ignore me!”
To my delight he turns his visage in my direction and nods. I await to enjoy his glorious profile reappear on the far side of the shrubs, but it never does.
“WTF is going on?” I wonder. “Is he waiting to cross to the other side instead, out of view?”
So I release my butt from the fireplug to walk up to the corner. Where I see him crossing to my residential side of the street under the green traffic light.
“Okay,” I conclude, “He’s not gonna get away from me /that/ easily!”
And I proceed to run up Market to Noe, look back twice to see him stride along the other side, gradually falling behind my rapid trot. The cigarette I planned to light under the hopeful assumption he was gonna come up to me, now swings between my fingers as I run up Market trying to catch my breath. I look back once more to assure myself I’d be way ahead of him once i crossed to my home side.
Regaining a normal heartbeat while leaning upon the lamppost front of my building, I await Arwyn’s passage. Takes longer than i planned (surely Arwyn knew that and decided to play with my expectation), so I peer round the bus stop cubicle to see if he’s approaching. But it is too dark and I can’t see very far. Then he appears like a vision of Celtic Grace.
As Arwyn emerges from the gloom, he makes the sign of the cross in my direction while gazing upon my trembling soul. (This gesture goes back to the first year of our friendship at Hole in the Wall Saloon, when I leaned into his ear and said “We should sleep together!”) I then address with strident voice:
“I’m /still/ you’re friend, Arwyn, and I love you!”
He pauses from a diagonal position about fifteen feet upwind, his fluffy hair tousled:
So I declare with great pride (though do not gaze upon him directly, as I am shy with honest embarrassment):
“I’m still your friend, Arwyn. You’ve put me through great difficulty…and grievous.” Then I glance at him for a moment and look away once more: “But I understand. I’m still your friend.”
He then proceeds towards Noe and crosses. As he does I grow suddenly upset that he did not run up to me and bless me with a hug. So I holler with such brass I’m sure my voice reaches him across the starburst intersection:
“One more thing! Fuck you! Fuck you all the way to hell and back again!”
Arwyn turns ’round, takes a few steps in my direction, then halts. As if he wants to see whether or not I’m truly angry or just playful, and if the former, to return and embrace this shivering maverick. Assured of the latter, he pauses mid-intersection, turns his back to me and bends over to grab those ample butt cheeks. And responds in echo:
“I like you too, Zeke!”
Maybe he said “I love you,” but I’m not sure. (Or perhaps even “Fuck you,” but if so ’twas with great panache.)
He moves along now, ever smaller. Though still within earshot to hear my next declaration that echos boldly across the chill canyon of Eureka Valley:
“I /own/ your ass, buddy. I own it big time, and you know it! I OWN YOUR ASS!”
Arwyn grows even tinier. I beg the spirit of Saint Valentine while he is still visible:
“Please, Arwyn, please come swiftly to my side to heal my shattered soul! Please come back!”
But he does not, and vanishes as I stand on the corner about to weep from joy and sorrow and exhaustion and gratitude and regret that I must once more return to my SRO without his sweet companionship.
So now I sit by my Gateway netbook and peripheral LCD screen, typing this missive to you, Kind Eleanor, trying to hold back my tears. For in spite of my desire to be in Darling Wyvern’s loving embrace /right now/, I know I /will/ be in a time very soon.