25 July, 5:59 PM – DIRECT MESSAGE 1 TO TERENCE:
About a certain Castro resident who calls himself Denzel (though I suspect not his real name): there are people in the Castro who despise me, to the point of scaring any new friends away from me. They are not beyond inflicting real harm. I am not imagining this, it has happened to me many times. Including poisoning and framing someone to go to jail. Can’t make friends in gay bars because there’ll always be some wicked queen who sabotages any new friendships I make. Larkin witnessed this in our first year together, at Hole in the Wall Saloon, and the Eagle Tavern. But he would give ’em hell and drive them away. I would be wary of any drink Denzel may offer you, as well as food. I trust you are not prey to such dirty tricks, and take good care of yourself. You are a good looking dude, and jealousy abounds whenever I befriend one such. I thought these trials were at an end, once Larkin moved into the Castro. But now he’s doing same. Though I’m sure it’s for a compassionate end, which I have already described to you. I will be friendly to Denzel whenever our paths cross…as I’ve always been. It is he who has chosen a wrongful path, nothing I’ve done to trigger it. As a healer yourself, I have confidence you will not get caught up in the anti-Zeke fiasco, and maybe even get Denzel to turn over a new leaf. Blessed be, Terence!
25 July, 8:14 PM – DIRECT MESSAGE 2 TO TERENCE:
A Bit More About Denzel
Early last year I was dating a very sweet fellow who lives across the Bay. Met him at Cafe Mediterraneum, in Berkeley. His name is Jason. 43 years old, fabulously handsome, a genuine sweetheart, and had recovered from meth abuse five months prior. During that time, Denzel took a keen interest in me, though he’s always been very aloof before Jason’s arrival.
In fact, I’d find Denzel often stalking us from half-a-block distant, whenever we two strolled my neighborhood. Or we’d spot him across the street, staring me down. Quite weird, to say the least. He occupies a studio on the same block as myself (opposite side), and watches my comings and goings from a front window. Denzel has a reputation for bringing in cute homeless youth and sharing crystal with them, for purposes you can easily imagine. Jason wanted his bushy mane shaved down to sexy baldness, and I lacked an electric haircutter. Lo and behold, Denzel had such a gadget, and offered to pare Jason’s head into a clean Yul Brenner. I warned Jason about trusting the freak, but he said not to worry, he’s aware. And promised on the Bible he’ll never mess with tina again.
Jason looked very sexy as a bald dude, so I dressed him up in punk gear that made him look super adorable. During this time I had somewhat more association with Denzel, and all seemed copacetic. Even told him he’s welcome to invite Jason over now and then, especially since I can’t have him visit every night when he frequents SF, it’s too much stress for me, what with living in a humble SRO, and Jason’s boisterous camaraderie (which I appreciate immensely, though would have been far more amenable had I my own real apartment.)
Long story short: Jason succumbed to meth once more, and he rapidly deterioriated. Lost his subsidized rental, wound up back on the streets and, finally, in jail. Denzel is the kind of queer scumbag who doesn’t give a hoot about how his drug sharing impacts basically decent homeless young people who suffer great duress for various reasons. Many of whom are bipolar, for which speed is a dangerous substance to add to the mix. Now, were Jason an older man–say, 40 or more–it wouldn’t be such a tragedy. But to not give a fuk about a young man’s future, and only care about the brief thrill one might have via a dangerous chemical…is an egregious sin, IMO.
So I lost Jason for the indefinite future, but still must live in close proximity to that horrid little homunculous. And you, dear “new friend” have suddenly decided to buddy up with him and warn me not to stick my nose in your business. Therefore I must now suffer Denzel’s frequent presence once more, if I care to hang with you at either of the two gay bars that Larkin doesn’t frequent. Denzel’s not even particularly attractive: just a flaccid little runt with a few redeeming features…the greatest of which seems to be his access to certain drugs.
If you have any civility about you, I’d appreciate that you keep your visits with Denzel separate from our own. Nothing good will come of your association with him, I assure you. Best of luck to you, my psuedo-friend, may you live long and prosper.
And may you one day, grow up.
PS: Just so you know: I speak truth no matter what the risk. Even if it brings down upon me, further hostility from dumbasses looking for a fight. For I sincerely believe that standing up for gay homeless or disenfranchised folks is far more important than even my own comforts. This latest conflict is far from the first, since I’ve resided in the Castro. Furthermore: I have not lost a battle yet. If you think you can try me and win, you are a truly lost soul. And I pity your fate.
PS: Please do not accept unsealed drink or food from Denzel. Anyone who freely poisions vulnerable homeless dudes is not beyond such sins.
Saw Larkin today at Duboce Park around 1:45 PM. Sporting once more a haversack like my own red, square satchel, though his is slightly curved around the bottom with an overflap. Otherwise identical: black, wide shoulder strap and piping, same size. But when I first entered Duboce Park, I observed that Larkin was nowhere to be seen, on the main area where doggies run. So I concluded: “Nope, he’s not here today.”
But as I ambled along the walkway and turned into the path that curtailed the park’s further side, I suddenly found Larkin flipping a tennis ball alongside the thin, grassy strip that borders the rambling Edwardian mansion painted white. Later that day I concluded:
Larkin wanted to surprise me, thus situated himself on the outer edge of Duboce Park, that I would first assume he wasn’t present.
No sooner did I sit down to enjoy the view from barely four yards distant, than Larkin and doggie departed one minute later. As if Larkin waited beyond his schedule, because he knew how badly I needed to see him. His own brain seems to be in lockstep with mine, and he knows how to play it like a spinarette.
Also saw him three nights ago passing below my window. After hearing his voice bellow “Shame on you,” from about a half block away. (Don’t know what for, perhaps someone dropped his pants and flashed his butt, or something equally crude.) So I poked my head out the window to retort:
“Shame on you Larkin Kelsey, sucking on the wallets of lonely old queers! Zachary told me you don’t even open my letters, you just throw them away.”
Larkin then looked back in passing, with an expression that conveyed it’s not true, he reads everything I send. But he bit his tongue, looked ahead and proceeded down the block. I hounded further:
“Now what am I gonna do about that, buddy? I’ll think of something!” Well I did think of something (see below, regarding my note attached to a vehicle outside of The Cafe).
Last night I stumbled onto a Scooby-Doo movie (Scooby Doo 2 – Monsters Unleashed). Which is not just rare, but has never happened before (that I would accidentally flip to anything Scooby-Doo in the late evening or night). I believe it was Larkin’s telepathic regard that he loves me, seeing as he is a really big Scooby-Doo fan. Unfortunately, the digital reception for that channel was flaky, so I switched to another station. Though my gut feeling about Larkin’s manipulated scenarios is thus:
I’d rather be done with this convoluted, and often distressful, game, but Larkin insists in playing out the entirety of this script, which he so arduously composed over many years, just so he could finally play it out at this time. No way he’s gonna toss out his painfully crafted maneuvers, solely on a whim of mine.
Early this evening, I saw Larkin once again, schmoozing with two elderly lesbians standing by a bright red Ford economy van. (I pride myself in knowing nothing about cars, so can’t describe it any further…and my camera was stolen several weeks ago, so couldn’t take a snapsot.) He had his long arms about both of them, creating a circle of faux-camaraderie, though it sure fooled the two, gray-haired dykes! The heftier one declared to her partner (while Larkin curled an arm about her ripply waist):
“Larkin’s such a sweetheart, walked me to my car to see me home safely.”
At this point, Larkin raised his head from their focus, and looked in my direction, to see me 12 feet away and leaning against a storefront window…puffing on a Fortuna as if he and I were total strangers. Shortly, he escorted the duped ladies a few doors up and into The Cafe, where I’m sure they bought him many expensive drinks and even gifted him with one or more Jacksons. Meanwhile, I focused on the license number to memorize it. For what purpose, I wasn’t sure at the time.
But when I marched on hovel after Larkin and retinue departed for The Cafe, I kept speaking to myself: “8W94174, 8W94174, 8W94174” so that it stuck in my mind for a reason yet to be defined. Though when I arrived at my SRO, it finally occurred to This Miscreant Munchkin:
“Why of course. Print out a letter warning these dykes of Larkin’s devious nature, and leave it folded up in their van’s window…preferrably on the driver’s side facing traffic, that Larkin may have less of a chance to intercept, before She Who Drives can read it.”
So I sat down by my HP Elitebook and typed out the following message:
Vehicle license 8W94174:
Larkin Kelsey is not the sweetheart you think he is. He mooches off elderly bar patrons with fat wallets. That is how he survives. Hustles mostly old gay men who are lonely, but with money to spare. However, he is not shy of seducing lesbians as well. I actually have no problem with this, as he does not outright steal from anyone, gives them a really good bang for the buck. But what I do have a problem with, is that he drives anyone away who enjoys his company (and values his friendship), if he sees they’re getting too close to discover he’s a hustler…even if they don’t mind his situation, and would still like to maintain a good association. Such as myself, who he has maligned with vicious threats, humiliation and slander…and kicked me out of every bar in spite of my fidelity. He is very charismatic and talented, a great social mixer. And uses his gifts to dupe drunk bar patrons with generous wallets. He will charm you to pieces, to the point where you’ll find yourself handing him $20 bills like peanuts to an elephant. He is most likely also a drug dealer, as I don’t think he’d have been so wicked towards me, if being a soft-core hustler were his only gig. His “wingman” is housemate Zachary, who covers for his possible slip-ups…or one might call him his “patsy.” Zachary gives him cheap rental of a room at 2540 Market Street (don’t know yet the apartment number), in exchange for a cut of the moolah he sucks from patron’s billfolds. Larkin has threatened me with violence (shoved me twice), called me his stalker to everyone around, and overall tried to drive me insane. He is a very troubled man, as I have been nothing but a good friend to him for almost nine years. His sudden turn against me occurred after he moved from South of Market to the Castro. I have recently filed a police report against him. I advise you to keep your distance from this man, as he is not right in the head. Perhaps he has a brain tumor or early onset Alzheimer’s. I just pray to God he will make things up to me, but it’s been over a year and a half, now.
Then I eagerly returned to find the economy van still parked in the same spot. Folded the printout three times, inserted it deep into the driver’s window (between door and glass), leaving barely a half inch poking out. Hoping, of course, that Larkin does not intercept before she gets the chance to read it. Seeing as he’ll probably escort her back to the car, she just might hand it right over to Larkin in her state of inebriated trust. Boy, I wish I were a fly on the wall, to see all that! Well, let’s see if My Gangsta Gila has anything to say about this, next time our paths cross.
[ Please observe, Drupaceous Reader, that I did not reveal my name in this note, nor phone number, email, or address. Simply to spare me unwarrented vilification by brainwashed drunktards who are totally convinced that Larkin is the cat’s meow. Though should Larkin decide to involve the police, he can easily show them how readily this message interfaces with my letters posted to his mailbox. Unless of course, he’s tossed them into the trash as Zachary claimed. ]
Should he report me to the SFPD, it would be a mistake. For this would only open a can of worms that he could never close. And the label on this can says: “Kelsey’s Kondensed Horse Hockey.”
Yesterday, around 6:15 PM Larkin crossed my path at JW Plaza, to enter Twin Peaks Tavern. I figured he’d show up, as several minutes previous I saw Zachary hanging outside like a cigar store Indian, puffing on a nicotine stick. Interesting that–though I stood only ten feet away from the patsy, on the corner of Market & Castro appearing the unseasoned tourist–he projected nothing emotional in my direction. I wanted to fuk him just to teach him a lesson; not because he’s the least bit attractive, but to assert my alpha status as a punk extraordinaire…whose turf is the Castro, and my fiefdom.
I was but several feet from Larkin as he suddenly appeared in a bright yellow T-shirt (with floppy brown jacket bound about his waist) and entered the geriatric speakeasy. He did not acknowledge my presence one whit, nor did I acknowledge his. Yet I felt suddenly awash in a golden shower of angelic reverie. For that is how Dragon Squarepants always affects me, no matter his mood. Which these days is usually surly. Love holds enormous precedence in our association–albeit in brief doses–and shall never diminish. Our friendship is an eternal flame.
I then changed my post to the army-green trash bin on the eastern edge of the plaza and kitty-corner from Twin Peaks. Where I could obtain a more panoramic view of the tavern, that I may have the best advantage to view Larkin, no matter where he flitted. Zachary remained outside, even when Larkin exited the bar, accompanied by a slick-haired middle-aged doodle who no doubt considers himself an expert in day trading. He was a skosh roly-poly and less than 5-foot-9, sporting an oily coif pulled back in a knot.
They both shared a joint in the doorway of a closed shop, four
units down from TP Tavern, on 17th Street. But the Melvin departed
shortly to return to Twin Peaks while Larkin remained in the shadows,
sucking on his ganja pacifier. Finally he finished his share and moseyed
on back to TPT. I just stood by the wastebin, puffing on my ciggie
while drinking it all in. After some while (around 10 minutes) Larkin
departed the tavern and crossed right before me, yet behaved as if I
don’t exist. I likewise reciprocated.
From a safe distance, I followed Larkin to discover (as I already presumed) his ascent up the stairs to The Cafe, in order to play five or more rounds of billiards. I did not follow, but moved on towards Noe Street, where I could cross Market and return hovel. My heart wept so bad in my yearning to stand beside My Beastly Behomoth, whereby he may praise me to the heavens amid the presence of myriad dipwads.
Most interesting, his non-reaction to my slipping that revelatory note
in the Ford economy van just 4 days ago. Did my printout elude him, or did he intercept and pocket it? Did the lesbian lush actually read my advisory? (And if so, has she shown it to Larkin yet?) How will this play out in the long run: SFPD intrigue, lawsuit, gang rivalry? (Of course, first we’ll need to form two gangs, one pro-moi and the other, pro-Larkin.)
Perhaps he approves of my well-played retaliation, stirring up the muck that he may isolate the remaining cult vermin which still proves a threat on my life. Or maybe I’ve taken our battles to the next level: surreptitious backstabbing without any face-to-face showdowns as in the past. Whichever way the tide may turn, I remain astounded at Larkin’s precocity to compose a script in real life, that is the romantic comedy trilogy I have titled “Free Me From This Bond.”