Page 17 - Finding Tulsa - Preview

Finding Tulsa 9

I return the capsule to its tabled orbit, and proceed to light, ignite, and
take flight. Despite my best intentions, I’ll be flying while flying.
I’m leaving home for an undecided length of time, leaving this place.
No garage. The ’76 Dodge Dart is in the driveway. It needs work. When
Gramma died, I got it, since everyone else in the family had a car. I flew
to Pittsburgh, stayed half a day, then drove back cross-country. When I
opened the glove compartment somewhere in Kansas, inside was a tiny
pair of her Isotoner gloves. I keep them there.
No dog, no kids, no cable, just, finally, a cell phone. What would you
expect from a former underground gay film director whose main form of
income has been, until recently, managing Woo Video on Pico, who’s now
lunching with animators about a proposed gay teen serialized action ad-
venture series? What would you expect from a former chubby longhaired
fag, now leaner and shaved, whose deepest passions are food, watching
surfers come home, and capturing every bit of living and fucking and dy-
ing on tape or film?
The shuttle bus arrives to take me on a drive in which I will imagine
opening credits, with music by Stone Temple Pilots, “Flies in the Vaseline,”
perhaps, since my story is all about being stuck in sex things and working
one’s way out.
This story goes back and forth, but loops around itself. My life/career/
whatever, misguided as they come, is based purely on the loss and discov-
ery of men.
The shuttle’s honk makes me jump.
I fight a pang of dread, praying my home will be untouched upon my
return.
That or burned to ashes.
It could happen.