Page 183 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 153

stepped out into the lobby like he owned the place. He was followed by a
well-built plumber whose tools hung like sex toys around his waist. The
manager scrutinized Ryan the way managers are born to sniff. Ryan scru-
tinized the young plumber who fended off Ryan’s cruise by stroking his
left hand across his eyes and down his nose to his strong chin in a display
of the gold band on his ring ringer. His butch modesty only made Ryan
like him more.
Riding slowly up the long tall shaft of the old building, Ryan could
not help but think how his life had diverged from Solly’s since Kick had
moved into the Victorian. At least Solly was kinder to the idea of Kick
than Kick was to the idea of Solly. Kick thought any man who messed
with hustlers was a sad case. He made a point of avoiding Solly. He hadn’t
minded when Ryan told him Solly wanted to have dinner alone. Ryan
could not figure out the tension between his lover and his best friend.
The elevator lurched to a stop. Solly opened the elevator door.
“You made it,” he said.
Ryan was always amazed at Solly’s perennially pink and cherubic face.
They smiled at each other. They did not kiss. They did not hug. It was
unwritten that physical touch between them rarely happened. Deep down
both of them liked a certain type of man and neither of them was that type
to the other. Still, friends hug; but not Solly. What can I tell you? What
could he tell you? Through a glass darkly, they had long before converged:
Ryan was Castro afternoons and Folsom nights. Solly was Polk Street and
the Tenderloin. They were Uptown Man and Downtown Man in search
of sex with the Neanderthal Man.
“Happy birthday,” Ryan said.
“At thirty-five, I’m fourteen years past birthdays that are happy.”
“Nice mood. I brought you a cake.”
“What mood? I’m a middle-aged pornographer. I’m probably going
to be evicted from my penthouse because the manager thinks the elevator
was defaced by my boys. Tiger has found an honest-to-god girl to ball
instead of me. I don’t have any money.” He was lying. “The beat goes on.”
“What is,” Ryan said, “is.”
Solly stared at the boxed cake. “This is one truly weird irony. Tiger
traded his food stamps for some money so he could buy me a cake. He
never buys me anything.” He lifted the pink pastry box from Ryan’s hands
so deftly by the string he looked like an Israeli soldier about to defuse a
bomb. “So now I have two cakes for one birthday I don’t even want. Can
I get you a glass of Coke?”
“Yeah. Sure.”

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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