Kiss Me, Straight

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Now packed with pancakes, I was starting to feel a little dozy. Since I figured nothing I had to say could top Marzipan’s announcement that she was planning to stage Judy Garland’s life story as told by the 19th century’s most celebrated markswoman, I helped Katie tidy up from our brunch, then excused myself. Jet-lagged, with no plans for the day, I headed back upstairs to my apartment for a nap.

Marzipan’s building, in which I live and Katie has her shop, has three floors of apartments above a ground floor retail space. The Victorian-style edifice, boasting street-facing bay windows, is typical of those that line Divisadero along the stretch between Pacific Heights and the Castro; most residents live above a nail salon, a soul food restaurant, or some other manner of independent business. My apartment was Number 2, despite the fact that it was the first door you came to at the top of the first flight of stairs. Number 1 faced the busy street, whereas my bachelor pad overlooked the back garden, so the only street noise I endured was the occasional blast from a taxi cab’s horn or the siren of a fire truck speeding by. It is an apartment that I knew at first sight I had to have, and that is actually responsible for my friendship with Marzipan.

After Katie left Buenos Aires with Francisco, I transferred to our base in Hong Kong, where I spent two years flying junkets to all the shopping and gambling hot spots of Asia, before I followed her here. When I first came to San Francisco, most of my stuff was still in Hong Kong, and I made the rather grueling trip across the Pacific a couple times a month on days off, on top of whatever trips I was flying for work. I was spending more and more nights on Katie and Francisco’s couch, and was anxious to get settled here. Not surprisingly, I had been with Katie at a particularly fun nightclub in Buenos Aires the night she met Francisco, and he and I were good friends. But like all good young husbands, he looked forward to the day when his wife’s gay best friend would get up off their couch and the happy couple would once again have their home to themselves. Thus, each time Katie and I returned from a trip in those days, Francisco would have a little stack of apartment-for-rent ads he had helpfully clipped from the local papers in our absence. One apartment in particular, on Divisadero Street, sounded almost too good to be true. It was way out of my price range, but if it was half as nice as the ad made it sound, I figured I could find a way to make it work. For instance, surely I’d find the Man of My Dreams before long, now that I was in San Francisco, and, among his innumerable other wonderful qualities, he could help me with the rent! I had to at least see it with my own eyes.

It turned out to be even better than described in the ad. A gorgeous one-bedroom apartment with hardwood floors and ten-foot ceilings, it had just been repainted in beautiful colors with sparkling snow-white trim, and while the kitchen and bathroom both had gorgeous built-in storage and shelves from the twenties, every surface had been refinished since the last tenants had vacated. But what really hooked me was the fact that the living room and bedroom both looked over a sunny postage-stamp yard, and were joined by a small but inviting deck that ran the length of the backside of the building. The apartment was, of course, unfurnished, but four or five chairs were arranged around a cute little table on the deck, practically begging to be relaxed in. I fell in love with the apartment the minute I set foot in it, and my heart was torn asunder minutes into the tour when, doing the math, I realized I’d never be able to afford it, no matter how creative my financing.

Katie and Francisco had joined me for house-hunting, and both oohed and aaahed over the place. They were very encouraging (Francisco was very encouraging, indeed) of my creative financing plans, and it was to Francisco’s great chagrin that I was forced to tell the hunky young handyman who had opened the apartment for us that, while I couldn’t see myself living anyplace else, I would have to pass up the apartment. I would have understood had he been annoyed, as the rent was clearly stated in the ad, but instead he gave me a thoughtful look. “What are you doing this afternoon?” he asked, somewhat to my surprise. He was long, lean, and obviously straight, the kind I always fantasize about, but even in my fantasies they don’t make it this easy.

“Just looking at apartments,” I told him. “Although I could make myself available.” I gave him my most winning smile, which in those days was pretty darn winning.

The handyman turned out to be the first in a long and colorful string of Marzipan’s protégés whom we would meet, and he somehow sensed that we were in his benefactress’s future. He gave me quite a winning smile in return, and explained: “The woman who owns this building, she owns the café across the street, too, and I’d like her to come over and meet you. You kinda seem like her type, and I bet she’d be willing to help you out on the rent.” He had already pulled a cell phone out of his spectacularly butt-hugging jeans and flipped it open. “Can you hang around for a few minutes?”

Well, while I was hoping to seem more like his type, I was dying for the apartment and had in fact already mentally placed most of my furniture, plus made a long list in my head of things to buy at Ikea, so of course I said yes. Thus began an unforgettable afternoon.

The handyman (whose utterly unpredictable name turned out to be Winnie) called across the street, quickly explained to this landlady that he had somebody with him very interested in the apartment, and asked would she want to come over. I, of course, hastily offered that we could go across the street and meet her, we didn’t want to be any trouble, would this make us seem demanding?, but Winnie seemed unconcerned and in fact told me to relax. “Why don’t you guys go have a seat out on the deck?” he suggested. “She’ll be right over.”

And indeed she was. Fewer than five minutes elapsed between the phone call and the dramatic entrance. Marzipan fairly swooped into the apartment in a cloud of swirling orange silk, a bottle of mid-range California wine in each ringed hand. As we have learned is her custom, her hair was swept up under an enormous, colorful scarf-turned- headdress, and her body was draped in yards of a dazzling, diaphanous sunset-hued silk, creating the odd impression of a garment that was part sari, part billowing housecoat.

“Darlings!’ she swooned, gliding out onto the deck, where we had made ourselves quite comfortable around the little table underneath the avocado tree. “How charming to meet you all. Imagine how glad it makes me to hear that you like what we’ve done with our little apartment here. Doesn’t Winnie do amazing things with a paintbrush?”

The handyman had just followed her onto the deck with four wineglasses, signifying that he would not be joining us, but as he set one in front of each of us, she grabbed his hand in tender acknowledgment. He smiled, rather sheepishly, I thought, excused himself, and retreated into the apartment whence he had come.

“He’s a genius, that one,” she informed us. “And he really can do amazing things with a paintbrush. We’re having an opening of some of his work at the gallery this week. He has an eye for color you’d be lucky to find in an artist with twice his experience.” She grabbed my hand and leaned startlingly close. “Not to mention twice his age, right, darling?” She let out a short, loud hoot at her own teasing, and continued in the same breath, “You must see his work; you simply must come to the opening. I’ll send you an invitation.” She paused to hand Francisco a bottle of wine and indicated with a wave of her hand that he was to pour, starting with Katie. “After all,” she concluded, “I know your new address, don’t I?! Ha!”

For a few seconds the three of us were caught speechless by the brash, conspiratorial, and slightly bossy tone for which we were to learn she was famous. Though it pained me, I was the first to recover, the better to inform her, “Well, you see, that’s just it. I’m not at all sure that I can afford the apartment. In fact, I am quite sure…”

Abruptly, but not rudely, she cut me off. “Oh darling, we’ll get to that. Let’s have a glass of wine, enjoy the afternoon, and get to know each other. There’s plenty of time to ‘talk turkey,’ as they say.”

Katie and I shared a look, acknowledging the part of the flight attendant’s creed that dictates that one never refuse a free drink, and, smiling, followed the example of our hostess and raised our glasses. “To new friends.” she toasted. Glasses clinked all around.

One of Marzipan’s most endearing and mysterious traits is the way she makes unerring, virtually snap judgments about a person’s character. From these she never wavers. If she befriends you, you have an extravagantly generous, fiercely loyal friend for life. If she decides you are not friendship material, she will never pay you the slightest notice, and if you are one of the foolhardy few who cross her, I’m not sure she could be counted on to brake if she saw you crossing the street.

The afternoon we first made her acquaintance was, like all afternoons spent with Marzipan, filled with hilarious and incredible stories, probing questions, sharp opinions delivered as fact, laughter, and wine. She had apparently traveled quite extensively with a first husband (we’re still not exactly certain how many there have been, but we know of three and suspect at least a fourth), and was interested in Katie’s and my experiences on the airplane and abroad on exotic layovers. She was also quite familiar with Argentina and in fact had “been acquainted with” one of Francisco’s uncles, a fact which raised eyebrows all around the table. By the time the sun had gone down, two stylish and convivial waiters from Marzipan! had come across the street with an impressive and flavorful array of hors d’oeuvres, and were eventually persuaded, along with Winnie, to sit and join us when they returned ninety minutes later with a steaming bowl of pasta, two crispy roast chickens, a silver tray arrayed with lemon bars and fresh fruit, and four more bottles of wine. Before we dug into dessert, Marzipan, having ensured all glasses were filled, again proposed a toast. “Todd,” she exclaimed, tilting her glass ever-so-slightly towards me, “it appears as though your first dinner party in your new apartment was a success!” This was met by applause from all. That night, Marzipan knocked about 45 percent off the rent, we signed a lease, and I’ve been here ever since.

Because Marzipan is such a generous and responsive proprietress, there is very little turnover in the building, but the apartment directly above me had been vacant for a few weeks. The former tenants, who had been in the building for eleven years, had been cramped with their young daughter in a one-bedroom place, and when they fell pregnant with their second child they made the painful decision to leave one of Marzipan’s properties and move into larger digs. I think they ended up in San Mateo, or a similar suburb out near the airport. They had been great neighbors—friendly and chatty without being gossipy, alert to the building’s comings and goings without being nosy—but I was rather enjoying having the apartment empty. The little girl had seemed never to grow tired of running back and forth across their wood-floored apartment in work boots or tap shoes, and the raven-haired wisp of a thing somehow managed to raise a racket over my head night and day.

Therefore I was reveling in the quiet when I stripped to my boxers, drew the curtains in my room, and curled up into my cool, comfy bed. It wasn’t yet three o’clock in the afternoon, but after the long flight the day before, my body felt leaden and slow, and my eyes yearned to close. With uncounted cups of Katie’s coffee surging through my veins, however, my mind refused to shut off, and thoughts of Judy Garland, Annie Oakley, fat cooks, and beautiful male twins soaked in syrup and wrapped up in pancakes staged a demolition derby in my head for what seemed like hours.

Eventually, though, it seemed that the fatigue of my body would ultimately win out over the hyperactivity of my brain, and I began to drift off. The thudding bass from the apartment upstairs didn’t jolt me awake; once I became conscious of the sound of my bedroom windows rattling in the frames, I realized that the disco beat had been reverberating above my head for several minutes. The beat was even somewhat soothing, and rather than wondering why there was noise coming from what I knew to be a vacant apartment, I lay there and let myself be lulled back to sleep by the rhythmic “boom boom boom.”

At least I’m sure I would have been lulled back to sleep by the rhythmic “boom boom boom,” had it not been interrupted by the clatter and thrum of a vacuum cleaner apparently being pulled across the hardwood floor by a team of Clydesdales. On her noisiest day, my four-year-old former neighbor hadn’t come close to making this kind of commotion. And was it possible that, even over the thumping bass, the rattling windows, and the ruckus of what sounded to be an old and squeaky vacuum, I was hearing singing?

Now curiosity and annoyance stepped in to face off with fatigue, and it became obvious that fatigue was not prepared to go two-on-one. When had Marzipan rented the apartment, and to whom? I wondered. And why hadn’t she mentioned anything about it this afternoon? Clearly she had been so eager to pitch her two new projects with this fat Chris, namely producing his musical and fixing him up with me, that she had neglected to advise me to wear ear plugs for my nap because she had hosted a Noisiest Possible Neighbor contest and decanted the winner into the apartment above mine. Now, despite my preference to loll in it through the afternoon and into the evening, I tore myself from my bed and, giving it a last, longing glance, stalked from it out onto the deck to see what I could learn about my new neighbor and maybe suggest a nice quiet broom for future clean-ups.

It was an uncharacteristically clear and summery afternoon for San Francisco, and my half-closed eyes were still adjusting to the sunshine when I arrived on the deck and commenced craning my neck and standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the noise-maker. Thus, by the time I saw the falling houseplant and its attendant clump of dirt, there was no time for me to do anything except stand there and get smacked in the face by it, which I did.

Luckily, the enthusiastic vacuumer had merely knocked the pot over and dislodged the plant. The clay pot itself did not follow, so, while I had a fern on my head and a mouth full of dirt, I was unhurt.

“Hey!” I hollered up at the open window, but the vacuuming and singing continued unabated.

“Hey!!” I cried again, spitting dirt. I am not by nature confrontational, and I wasn’t looking to pick a fight with someone I would likely end up living below for many years, but now that I had been prevented from napping and hit on the head with a plant by the same neighbor inside five minutes, I felt I might at least shout up a hello and inform this person that, in addition to being one houseplant short, he or she was not the only person in the building.

So I launched a third “Hey!,” after which the vacuum cleaner stopped, allowing the housekeeper’s disco music to once again take center stage. I heard a man’s voice cry “Ack!,” and a swarthy head poked out the window.

“My plant!”

“Never mind your plant! I could have been killed!”

The swarthy head swiveled, and I received my second jolt of the episode. Peering down at me with surprised green eyes was a devastating beauty of the Mediterranean style. “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry!!” he cried.

I could tell by his stricken look that he truly was, although a twitch at the corner of his mouth gave away the fact that he was trying not to laugh. Looking down on a shirtless neighbor with dirt on his face and leaves in his hair, I am sure I would have had to subdue the same impulse, but I was still startled and closer to half-asleep than I had realized, so I couldn’t back down. “Who are you, anyway?” I challenged.

“Who are you?” he returned. The nerve!

“Who am I?”

“That’s right, who are you?”

“I live here, that’s who I am.”

“Oh, well then, I guess that means I’m your new neighbor.”

I could only see his full-lipped, heavy-lidded mug and his broad shoulders, but I decided I didn’t want to come across as too much of a grump with this over-confident plant-dropper. We are a small building, after all, and the opportunities to have legendary beauties as upstairs neighbors present themselves with marked infrequency.

“Do you come with earplugs?” I asked him. I didn’t want to come across as a pushover, either.

“What?”

I raised my voice and repeated my inquiry. “I said, ‘do you come with earplugs?’ I’m trying to sleep down here.”

“Is the music too loud?” he had to shout to be heard above it, answering his own question. “Sorry, dude, I wasn’t thinking about it. It’s the middle of the day! What are you, home sick or something?”

“I am not. Not that that’s any of your business.”

The sly half-smile was meant to show that he was teasing when he said, “Make up your mind. Do you want me to mind my own business, or be considerate and turn down my music?”

“Would you mind turning it down just a little bit? Just so there’s not so much thumping,” I asked, softening my tone in response to his penitent expression.

He mulled this over, then asked, “Well, what are you doing home in the middle of the day?!”

“As it happens, I have a very unusual work schedule and am often home in the middle of the day, sometimes trying to sleep! What are you doing home in the middle of the day?”

He laughed. “Well, this isn’t officially my ‘home’ until Saturday, but touché, I guess.”

“Do you make it a habit to vacuum empty apartments in your free time?”

“I do, yes.” A wise guy. “It’s a blast. You wanna come up here and give it a try?”

His slightly flirty style made me feel less prickly, but before I could offer a more amiable crack, his head briefly disappeared from view. “My phone’s ringing,” he then informed me, giving me another frontal view of his breathtaking visage. “Maybe we can shout sarcastic comments at each other again sometime.”

“Yes, I’m sure I will come up with some doozies while you’re on the phone,” I countered. “Meanwhile, what about this plant?”

“Well,” he began, looking back over his shoulder, obviously more interested in the ringing phone than in who would sweep up the soil from my deck. “Look, I really do need to get this. Then I work tonight. Will you be up later? What if I knock on your door after work?”

Typical. Like many remarkably handsome people, this one was obviously used to having others respond to his command of “Jump!” with an enthusiastic, “Yes, sir! How high?” Although, I realized, if I appeared prepared to do his bidding, perhaps he would buy me dinner, or at least a couple of cocktails, to express his gratitude. Which is exactly the response he counts on eliciting with those twinkling eyes. Curse this weakness of mine for gorgeous men! “Well, I guess that’s okay,” I squeaked in spite of myself. I knew that I was being played, and I resented how easily he had read me and capitalized on my response to his looks, but really, where’s the harm in having a handsome new neighbor knocking on one’s door late in the evening? What’s the worst that could happen?

More titillating, what’s the best that could happen?

“Around what time?” I shouted up, before realizing that he had ducked back into the apartment. The volume of the music dropped sharply, and I could hear that he was chatting away on his phone, although I couldn’t make out words. Sure, now he’s quiet. With eavesdropping thus removed from my afternoon’s agenda, I shook the dirt out of my hair and repaired to my apartment.

By the time I was toweling my freshly-shampooed hair, the handsome house cleaner had apparently hustled off to work. My bedroom was once again silent, although rather than the quiet cocoon from half an hour earlier, I seemed now to find myself in an echoing cave. Where before my sheets had felt invitingly cool, they now felt downright icy. The occasional clunk and bump would be a small price to pay to have access to a looker like that, it seemed. What was Marzipan thinking? I wondered to myself as I slipped again between my sheets. Knowing me like she does, what could she possibly think I would see in a big fat guy with a hunk like this abroad in the neighborhood? She must be planning on keeping him for herself, I reasoned, cuddling up with a pillow, for if she truly wanted me to be happy, she would leave the fatty to his own devices and not rest until I had a knockout of a neighbor in this icebox of a bed to keep me warm.