Thursday, September 21, 2006

 

ENTRY 228: THE ACCIDENTAL ANGELENO; or, TRICYCLE BLUES


There is a certain natural shock when you come face to face with someone you’re terrifically close to but haven’t seen in years. It’s something like leaving your favorite pair of comfortable slippers on the back porch on a winter night, then bringing them in and slipping them on the next morning. After the initial jolt of low temperature, it all warms up again and you’re wriggling your toes pleasurably.


All of that seems an apt metaphor for seeing Peter again last Thursday for the first time in three years. I was nervous, I realized, and so quippy that Peter said, “You’re really a comedian today.” Time to tone it down, and I did. I think it was largely the awkwardness of transitioning from a New York to an L.A. pace.


The weather was balmy as hell, naturally, and palm trees stretched along the roadsides. After stopping for lunch we headed to Peter’s apartment in Santa Monica. It was a lovely setup, with a small treed courtyard separating street from door, and a beautiful black cat sitting on the front steps. This turned out to be his roommates’ pet, Venus di Meow-Meow. I am very much a cat person, so I was pleased.


When we walked in, his female roommate, a screenwriter, was working with her writing partner. She jumped up first thing and hugged me. I felt a little awkward, having expected nothing more than a handshake, but was glad for the surprisingly warm welcome. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, and I replied in kind.


Then I met his other roommate, a cameraman who is married to the screenwriter. He was tremendously nice, and I liked them both right away. So far, so good.


The place was small but attractive and comfortable, with a handy little back patio. Peter and I sat out there drinking Two Buck Chuck and chatting until Peter’s boyfriend of eight months, Lawrence, arrived after work. I’d been quite interested in meeting him, since Lawrence and Peter seemed to spend so much time together and he was clearly important to Peter.


It was odd from the get-go. We heard Lawrence come in the front door, but he didn’t appear out on the patio, so Peter went to investigate. They emerged at last, and I stood up to greet him.


My initial impression was that Lawrence didn’t seem terribly interested in getting to know me. He kind of carried on talking to Peter about his own stuff and drama with his friends as though I were merely the unimportant third wheel. This was less than comfortable for me, of course, but I tried to make my way into the conversation when I felt it was appropriate, without trying to railroad my way in. Peter had told me that Lawrence was “a little shy,” so I figured he would become more accustomed to me in time. I had doubts about how much he and I had in common, but adopted a wait-and-see attitude. It seems necessary to add here that Lawrence is 25 and Peter is 41. These facts will attain greater relevance later.


The three of us went to dinner at an Italian place in Venice Beach. The restaurant was relaxed and it was pleasant to sit in the outside courtyard. Unfortunately, I found myself at somewhat of a loss as far as making headway with Lawrence. Connections take time, but I knew intuitively that this was going to be a challenge. He still seemed to regard me as a third wheel. I ate lots of garlic rolls and tried to appear as if I were enjoying myself. As everyone’s mother says, if you smile long enough you’ll eventually find yourself happy. That might actually be a load of crap, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.


After dinner we strolled through Lawrence’s Manhattan Beach neighborhood. It was a pleasant evening, just cool enough to maybe wear a light jacket. I took an interest in looking at the tony beachfront homes, and the black-and-white of the surf against the navy of the night.


Lawrence spent the night at Peter’s apartment. I had set up shop on the living-room sofa, where Venus woke me rather early on Friday morning by balance-beam-walking on my legs--not that I really minded. When she started meowing at the door around 6:45, I let her out onto the back patio and settled there with a New Yorker and a glass of orange juice. The morning mist dissipated slowly, and I slid my misgivings aside.


Peter and I drove to the Getty Center after breakfast. It’s a striking complex of Richard Meier buildings on top of a hill overlooking the city. You park in a garage at the foot of the hill, and then ride a tram all the way to the top.


The museum itself is very California modern, all whites and angles, and I was surprised at how outdoorsy it is. There are open courtyards all over the place, and the exhibits are each contained in a separate building. We first saw an exhibit of collaborations between Rubens and Brueghel (an interesting show, even though Baroque isn’t really my thing), and, after lunch, an exhibit of Italian Futurists. A nice contrast. The mazelike garden was also quite lovely, and the views were fantastic, albeit hazy (what else?).


For the rest of the afternoon it was a nice drive on Sunset Boulevard, taking us to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. I was far more interested in the footprints and signatures in the forecourt than in the Walk of Fame, and got a little touristy with my camera. One of the simple pleasures of the experience was comparing my shoe size to those of various legends. Judy Garland would have fit in my pocket, and I would very likely have crippled Ginger Rogers during a careless tango. Other interesting bits: Greer Garson took up the equivalent of two regular-size concrete blocks, more than any other star’s imprint I could find, and Harold Lloyd added a drawing of his signature pair of spectacles to his name.


Late Friday afternoon Lawrence rejoined us, and stayed the rest of the weekend. We all went for sushi at a restaurant that seemed to take a long time to drive to (and the trip occasioned a tense exchange between Peter and Lawrence about proper directions), but I was in the mood for Japanese and it was good.


The next stop was an honestly beautiful Santa Monica beachfront hotel with a palatial lobby and bar. We drank too many martinis and were suddenly joined by a wedding party. The most gregarious guy in the bunch started talking to Lawrence and Peter about various restaurants and nightspots that he thought were cool. Clearly I had nothing to contribute to this conversation. I was glad to have some outsiders take a bit of the pressure off, but found myself in danger of falling asleep nose-first in my drink. The time difference was affecting me.


Saturday was gorgeous, and after a gay West Hollywood brunch we drove up into the Hollywood Hills, getting as close as we could to the famous white letters. It’s a very charming area, the winding steep streets crowded with lovely homes. It reminded me strongly of Carmel or Monterey, and bungalows have always been my favorite kind of house.


Since Peter and I are both David Lynch fans, I suggested we cruise along Mulholland Drive. It’s a fun, twisty, treacherous drive with sweeping cliffside views, though unpleasantness reared its head early with another Tense Exchange between Lawrence and Peter. At this point I didn’t see how Lawrence and I would ever click, but I was determined to make the best of the situation, however strained. When we returned to the apartment, Peter's screenwriter roommate and I had a great conversation about the publishing industry. At least someone important to Peter actually wanted to engage with me.


This was my last evening in L.A., and Peter and I had planned an evening in West Hollywood. The three of us took a cab, since tipsiness was a distinct possibility. In the taxi I knew something was up; you could have sliced the silence with a gay blade, and I was rather at a loss as to how to jumpstart things. But dinner went a little better, and our first drinking stop, a martini bar, was to my liking.


Two and a half martinis later, Lawrence was quizzing me about my dating life. I briefly covered Textgate before we all got into a conversation about the qualities that are important in a potential boyfriend.


“Intelligence,” I said. “And empathy, and taking an interest in a lot of things, and being yourself. I used to get into arguments with Neil because, even though almost all of his friends liked me, there were a few who didn’t. The thing with Neil was that he had this need to have everyone like him, which meant trying to be all things to all people. I’d rather be myself than pretend, because, hey, not everyone is going to like you. I’m not sure everyone should, if you’re being truly genuine. I think I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. I may have initial judgments about them, but I’m always willing to reevaluate over time. When I like someone and am friends with them, I like to think I’m a pretty loyal person.”


“I think you’re very loyal,” said Peter. I smiled briefly. Lawrence took exception to some part of something I’d said, and we had a dialogue about it--nothing that I considered to be heated or tense or anything, and I was certainly sensitized to things like that by now.


I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I returned, Peter was saying something to Lawrence, and they were acting strangely. I suggested we move on, so we closed out our tab. We emerged onto the sidewalk, and Lawrence veered almost comically off to the left side of us, near the curb.


“Could he possibly walk any farther away?” Peter remarked.


“Is everything okay?” I asked cautiously.


“Not really,” he said. “He’s really being a brat right now.”


“I hope I’m not causing any tension,” I said, with a deep sense of foreboding.


“I think he’s jealous of the history that we have,” said Peter.


I sighed. “Great.”


We arrived at our next destination, a crowded bar that seemed like a more typical gay watering hole, but it had lots of outdoor space, which I liked. I shouldered my way to the bar and looked inquisitively over my shoulder. Peter requested a Manhattan. I looked at Lawrence, asked if I could get him a drink, and was met with stony silence. Okay, then.


Drink in hand, I stood near Peter as he and Lawrence alternately stared straight ahead and exchanged a few muttered words.


“You know,” I said, “I think I’m going to check out the patio for a little while.”


I stood out there, texting Will: “Best friend and bf fighting. I polarize, apparently. Time to come home.” I struck up a conversation with a smoker, told him I was having a bad night, and bummed a cig. I squinted, puffed, pondered, went back inside, saw them still arguing, and perched myself on the edge of a leather bench near a fireplace. This shit was getting old fast.


Peter finally phoned me, and I located them near the entrance. He and I passed a cigarette back and forth to each other, a drag or two at a time.


"I've missed this," I said. "Us going out."


"Me, too," he said. I couldn't help glancing at Lawrence, who was grimacing and making what seemed to me a bit of a production in waving the smoke away.


"I didn't come 3,000 miles to make anyone feel uncomfortable," I said. "Really." Lawrence said nothing. I turned away from the two of them, sighing to myself and exhaling a cloud of white.


Peter, a bit tipsy by now, pulled me back toward him and put his arm around me. "Frank is one of the best people I've ever known," he said to Lawrence, who was standing on his other side. "I want you to understand that." Lawrence gave nary an indication of any such comprehension. I reached over my shoulder to hold Peter's hand, biting my lip and creasing my brow, though neither of them could see my face.


I suggested that we move to the bar next door. Peter agreed, and, since it seemed we were dealing with a bare 2/3 majority, I led the way down the sidewalk. Again I bought a round, and again Lawrence did not accept a drink. By now I was beyond caring.


The two of them seemed to be trying for some precarious kind of reconciliation, and, as heartily annoyed as I was, it was rather a relief to see the attempt. At some point they disappeared to the bathroom, and I found myself face to face with a 6'4" cuteish awkward guy. Somehow he got around to telling me about my handsomeness--or something to that effect--not to mention that he was a Republican ("the Schwarzenegger and Bloomberg kind") who had made a failed run for the state House. It's a little fuzzy, what with the half a dozen drinks and my slight peevishness, caused by the whole exasperating evening. Then he tried a couple of times to kiss me, leading to a strange kind of head waltz in which my cranium swooped rapidly backward. In heels.


Peter and Lawrence reappeared about that moment, and we miraculously found a vacant cab. Somehow I was maneuvered into sitting between the two of them (perhaps so I wouldn't try to escape at the first red light). Peter dozed off almost immediately, and I stared straight ahead for most of the way home. Lawrence and I did speak, however--he asked me for part of the cab fare.


I brushed my teeth and collapsed on the couch, and Peter and Lawrence disappeared into the bedroom, where I was sure a lively conversation would ensue. On Sunday morning I woke up on the early side--time change strikes again--and was in the kitchen, pouring myself a bowl of granola while I licked my dry lips, when I heard footsteps behind me.


"Hi," said Lawrence. I turned around.


"I wanted to apologize for last night," he said. "I'm dealing with a lot of personal stuff right now, and I'm sorry for the way I behaved."


"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate that." I really couldn't think of anything else to say--well, nothing that would have been terribly productive.


"I really hope this doesn't affect your friendship with Peter," he said.


"Oh, that's not going to happen," I said.


There was a pause. I'm not sure what he was expecting.


"Did you want anything?" I said, half-indicating the box of granola and the orange juice container on the counter.


"No, thanks," he said.


"All right," I replied. "I'm going to go out on the patio and have some breakfast, then."


"See you later," he said, retreating to Peter's room.


I sipped my juice thirstily, rolling pulp between my tongue and teeth as I considered everything. I had wanted, and, perhaps naïvely, expected for Lawrence and I to get along. And now he'd apologized--how genuinely, I wasn't entirely sure--for last night's utter disaster. But could the utterness of that disaster be so simply resolved?


Unfortunately, it couldn't.


I had tried my best to get along with Lawrence during the entire trip, because Peter is my best friend and has been there for me so many times. Those facts alone cause me to give the other important people in his life a great deal of benefit of the doubt. But the sheer willful, extreme, utterly gratuitous, cold, and protracted nature of the stunt Lawrence had pulled that ruined my last night in L.A. with Peter--the end of a visit in which, after three whole years, I had less than four days to spend with Peter, unlike Lawrence, who sees him all the fucking time--had pretty much obliterated all that benefit.


It wasn't so much that I was furious that Lawrence had fucked up our last night out--though I was--but much more that I couldn't stand the way he'd treated Peter. How much did he really care about Peter, I wondered, if this was the way he acted with someone he knew to be very important to him?


Peter slept rather late, so I found myself unable to avoid being alone with Lawrence in front of the television. He made more than one attempt at conversation, and I was quite civil in responding and trying to reciprocate in talking until the inevitable petering out, but I have to say quite frankly that, if Lawrence's objective had truly been to drive me out of L.A., he'd done a fanfuckingtastic job. I wanted to go home.


We all went to lunch at In-N-Out Burger. Peter and I sat bleary-eyed while Lawrence was picking up his order at the counter.


"Who's hungover?" I said chirpily.


"Me," he said.


"So," I began, when he and I got back in line to order shakes, "how are things?"


Peter shook his head. There were things he'd have to explain later, over the phone, but, he said, they'd almost broken up the night before.


"Oh, God," I said. "I'm sorry." And I really was, because, whatever my feelings about Lawrence, I hated to see Peter going through something like that.


Regrettably, I wasn't completely sorry to find myself at LAX again. I'd been thinking about what sort of farewell I'd give to Lawrence, and had finally settled on "I was glad to meet you," because, however awful the experience with him had been, I at least knew the score now. It was no longer an unknown. But he sort of changed my game plan by preempting me as Peter stepped out of the car and I prepared to speak.


"I'll see you next time you're here," he said. Practical enough, I suppose.


"Absolutely," I replied. "Thanks for driving."


At the curb I hugged Peter hard, and he said we'd talk soon.


We did, a couple of days later, though I did most of the listening as he related how Lawrence had been upset that he and I hadn't really been relating, and had become very apologetic during their conversations late on Saturday and early on Sunday. Apparently, according to Peter, Lawrence had been dealing with some stressful situation that he hadn't told Peter about, although Peter made a point of saying to me that he didn't think that excused Lawrence's behavior at all. I wasn't about to argue with that. I certainly can empathize with people's private struggles, but the degree of ill will that Lawrence radiated that night was beyond the pale.


I wanted to say as little as possible about Lawrence. After all, I'd already been inappropriately and mortifyingly dragged into the middle of all that drama through no choice of my own. Their relationship was basically none of my business. And yet...Peter was my best friend. And, as an aggrieved party unwillingly implicated in the fucked-up proceedings that night, I felt I deserved at least some small say.


But I cared too much about Peter to do a hatchet job on Lawrence, even though the ugly truth is that, given what I witnessed, at this point I can't particularly trust Lawrence to act unselfishly in Peter's best interests.


What I said was, "I don't know if I should even be saying this, but...I couldn't escape the feeling that Lawrence just wanted me gone, even before Saturday night."


"I hope not," said Peter. "He never said anything like that to me, but if it's true, he'd better get over it or this isn't going to work."


I know all of this has been a source of embarrassment and pain to Peter. To me, too, of course, but much more to him, I'm certain. I wish I weren't so mixed up in it all, that I were able to help more impartially, but I'm doing the best I can to just continue to be his friend. As for my sentiments about Lawrence, because I love Peter, I fear I may be right about his boyfriend. And because I love Peter, I also hope I'm very wrong.

11:32 PM

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