19. Room 212
It’s the third door on the right, after you pass the ice and vending machine. You could take a shortcut and go up the stairs on the other side of the pool, but it’s nice to travel down the hotel’s corridor to see a long stretch of doors. My inner horror fiend anticipates the moment when I would turn a corner and find two twin girls asking me to come play with them forever and ever.
My board shorts laid dry on my balcony floor, tossed from its patio chair perch. I could open the glass doors and retrieve my fallen shorts, only I’d let the cold desert morning air into my warm room. It’s my last morning in this hotel before I move to the Kairoan bungalows. It’s 7:30 a.m. I’m wide awake, my heart racing while I sit on the office chair with my gaze transfixed on the exit.
It’s not the white invoice resting on the floor that drew my attention; it’s the rap, rap, rapping on my hotel room door.
The Kairoan Bungalows is what the hotel industry calls a “destination hotel.” It’s tucked away into one of the streets West of the 111, walking distance from the Palm Springs Country Club. The entrance boasted Moraccan doors in the shape of keyholes. Luminous hints of azure and rich Mediterranian blues saturated the earthy Moroccan tones of the bungalows. It was a compound-style set-up; six bungalows surrounded the perimeter. Besides the courtyard fountain, the pool served as the crown jewel of the space. When the sun fell, the deep greens and pearlescent blue tiles sparkled under the water's surface.
Before Lockdown, I catered a wedding here. I always wanted to experience this level of luxury, being surrounded in a state of beauty and relaxation. Who knew the secret was being friends with Benny and Johnny to manifest my dreams into a reality?
In fact, there was one day when we just lounged by the pool all day. Benny and Johnny recounted the events following their wedding party, which took place here. I sat in one of the hammocks, sipping a seltzer, while Johnny described one of his closest friends doing the biggest cannonball.
“Pablo, he climbed that tree and jumped. I thought he was gonna die. But when I tell you the size of the splash he made when he cannonballed into the pool…”
He could have been reciting an article from the newspaper’s business section and I would still be enthralled. Is this euphoria? Is this peace, listening to someone telling me a story for once while I rested on a hammock by the pool with my friends? Or is this seltzer getting to me?
“You wanna smoke a joint with me?” Benny offered. “There’s a space in the back with a couple lounge chairs.”
“I thought we couldn’t smoke here?”
“It’s just us renting the space. They don’t mind. C’mon.”
I left Johnny and my hammock and followed Benny. The lounge chairs were tucked behind some bushes. A barbecue grill creeped in the corner, a prop, because we know people don’t grill in this hidden space.
It’s funny how, on a Wednesday afternoon, all of your problems can disappear in a place like this. Somehow, my work and my problems seemed so far away, especially as I took a drag from Benny’s joint.
“How do you do it?” I asked.
“How do I do what?”
“How do you commit to one person?” I asked. “To experience this kind of living?”
“It takes work; but, with the right person, it’s the easiest thing anyone can do. I’m very lucky to have someone like Johnny.”
“And how long was it before you two made that commitment?”
“The moment he showed up at my door. He flew across the country to meet me. Now we have a home, with some amazing friends we get to call family. People like you.”
I blushed as I handed the joint back to him. It was nice to have someone like Benny on my side.
“I think the better question I should ask is, how do you do it?”
“By fucking it up.”
When I moved to LA, I ended my relationship with You. I couldn’t stand enduring a long-distance relationship on my own. So, on moving day, I broke up with him in Irvine. Twelve hours later, I stepped in dog shit in my apartment. My roommate worked the art department for a Ryan Murphy show. He was always on set and never had time to care for his dogs, so he let them shit all over the living room. It was a fun surprise to discover, between my toes, not just on my first day as an Angelino, but on the hottest day in the valley. Every day in that apartment was like a booby trap, where is the hidden shit this time? Oh, it’s in the shower.
In an El Pollo Loco, I cried to You on the phone. Forty-eight hours after we broke up, we sat at a park facing ABC television studios, sharing a bottle of champagne I stole on my last day at my hotel job. As the sun descended behind the mountains, we patched things up and opened our relationship. It allowed me to meet people without consequence, especially because he would not be in town as often.
“All I ask is that you just be safe.” He requested.
In my campaigning to break into a writer’s room, I would meet two people, Mentor and Editor. My Editor would later give me a glowing recommendation for my residency. I met Mentor while sitting at Bullet Bar in North Hollywood. They were showing the movie, “Fifty Shades of Grey.” I scoffed, ridiculing this Twilight fan-fic by asking if they could just put the BDSM porn back on.
“She was one of my students.” Someone next to me muttered.
I struck up a conversation with Mentor. He just got served divorce papers. Fifteen years with his partner, he didn’t know where to go but the gay bar down the street. I offered to help him. I helped him move into a new apartment and transition into a newly-single life. In return, he helped me build my writing career. With his contacts, I met some iconic writers and producers like Max Mutchnick, Jamie Babbit, and Joey Saloway. What was exchanged in between were intimate moments in and out of the bedroom.
It all came to a halt when You found a text thread on my computer. Threatened by the possibility of losing me to Hollywood, he closed up the relationship—with it, my relationship to my Mentor—that is, until two nights ago.
Last Call at the Eagle, I sat at the bar with Wes, Greg, and Hudson when I saw my Mentor enter the bar. He moved to Palm Springs. I met up with him the next day to catch up over drinks. The following morning, before I moved to the Kairoan Bungalows, he stood outside my hotel room.
I watched his feet face me from under the hotel door. I faced him. I wanted to face him without clothes on, just like before. Despite my wants and desires, I remained planted in my chair. Terrified that the moment I would do this, it would mean confronting my deepest fear, a life independent.
Back to your old ways. I heard in my head. When will you ever learn?
I felt like Jan Brady listening to voices in her head. Her gaze staring off, just past the camera, tilting this way and that. Just answer the door. Don’t act like you didn’t prep for this encounter.
It’s funny how, even as I write this, I still deny the want/desire of another encounter. When I find a good thing, I tend to sit on it. Perhaps the memory of the moment, the intimacy, the closeness, the security I felt with him was something I needed. It was something I feared I might never find with You. Because You are in Portland and I am here.
Still, I remained fixed to my chair. Why must I continue to cut closer and closer to the edge? It’s like filling a wine glass. The golden liquid fills its parabolic enclosure. It reaches the top and, instead of spilling over, it billows over the top, creating a meniscus. The surface tension holds as you ease more liquid in. How many more drops, how much more can it take before it breaks?
I’m certainly not asking for accolades for being brave. Hell, I cringe even writing this. Here it will stay, written proof. I wanted answers, someone to move the plot forward with my life. Would I find it on my Mentor’s dick? No, but it would feel good, and I wanted respite.
It’s why I had to ask Benny about commitment between drags of our shared joint. I was ashamed when I saw my Mentor eventually leave. I was ashamed of my own actions. The shadows of his footsteps disappeared, returning light to the slit under my doorway. He texted me, but I dared not look at the messages. Even more embarrassed when I realize that as long as I’m in this relationship with You, I’m doomed always to want more. Perhaps I am ashamed for wanting these wants and needs and pushing myself ever closer to breaking the surface tension. Perhaps that’s why I am drinking so much. If I can’t feel love, I’ll just feel numb…if not, hungover.
It’s better than feeling alone.
It’s funny how, even ten years into a relationship, I still feel lost with You. I’m just winging it to prevent the imposter syndrome from kicking in. I wanted to be like Benny and Johnny. How much I long for a life where my adventures aren’t just written on paper, but instead spread across the threads along life’s tapestry, hung up perfectly along a wall with the others.
“Do you see an end goal? You know, where he either moves down here or you move up there permanently?” Benny coughed.
I mentioned that to him a couple of times. It usually occurred around the holy trinity of holidays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and his birthday. I offered to take time off work and come up, but he made plans to be with his family in Medford, six hours south of Portland. A family who doesn’t accept this lifestyle. They will love him, but anyone else from this side of his life will get shunned and politely be asked to leave. This lonely feeling hits hardest around the holidays because, within the past four years, I have often spent it alone in my apartment, sick and forced to shelter in place. I am happy to work because my regulars, my friends, have become family. I have regulars who catch me up on their family drama while I pour another round. In fact, some guests would fix a plate to bring to me while I worked. Like Benny, who showed up on his way to work on Christmas evening and left his mom’s pot roast on the second-floor landing outside my apartment.
“I just want to know what I need to do,” I replied.
“Be honest. With him. With yourself.” Benny advised. “What do you want?”
“It’s not that simple.” How I hate that question because I’m only channeling the one romance movie I abhor.
“It is.” Benny insisted. “Pablo, you’d be surprised what you can get simply by asking for it. That’s something you should be doing more.”
I tilted my head, perked, curious for him to elaborate.
“Speak up! Be honest!” Benny insisted, the smoky endtrails of the joint suspended mid-air while his hand gestures drew a smoky line. “It’s funny how someone with the biggest mouth in Hillcrest can get all quiet when asked to know his wants and needs.”
“All my life I was told to keep quiet. Or, as a child, I was instructed that if I had to ask, it was an automatic no.” We shared a laugh as he passed the joint over. “So why bother asking if it’s gonna be a no.”
“You’re overdue for a world full of yes.”
I smiled. I wanted to hug him. In hindsight, I think Benny is like Rafiki, a sage mentor who will lovingly *boop* you with a stick until you understand. We all deserve to have a friend like Benny, someone who is patient enough to endure our bullshit.
“What better time to change that than now? Stop thinking like a barback and start acting like a bartender. Stop servicing other people’s needs when your own aren’t being met. Like that one time with Cole and the ice.”
“You’re right. I’m just scared of what I’ll get.”
“You’ll get what you want and, sometimes, deserve. It’s important to discern which is which.” Benny advised.
Benny snuffed the joint along the back of its glass container. As we stood up, he hugged me. “I hope you find that person one day. Someone who can make a commitment as easy as waking up without a hangover in the morning…even if it is with yourself.”
Does such a person exist?
Benny and I hugged. “We should head back. Hudson and Greg will be here soon, and I want to ensure we finish that tequila before the moochers arrive.”
We were too late, Greg found the tequila. Good tequila. He was pouring shots for everyone. “I figured, since we’re going out, might as well start off with shots!”
As bartenders, Benny and Johnny are one of the essential public figures within our queer community. We look up to them and see an honest and loving couple. You could find that love when they hand you the drink you deserve. You feel it when they give you a hug as you leave the bar, the same hug you got when you arrived.
If there was one thing I learned on this trip, it is that not a single moment passes by without some random stranger saying hi to Benny. Thirty years as a bartender will do that. You earn the reputation of being that guy who helped you through a breakup. When you refused to go home for Thanksgiving to avoid another argument around politics, it was always Benny who poured you another shot and introduced you to someone at the bar, someone who you would later take home for the night, for a reason, a season, or for a lifetime.
Or he’s the friend who encourages me to stand up for myself, like just now, when everyone ordered happy hour margaritas at the table, and I insisted on ordering El Tesoro tequila on the rocks.
Benny jeered, “Such a queen.”
“Did you not just tell me to express my wants while smoking a joint? My liver wants — if not needs — to be massaged in better tequila.”
On the drive back home, I felt a shift happen within. When I clocked in that Tuesday, I felt more assertive. I became that executive business woman at the end of a Lifetime movie, liberated and ready to stand up for herself. I just hope whoever plays me in the biopic that it’s Marlee Matlin.
