No Church in the Wild Read online

  “Grot. What’s yours?”

  “Bacchus.”

  “That ain’t your real name. What kind of name is that?”

  “It is my name. It’s the same kind of name as Grot, I suppose.”

  He smiled. “You made yours up too?”

  “It found me.”

  “Are you a god of wine?” Grot, the scholar!

  “Of wine and debauchery, or so I try.”

  “Do you succeed?” Had he grown more eloquent?

  “Grot, I am an abysmal failure.”

  “At making debauchery?”

  “For myself, at least. Wine, I manage.”

  “Here I thought Bacchus made debauchery for other people. But I got extra debauchery.” He reached into his pocket and flipped a nug up to me with the top of his thumb. Without thinking, I reached up and snatched it with my left hand, one simple motion.

  “You do have a magic cock!”

  I looked at the bud I now held, thinking on his words. This, I did want. “Tell me how I might repay you.”

  “Cigarette?”

  I took a ten out of my back pocket and held it out to him. “Buy yourself a pack.”

  “See, I told you I had me a silver tongue!”

  “I stand corrected. Enjoy your evening, darling. May you continue to have more success than me.”

  And with that I turned and started hiking uphill, toward my cold, empty bed. I felt a sort of mental itch, and my instinct was to try not to scratch.

  As soon as my head hit my pillow, I began to dream, feeling very presently in a place of my own historic obsession:

  There’s a faint dripping, but the marbled floors are dry. My naked toes curl on a mosaic of Neptune on the floor, leading my eyes up to my naked legs and my naked torso. I blink, wondering how the sun has projected so brightly in this vaulted space, the curved ceiling reflecting orphan light between marble polishes.

  I look inside, and I see a long shelf along the wall, with little frescoes identifying eight stalls, and there are eight more that remain obscured, and rows of sectioned baskets sit below each of the first eight stalls, along the wall, on the floor, and I realize I know the place. I’ve studied it. The Suburban Baths of Pompeii. From the sparkle on it, Vesuvius can’t have covered it yet. The opulence of the marble overwhelms me. Along my right I see the frescoes, forming an ancient erotic storyline, as I step forward to look into the first panel, wondering endlessly at the shine and newness of the interior, and at the frescoes themselves.

  Suddenly I awoke into cool light, feeling different still.

  Then all the charm

  Is broken – all that phantom-world so fair

  Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread

  And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile,

  Poor youth! Who scarcely dar’st lift up thine eyes-

  The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon

  The visions will return! And lo, he stays,

  And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms

  Come trembling back, unite, and now once more

  The pool becomes a mirror.

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, note to “Kubla Khan”

  What Had Happened Was

  One night Samuel Taylor Coleridge passed out in an opiate revelry and dreamt a visit to Eden. He rattled off the sights, rivers streaming to soundless sea and all, until he came across a wild-eyed poet, incredible in appearance. Engulfed in wonder, he was jerked awake in an untimely fashion by that monstrous bitch, consciousness. This Kubla Khan metaphor reappears in all facets of my life, but I never recognize it until it’s too late. It was consciousness’ bitchiness that had begun the six weeks of indulgent doldrums leading me toward that Halloween.

  It began in mid-September. From time to time I would visit a bar on a weeknight, but never without a good reason and not all that frequently. One evening, my good friend Jackson had requested accompaniment to a “scene” in the Castro to drink off a rough day. I obliged, never one to deny a friend a drinking buddy in his time of need, especially when things were quiet at work.

  I’d barely eaten all day, and I sustained a high level of default klutziness even without alcohol. Upon our arrival in the Castro, we headed for Churchill, ordered two Manhattans, and Jackson paid. Dey was strong. We chatted idly, and I felt myself slap up against drunk far too quickly.

  To repay Jackson, whose well-meaning job paid him, at least for the time being, much less than my ill-meaning job paid me, I bought all subsequent rounds. When we contemplated round four I knew it would be my last, for I could barely stand without swaying. And yet, for some reason, back to the bartender I went.

  I waited for what seemed like twenty minutes, forced to occupy myself by surveying the other occupants of the bar. This was a curious place, a new scene, decorated like a lounge trying to be a club, with pool tables tucked in the back like a dive bar. It sported sleek wooden beams and industrial furniture to match the signage outside. Its clientele was curious. This was the northernmost end of the Castro, adjacent to the straighter neighborhoods of the City. There were as many straight folks in there that evening as there were “gays.” Most of the women looked straight (hags?) and half the men did too.

  Jackson was annoyed: “Like they don’t have enough of their own bars they have to come up in here and try to usurp ours. Fuckers.”

  I was no straight-hater. The straight men in the bar who might want me made up for all the females present with no interest in me. The issue was in telling the difference. In females, I’d undoubtedly gravitate toward the straight girls, the lipstick lesbians, or whatever moniker you feel like assigning to women who look more like stereotypical women than stereotypical men. Most of those girls really just wanted men, I supposed, though in this City they’d probably be willing to make out. Any man that looked straight might be a straight-looking gay man, any man that looked gay could just be metrosexual. The only way I knew to tell the difference was to make eye contact and see if I got a look of curiosity back. Unfortunately, my success rate with this method left something to be desired well before my Halloween outing, and I had been no more successful this night. I decided I was much better off waiting to be hit on by one or the other.

  I hadn’t dressed to be hit on that night. When Jackson said he wanted out I showered and put on mascara, ignoring the need to style or even dry my hair, cover the purple loops beneath my eyes, or line my eyes so there was something interesting about their color. I threw on jeans, a t-shirt, and my best pair of sweat-shoes. I wouldn’t have held eye contact with me either. Eventually I turned back in the general direction of the bartender, shoulders slumping, trying to make cleavage in the hope that one of them was straight and would hurry the fuck up.

  Out of nowhere, the girl to my left, who seemed previously engaged with her friend, turned toward me, wide-eyed.

  “Hi,” she offered. This one looked straight, and she had a girlish high-pitched voice. Just another hag seeking fag. But, she was gorgeous, considerably more so than most in the bar. Slight form but my height, big hazel eyes, long blonde hair, tiny round nose. She had bright, fair skin that almost appeared to have light beneath it.

  “Hi there.” As she was merely being polite, having turned to face me from a foot away, I saw no reason to occupy her attention beyond the requisite courtesies. I smiled lightly and started to turn away, passively appreciating her beauty.

  “What’s your name?” At this, I cocked my head and most certainly appeared confused. But, I thought, this hot straight girl is drunk. Maybe she just wants drunk bar friends. Then again, this was my least favorite question, at least from someone I’d just met.

  “Claire,” I lied. You?”

  “Holy shit! That’s my name too!” She reached over and slapped my bicep with the back of her hand, gently, corroborating the “no way!” tone of her voice.

  With that, I grimaced. Way to pick the wrong fake name.

  “Crazy. So what’s your story, Claire?” Once I’d posed the question I glance
d back at the bartenders and caught one of their eyes, so I jerked my chin up a bit to request a visit before I turned back to this girl.

  “What’s my story? Ha, I don’t know. I just moved here from the East Coast. I took my first sales job.” She shrugged. “Not much of a story, I guess.” But she turned on her stool, squaring her shoulders to me. The bartender appeared and I asked for two more Manhattans, though at that point it probably sounded more like “due mat ends, peeze.”

  “What are you selling?”

  “Proxy printing services.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. My office phone rang several times a day because some asshole thought his non-deal on high-end “printing” was worth interrupting a workday that started at 6am and ended after 8pm most of the time, with no rest of the wicked happening in between. When I felt guilty and wasn’t in the middle of something I’d answer the phone and politely tell them I was all set, but usually I just screened the call or ignored the email. Credit Suisse didn’t need me finding them deals for such things, anyways.

  “Wait, why is that funny?”

  “Because I’m a banker. I get calls from you guys constantly.” Her face lit up.

  “You’re a banker? Really? Because I’ll soon be issued a corporate card to take your people out. Maybe I can take you out to dinner?” She was a little drunk too, because she reached out and wrapped her fingers around my shoulder while she waited for the answer.

  Normally I would have just declined. My dinners away from the office were rare enough and I couldn’t really buy anything from her. I had enough hot straight female friends to fuck with my head until the end of time. There was no reason to accept.

  But I thought, sure, hot girl, you can take me to dinner, and I said “Um… okay.”

  “Awesome! I don’t have cards yet, but I’ll give you my cell phone number.”

  At the time, it did not occur to me at all that this was outside of protocol. In hindsight, her approach was absurd. In the moment, I gratefully jotted down the hot girl’s phone number. Then I realized she’d save me as “Claire” when I called.

  “Oh. Um. Wow this is awkward.”

  Her confusion was apparent. She hesitated, then started to say, “I mean I understand if…”

  I cut her off. “No, look I’m happy to have dinner or whatever with you, but something you should know.” The Mat Ends appeared at this most inopportune moment, so I handed the bartender a 20 before I turned back to her.

  Now she looked more terrified than confused.

  “My name’s not really Claire.” Scared became suspicious, with a touch of confused mixed back in. “I wasn’t trying to play you or anything, but I’m a little drunk and I hate telling the story of my name, so sometimes if I think I’m just passing through someone I just make one up. Like, my friend Arul introduces himself as ‘Adam’ at Starbucks and stuff. Same principle. I know it’s a little weird. Weirder that I happened to pick your name—”

  “Yeah, that is pretty fucking weird.”

  “That I picked your name or that I lied?”

  “Both.”

  I leaned my head to the right and nodded what I thought was slightly, to tell her she was right.

  “So what’s your real name?”

  “Bacchus. Professionally.” Now her head cocked slightly right.

  “Oh. Okay. There’s a story?”

  “That I hate telling, yes.”

  “Well, then I won’t ask.” She smiled anew.

  “Thank you.”

  “But you will call me or text me, right?”

  “I will.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Awesome.” I smiled a sheepish smile, said goodbye, and walked back to Jackson with our Manhattans.

  “That hot straight girl just may have hit on me,” I explained to justify the length of time I’d stood at the bar. I summarized the story, noting that I assumed she wanted to take me out to try to sell me stuff I couldn’t buy. He shrugged, and we moved on briefly, until she abrupted herself in front of us about a minute later.

  “Hey! We’re going, but I just wanted to tell you again… well it was good meeting you and I hope you do call.”

  “Don’t worry, I will. This is Jackson,” and I gestured in his general direction.

  “Hi!”

  “Hi.”

  “Jackson, this is Claire.” He nodded.

  “I was afraid your friend would forget me, so I was working on one last bit of face time.” As she finished her sentence she moved toward me and prodded her knee against the inside of my thigh. Jackson and I both jumped immeasurably at the gesture.

  Jackson proceeded to ask her all the questions I’d already told him the answers to, digging in farther on her job and what exactly it required her to do. At the time, I didn’t realize he was checking to make sure her answers were consistent. But they were. She engaged him as she’d engaged me, finding ways to make contact with my leg a few more times in the process, before she excused herself and followed her friend out the door, turning back to me to say “see you later!” as she did.

  “Don’ worry, you will.” I wouldn’t have kept repeating, but I was drunk.

  And she was gone. I turned back to Jackson. “She does look straight, right? I mean, to the extent I believe in straight, that would be it?”

  He pursed his lips and drawled out a “yeah…”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was flirting with me.”

  I’d wondered that night what exactly it would feel like to go out on a dinner date with another girl I’d just met. At that moment I’d never really done such a thing, though I’d been with women and had dinners with women I was sleeping with, in love with, even. But I’d been with those women either as a lusting friend or as a friendship turned to lust. My real first dates up until I met this Claire had been with men. I was planning dates with a boy or two as of that very night. Going out with a girl must be different, right? (It wasn’t.)

  There was something about a happy, upbeat, fun girl, but to be real, I was into the fact that she’d seemed purposefully seductive. I hadn’t had to use my faulty game on her. I reminded myself of her being incentivized to be amenable for work purposes. Maybe she was just a siren. I waited until noon the following day, hungover and still unable to drag myself from the bed, to text her hello in between answering my work emails, in each case moving only my thumbs from a prostrate pose.

  She responded quickly, and I was encouraged. We chatted briefly before trailing off. It was almost two weeks later that she reached back out, and our texting resumed on similar notes.

  Upon her reappearance, I wondered at the fact that I found her so beautiful. Quite rare for me to find someone deeply beautiful, wasn’t it? Someone I didn’t already love? But what was it of this meeting that struck me so?

  To be so openly desired, so openly coveted! I’ve failed so often in the past!

  I’d managed to ignore not having been coveted for her two weeks of silence up through the moment she had texted to ask me when we could meet up.

  Well. Soon. We texted back and forth to plan. I was thoroughly enjoying chatting with her. From only those texts, she seemed intelligent, and I was encouraged. I had a work thing that very evening… too bad... maybe something after I made a brief appearance? As a justification for abandoning my plans, I mentioned that I might not be able to stay long at the banker shindig anyway – there was a chance my lesbian stalker would be there and, if she were, I’d have to bounce in a hurry.

  “I can’t wait to hear that story. I hope I don’t become your lesbian stalker.”

  I tapped the proverbial mind-brakes. A straight girl would not have that reaction. Almost against my will, I let myself get excited. Maybe she was up for the girl thing. Maybe she was “gay,” or, even better, “bi.”

  Something nagged at me, telling me to be suspicious, but I wrote it off as overabundant cynicism. Besides, I wasn’t sending her love tomes or anything. I was just into it. I was allowed to be into it. If I d
idn’t let myself be into something every now and then I wasn’t really alive. Right?

  The texting continued, and I finally just invited her along. She arrived slightly after I did, but she opened with “wow, you look hot,” so I didn’t sweat it. As we stood to the side of the crowd, talking to each other, I grew more and more impressed by how good a mood she seemed to be in. I was so accustomed to melancholy, overworked people. She told me how she’d come to be in San Francisco, describing a whirlwind 20s that had taken her back and forth across coasts since college. Then she fanned the flames of hope.

  “So you have to tell me about your lesbian stalker…”

  I smiled, forming an O with my mouth and drawling on it, deciding where to begin. After all, I hadn’t yet mentioned whether a lesbian’s being into me was something I was happy about in the abstract.

  “Ohhhh… well… so there was an out lesbian in another Credit Suisse office and we were working on a deal together. I knew she was out, but I… well, I’m bi, and I didn’t— ”

  She lit up and cut me off: “I’m bi too!” Excellent.

  “Really? Cause you look pretty straight.”

  “Ha! Yeah…” Excellent.

  I began to explain, “I mean, if I’m being honest, I usually date – like meet out and go out with to get to know – men. With girls, it’s usually just that it sort of came up that I fell for someone and, if it happens, it skips the whole dating part.” I debated whether to call this instance out as an exception and decided that would be too forward. “But, I mean, it happens, it has for a while, although it was only a few years ago that I reached the point where I felt like I understood what it was… and then I got to try to explain that to my parents, which was interesting….”

  She laughed suddenly. “My parents found out when I got sent home from a high school class trip for making out with my best friend on the bus.”

  Now I laughed, a laugh of respect and envy. I did appreciate a solid set of cajones, after all. “Did they freak out?”

  “Not really. My mom sort of asked if I had feelings about women… but she didn’t really know what to ask. But after that, it was always sort of… on the table…”