The Nomadic Life

Don't Look Ethel

Chapter 29

A flip of the coin. Is that how I decide between San Francisco and San Diego? No, I wish. That would certainly make for a better start to the story. But the truth is, the decision is made based on how San Francisco handled the AIDS crisis.

"Why not New York?" you might ask. As I’ve said before, I honestly don’t think I would have survived there or even would be alive today had I chosen that city. I have a history of making reckless choices, and I know myself well enough to understand that New York would have been too much for me.

No, I do not leave this choice to chance. I choose a city I know something about. While San Diego’s reputation in the gay community remains a mystery to me, the city by the bay has intrigued me since the 1980s. There are several things which captured my attention regarding San Francisco, one such anomaly being the guy dressed in leather from the Village People. To a country boy who never saw anyone in real life dressed like that, well, let’s just say I found it “interesting.”

There was more to my decision than chasing a fantasy. The reports on the AIDS quilt were inspirational and a courageous young man, who, in an interview referred to himself at the “poster boy” for what at that time was known as GRIDS. Witnessing his bravery and the pride he displayed when speaking about his struggle against the stigmatism that the general population associated with it made me feel close to the people there. These stories spark a sense of belonging and resilience allowing my heart to make the easy choice.

This information may have been over ten years old, but I still heard more about San Francisco than San Diego. I finally set my sights on the city by the bay. Even though HIV and AIDS remain health concerns today, years of public awareness and understanding give me the confidence to know as long as I err on the side of caution, I will be alright. I have always protected myself and those around me by treating intimate interactions with care and respect.

I never move to a new state without first “trying it on for size.” Every city has its own flavor, culture, and vibe. Two weeks is usually enough for me to decide if a certain city has the potential to be called home. Chicago, for instance, shows promise at first, but the biting winters and the lack of a genuine and supportive community leave me feeling empty after a couple weeks of wandering the streets and frequenting its bars.

I give the city by the bay two weeks to impress me.

During the five-hour plane ride there I lay out my plans. I will talk to locals, immerse myself in the atmosphere, and, of course, visit Castro Street.

Once finally settled in San Francisco, I head out for my first meal during which I hear a few locals laughing about buses filled with curious onlookers driving through the Castro district. They talk of tourists who gawk at same-sex couples openly walking down the street hand in hand. I chuckle inwardly visualizing the scene: an older gentleman sitting uncomfortably on the bus as he covers his wife’s eyes yelling, “Don’t look, Ethel!” But, of course, it’s too late, she has already seen what their god has told them is so sinful and taboo.

I arrive back at my weekly rental in the Tenderloin. My research barely mentioned this neighborhood, and it appears acceptable during the day. The room is clean and pest-free, which are my only two requirements. The nights, however, show me how woefully unprepared I am for the chaos just outside my window. A tip for fellow nomads: never pay two weeks’ rent in advance before staying at least one night. It is best to choose a Saturday when the streets are at their most alive. It’s the best way to gauge what you’re getting into.

It is too late now, and the decision is driven partly by necessity, I simply cannot afford plush accommodations. I reassure myself, “Suck it up, big boy, you won’t be spending too much time in this room anyway.” I’ve survived worse places before, like that dreary boarding house in Mathiston. At least this city has access to reliable and affordable public transportation.

I rarely unpack my belongings, choosing instead to carry my valuables with me wherever I go, which consist mainly of clothing.

Today, I learn another valuable lesson: what’s in style in New Orleans isn’t necessarily what’s cool in San Francisco. My clothes, though not outdated, do not suit the local climate or the fashion-forward sensibilities of San Franciscans. Once again, I stand out like a sore thumb.

As a nomad, you learn to be resourceful early on. In an overheard conversation, two people discussing a place called “Worn Out West,” a secondhand store in the Castro district that buys and sells gently used clothing, grabs my attention. Being conveniently located and right off the bus route it sounds like a place certainly worth checking out. I can refresh my wardrobe and explore the neighborhood at the same time.

Stepping inside, I feel uncertain, reserved and slightly ashamed. I don’t know how to approach the clerk. Money is tight, and until I find a bar where I can hustle some pool games, I am in a bit of a bind.

I watch and wait, observing how others interact. A man with a garbage bag full of clothes approaches the counter. The clerk picks through the pile, selecting only a few items. The conversation appears to grow tense as the man angerly protests.

“I need to see a manager,” I overhear, “these are handmade gowns! I sewed every sequin myself!”

“Well, sweetie,” the clerk says with a calm smile, “sequins are out this year. And today, I am the manager.”

The man huffs but chooses to accept the offer.

“That’s all there is to it?” I think to myself. “You just lay your things on the counter and let someone decide their worth? Well, I can certainly do that.”

I approach the counter hesitantly stuttering slightly. “I am not sure how this works?”  

“Well, we buy, sell and trade gently used clothing. If you choose cash, the amount we give is less than if you choose store credit, and honey, I have to tell you… you darling,” he says making a “head to toe” gesture with his arm, “are total kitsch. I’d buy that outfit right off your back to get a rise out of my husband, total hillbilly chic.”

I stare blankly, partly in shock, and partially pissed because he called me a hillbilly.

Noticing the change in my demeanor, he quickly redirects the conversation.

“I didn’t mean to upset you hon, it really was meant as a complement.”

Just then, a large intimidating bearded man steps out from a back room, hands the clerk a stack of receipts, and disappears without acknowledging me.

“Friendly sort,” I remark.

“All business, that one,” he says with a wink.

I unzip my bag, laying out my offerings on the glass display cabinet. An old army jacket with sergeant patches still attached, several flannel shirts, a pair of faded 501 button flies and a jean jacket with a colorful bedazzled Pegasus on the back (an impulse buy I instantly regretted in New Orleans), and a pair of motorcycle riding chaps with tacky cowboy fringe.

The clerk’s eyes light up as he gasps, “Oh my god! Where did you find these?” he says holding up the chaps and continues “I just have to have these. We have a party coming up, and they are just the cat’s pajamas!”

I tell him they were purchased as part of a Mardi Gras costume, but a jealous ex had my invitation for the gala revoked so I never got the chance to wear them.

I watch as he rings up the items, tallying up my worth.

“For store credit, I can give you $85,” he says. “But for the chaps, I’ll give you $100 cash, if you’re willing to part with them.”

That’s $185 total. I’m speechless.

He mistakes my silence for hesitation. “Okay, okay, $150 for the chaps. I’ll never find another pair like these.”

$235, frankly $100 more than I ever expected.

“Sounds good to me,” I say, barely believing my luck.

I look around and take inventory of the other customers in the store, I note several couples dressed in complementary styles. Rugged men wearing shiny black boots with their plaid shirts open all the way down to their navels, as thick tufts of chest hair peek out teasing any onlookers. They impatiently watch as their partners pick out button down shirts and khaki pants for themselves. “Opposites truly do attract.” I think to myself and ponder, “Which style do I want to embody?” I am neither overly macho nor too passive. I want to look attractive but not appear like I am trying to imitate others. Tired of adapting endlessly to others’ expectations, I’m determined to discover who I truly am.

After selecting three shirts and three pairs of pants, I tally my purchases in my head. When the clerk rings up my items the total comes to just over $90. The unexpected and inexpensive prices cause a rush of elation. Having more cash in my pocket than expected, I head to Daddy’s bar for an afternoon cocktail to celebrate this unexpected win fall.

The afternoon melts into evening, and by 7 p.m. I’m comfortably tipsy from drinking on an empty stomach. I grab a quick slice of pizza from the restaurant next door before catching the bus back to the Tenderloin. As I exit the pizza parlor clutching my slice, supported only by a flimsy paper plate and my drunk and shaking hand, an elderly man rushes toward me holding my bag, shouting, “Hey you left your…” I nearly drop my pizza and scramble to retrieve my belongings.

Grateful and a bit embarrassed, I thank him and reach for my wallet. “Now, put that away,” he insists with a gentle smile, remarking on my odd habit of bringing gym clothes to a bar. I offer to buy him a slice for his kindness, but he refuses. I can’t help noticing his eyes light up. There is something undeniably warm and genuine, yet creepy about him. Though I try not to stare, I’m drawn to his simple, kind nature.

I insist on buying him a slice, but he refuses. Then, I notice, his gaze keeps dropping to… well, me. And I realize something else: this old guy is excited.

I quickly mumble a thank-you and hurry away, suddenly very aware of my own flustered and similar reaction.

Embarrassed yet thankful, I make up a reason to excuse myself mentioning the 22 is about to show up and I do not want to miss it. I feel a pang of regret for not talking with him longer. My heart hints at a connection I dare not explore too openly.

I spend those two weeks in San Francisco, and during my final days, I run into the older man again. I learn he usually hangs out at Twin Peaks, a spot that caters to an older crowd. We meet there a couple of times, and each encounter fills me with warmth and a sense of belonging. On my last weekend in town, he even offers his guest room and a ride to the airport, even walking me all the way to the departure gate. Though the gesture overwhelms me, it is profoundly romantic and cements my decision to call this vibrant city my new home.

Every day spent in San Francisco, I grew a little braver, a little more myself, and I especially cherish the unexpected moments of kindness shown to me by everyone. It is these type of encounters which continue to guide me on this incredible journey.