Late Night Ramen

 
We've had many exploits. A good amount involve booze and drugs. They culminated in almost burning down the apartment thanks to late night ramen. We should have seen it coming. Well...he did. I just ignored it.

It was someone's birthday, and my partner was out of town leaving the door wide open for crystal-laced antics. We had a tiny amount and shared it among the two of us. It wasn't enough, so we chased it with cheap tequila. The music pumped either Janet Jackson, Madonna, or some random disco tune, and we danced through our Castle getting ready to gow out throwing feathers and glitter and leather all over the place. A drag queen exploded.

We left the apartment and began our crawl looking for trouble along the way. She stood across the street in a rainbow-silver mini-dress. It was the same as the one in my closet. Her bright red 5-inch platform heels didn't match. Emboldened by intoxication, I approached, my black mesh sleeveless shirt and black and red boa a perfect compliment to her outfit.

"Hey honey. How are you?"

"What do you want, sugar?"

"We're looking for trouble tonight. Know where we could find any?"

"Sugar, dressed like that touble'll find you."

We laughed, kissed cheeks, and went our separate ways. The search continued.

After a few bars, some dancing, and more tequila, vodka, and Jagermeister, we wobbled from Polk street to SOMA, hopeful our quest would be fruitful there. We prowled the backrooms of My Place and Powerhouse and a variety of alleys each time getting a little more drunk, obnoxious, and belligerent. We were on a collision course leading directly to A Taste of Leather and the man dressed in black, a cap shading his eyes, whispering, "K, e, speed, and coke. K, e, speed, and coke."

We pulled out our wallets and counted our change.

"What will $20 get us?"

"Here," and he handed us a small baggie of something transparent white in small rock form as he took our money. "Have fun." He moved on. We stayed put.

"What the hell is this?"

"Looks like speed. Only way to tell is to do it."

"Who's going first?"

"I will! It's my birthday."

We crushed it up, and it was gone in four quick snorts.

There was more booze, some anonymous backroom sex, and a couple of pinball games. Then, everything closed and we were forced to stagger back to our Castle.

"I'm soooo hungry!"

"Me too. We should've had dinner."

"Let's go get food."

"I'm broke. I spent everything I had on drinks and that random shit we did."

"Ho you feeling?"

"I just want to fucking eat! Other than that I am fucking FANTASTIC!"

"Let's go grab some Thai food from Osha. It's cheap. I'll pay."

"Only if we bring it back here. I don't want to sit in the fucking florescent lights."

We managed to call in an order, pick it up, and bring it back to the apartment. Our feast of pad thai, fried tofu, and larb sat between us; chopsticks in both of our hands.

"This is SO good! I have an idea!"

"Oh god no."

"No really. This will be fabulous. You gotta trust me."

"No...I don't trust you."

"Come on! Come on!"

My goading prodded him further. Our feast turned into a mess. Noodles stuck to my face and sauce dripped from my chin. I qwnr in to the kitchen, pulled out a pot, and filled it with water.

"We need ramen!"

"What? We already have food."

"I know. And what would go better with our feast than some Top Ramen?"

It was one of those ideas that drugs makes good.

"We don't need ramen."

"Yes...I think we do."

I put the pot on the stove to boil. We both promptly fell asleep.

He woke up to the stink of the pan burning some hour and a half later. I was still unconscious. He turned off the stove and went back to bed.

The next morning...

"What the hell were you trying to do to me last night? Did you want to kill us?"

"Huh," was all I could muster.

"Ramen...does that ring a bell?"

"Kind of. I think I amde some last night."

"Uh...You started to make some. You were unsuccessful."'

"Really? I could have sworn we had some noodles," as I pulled one still stuck to my cheek.

"That was pad thai. Take a look in the dining room."

Our feast covered the table and spilled on to the floor.

"Wow. That Thai food was really good."

"Then why did you have to make ramen?"

"Because it was a fantastic idea at the time."

"You forgot all about it! I woke up to the pan burning."

"Thank god you were here."

We laughed.

"Yes, thank someone."

I learned my lesson: never listen to that inner voice that says "make ramen" in the early morning hours. Unless your best friend is there to save your life.

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Peace of J-Town

 
We wrestled him to the ground in the middle of J-Town Peace Plaza right in front of the pagoda. We were on a field trip to get ice cream. He was becoming defiant and violent, and we were afraid he would hurt himself and others. He was eight, and his meds affected his thyroid. He was large for his age.

"It's okay everyone...No really. We can do this....It is for your own safety. Please back up. He will hit you."

The crowd grew along with his temper and the five other youths' excitement. We were nearing a chaoric melee.

"Go! Take them all back to the Center. Walk back. We'll catch up." I said as I sat on top of him, his arms pounding the concrete, his legs kicking.

"You sure?" She replied.

"Yes. It'll only get worse if you stay. Keep everyone else safe."

The crowd continued growing.

"Really...I'm certified to do this. It is okay." I flashed my badge.

"No! It's not! I'm pressing charges. You wait and see, you FUCKER! Get of me. I'm going to punch you in the face!" He screamed.

Realizing things were okay-ish, the crowd dissipated. His audience gone, he calmed down.

"Everything's going to be okay." I said to him. "I just want to get home safely. You'll feel better there. I promise."

"I'm fine now. I've calmed down. See." His breathing was normal. His voice low. I stood and helped him up.

"Can we go now," he asked.

"Sure," I said. "We're walking back."

We made it back to the Center safely. I had to drag him a block or two when he realized there would be consequences when we returned. He apologized to everyone as a part of his consequences.

Whenever I return to J-Town, I hear his voice and see his face. Sometimes, I smile at the absurdity of the situation. Sometimes, I'm saddened recalling the story that put him in the Center in the first place. Always, I remember him.

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The Wedding at Ocean's Edge

 
They were married at the ocean's edge by Sister Mary Ralph. It was beautiful, and they were handsome. We all laughed and cried and sang and loved.

That is the purpose of weddings and marriage. That is a right that will never be taken away.

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Bible School at Pine Ridge

 
I've been to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation on the edge of the Badlands in South Dakota twice. They were mission trips organized by a national Christian organization. The first time I was Catholic. The second time I was not. Both trips consisted of painting homes, cultural exchanges, and bible studies. I was fine with two out of the three purposes.

My second year there I almost got sent home. I wasn't just not Catholic. I was anti-Catholic. The memory of seminary was close and couldn't be ignored. Nor could the Christian's role in the genocide of native peoples. I wouldn't teach bible school. It was disingenuous to require bible school for paint.

The leader pulled me aside.

"You have to do what we're here to do or you will go home."

"Then send me home."

My dad was there too. he talked me down. I complied begrudgingly.

Later, I had the opportunity to speak to an elder of the community.

"How do you put up with us? I barely can."'

"You accept what help you can."

"But...I mean Christianity has done so much harm. How do you reconcile harm against the good?"

"Listening is not the same as accepting or condoning. There are good lessons Jesus taught. They are in line with our history and story. Pay attention to those lessons."

I am still grappling with that wisdom today.

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The Scratched Cornea

 
I scratched my cornea dancing one night when my flailing arms ended up poking me in the eye. It was painful and sent me home immediately. It was the night before my brother's confirmation.

I awoke the next morning barely able to keep my eye open, tears dripping rhythmically down my cheek. It was going to be a long day. I thought about not going, but wanted to be there for my brother. I got dressed, and my parents picked my up.

"What happened," asked my mom.

I told her.

Suddenly, my accident was purposeful and meant to ruin the day. I argued back.

"Uh...no it'd not. It was a total accident!"

"You're going out wasn't an accident."

I didn't disagree.

We arrived at the Cathedral in St. Paul. Everyone piled in to the church. My family took a seat near the front. I didn't want to be that close. Still my eye kept dripping and madly blinking.

"Are you okay?"

"What happened?"

"That looks like it hurts."

"I'm fine...It was an accident...Yes, it hurts, but I'll be fine."

Mass started. The stand, sit, kneel, stand again commenced. I sat the entire time. My parents grew more agitated with my actions. They were deliberate.

Then came Communion. The entire row rose and proceeded to empty into the aisle. I still sat there. A tap and nudge ont he shoulder from my mom or dad, I can't recall, urged me to stand. A shake of my head responded.

"Come on. It's Communion."

"I'm not going. I'm not Catholic anymore."

"Don't ruin this for your brother."

"It would be disrespectful for me to take Communion."

They looked at me disdainfully and got in line. I was the only person still sitting in the first seven rows.

Gossip ensued.

I scratched my cornea again in a similar fashion many years later. The next day, however, all I did was stay home. I probably should have done that the first time.

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Letter to an Acquaintance

 
Dear XXX:

After receiving your email (titled: You Stretch Me), I thought it was important to respond. You mentioned you valued my sincerity. I want to be sincere with you now.

You are right. It has been 15 years. That is a very long time and much changes. I did come out as gay. Then, I did move to San Francisco, not because I was gay but because I wanted to get out of Minnesota and the crushing winters and buggy summers. Then, I realized I was queer and came out again. I was engaged to a woman. I am now married to a man.

There are a couple of other things I want to clear up.

First, my moving to San Francisco and not staying connected to old friends had little to do with any one person. I did not just disappear. I moved and in doing so lost connections with old friends, even really close ones.

Second, it is not a miracle I survived, and I don't believe someone is watching out for me. If someone was watching out for me, they never would have let the abuse happen to me while I was in the seminary, what should be one of the holiest places. I survived because of my fortitude and strength and because of the support of the queer and youth worker communities and my family.

Third, my father has no obligation to keep anyone up to speed about my life. If you want to know more about me, ask me.

As you mentioned, you read my blog. It is my intention to be as open about my life and experiences as possible. Your email showed me I might not actually be as clear as I intend. So I am publishing this response on my blog in hopes that it may bring clarity to readers that may have similar sentiments as you. I will make sure to remove your name.

It is good to know you are doing well and have two beautiful daughters. You look happy. Congratulations on your marriage, and I look forward to continued exchanges.

Peace,
Jason Wyman

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The Damned Unite

Our favorite late night activity occurred on our balcony. We lived on Geary between Larkin and Hyde before the police cleaned it up. (I don't think they were too successful.) Our street was the battleground between the tranny prostitutes of Post Street and the bio-girl hookers of O'Farrell Street. There were lots of fights and yelling.

The activity was simple. We sat on our balcony and when the police came around yelled, "5-0!" They'd duck behind cars, hop in to the only open convenience store (it was only open from 11pm to 5am), try to pull down their non-existent skirts, start walking faster. We did it every weekend.

I miss those nights. It connected me to parts of life other condemn. I am comfortable there for I, too, have been condemned. And the damned must unite.

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Library Pencils at Lush Lounge

 
Throwing things is a common theme in our friendship. It came up again at a bar: The Lush Lounge. We were there for a really terrible cabaret night with out-of-pitch singers and an arrhythmic piano player. The combination made it unbearable.

They were taking requests, so they put out pencils and paper at all the tables. It was our neighborhood bar and there was no way we were going to be the ones to leave. So we commenced a plan, something we do quite often, mostly with puckish intentions and wanton outcomes. Largely, our plans never see the light of day. Our martinis made this one possible.

I grabbed a pencil, the short kind you find in libraries, and waited patiently for everyone to turn their heads. He leaned in close and whispered, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?" I chuckled and tossed. One. Two. Three. SMACK! The pencil hit the wall behind the performer. She looked around but didn't let it phase her.

Now, it was his turn. One. Two. Three. SPLASH! It fell into someone's drink. Everyone looked around for the culprit. No one knew it was us. A few more throws, all of which landed on the floor, and we were bored. We left.

We've grown up a little since then. We don't throw things anymore. We do still laugh uncontrollably. It's what keeps us young. Now, it's at our expense rather than others.

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Where Did All These God Damn Carrots Come From?

 
We were bored and stupid and had a lot of left over carrots. We had been partying all night and were sloshed and high. Everything was funny. The night air was warm, humid the kind of summer night in July where mischief beckons. Everyone had left and the only thing to do was clean, so we said "Fuck that!" And went outside.

We smoke a little more on the porch with the bowl of carrots between us. They were not for eating. One of us started. One. Two. Three. Four. THUD. The carrot landed on the hood of a car. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nothing. The carrot only made it to the small patch of grass directly in front of us. Laughter errupted.

More carrots were tossed. Our goal: hit the tops of cars. The noise was hilarious.

This entertained us for hours. There must have been more than 100 carrots littering the city streets by the time we finally went inside. most of them landed in the same place: on or around a black sedan parked across the street. We had no intention of cleaning them up. We wanted people finding them in the morning thinking, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?"

That became the mantra of our friendship. He's still my best friend to this day.

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Dia de los Muertos

 
I haven't really lost anyone. There was my grandmother. She passed a couple of years ago. She was in her 80s and still full of life when she died. Or at least that's how I remember her.

We were close; she helped raise me as grandmas do. It is from her phone I dialed 976 numbers when I visited after work. We worked at the same retreat center. It was a short walk from her senior housing apartment complex to the center. I was the dishwasher, and she was the cook.

She was the one that got me the job that eventually led to me borrowing or stealing a Total Recall VHS tape. I got to watch it just once before my dad took it from me. I was in the eighth grade and not allowed to watch R movies, especially ones that showed boobs. He threatened to throw it away. He didn't. I found it in his underwear drawer next to the condoms.

My grandma and I grew distant when I moved to San Francisco. We weren't the best conversationalists over the phone, and I rarely returned to Minnesota. She visited California twice. We both still loved each other dearly. It just happened to be the quiet and rarely spoken kind.

The funeral was the first time the entire (or almost entire) family came together. It was good to see everyone and awkward. Besides blood and blue collars, there isn't and wasn't too much that holds or held us all together except empty promises to call. As in life, it was grandma that connected us. Such are mothers, regardless of gender.

I miss her. I miss her stories most of all: the ones about dancing in spite of Depression, how I looked like my grandfather who died when I was three, her unquestioning faith in God. She was life-blood to history.

It is because of her I tell stories. I want to keep my history alive.

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