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TEN
At promptly 2 PM on Sunday, September 15th, Mario and Peter stood before Rev. Paul Reyes-Philmont and promised to love, cherish, and obey. Well maybe not the `obey' part, but nearly one hundred people scattered across the patio, the back lawn, as well as standing, cheered loudly and applauded; some cried. Loud congratulations were shouted, and glasses of champagne were raised, and the stereo blasted the Winton Marsalis version of What a Wonderful World.
Two hours later Mario and Peter climbed aboard American Airlines flight 215 to São Paulo, Brazil. They were planning to tour South America for a week and then meet Mario's brother and sister in Buenos Aires for a visit to Mario's ailing father. The best-laid plans, as Bobby Burns wrote, can be derailed; after just four days seeing Iguazu Falls, the nightlife of Rio, and the spectacular beaches of Brazil and Uruguay, Mario's cell phone buzzed with news from his sister. Mario Garza de Galicia, the elder, had just breathed his last.
A devastated Mario and his two siblings held hands at the quiet grave-side service; a small number of government officials, including the former vice president and the former Interior Minister, attended. Mario Sr. was honored with a 21-gun salute from the Army of the Republic of Argentina, and then his casket was entombed next to his wife.
Flying back north to LA, Peter did not know how to comfort Mario; he just let him sleep during the long trip. Mario did not say much, but when they were claiming their luggage at LAX, Peter's cell phone buzzed: it was his sister Elizabeth. Peter listened for a minute, then gasped, and Mario turned to him; "What happened Babe?"
Peter said "My turn, I guess. Dad died." On the drive home to Malibu in the airport limo, Peter used his cell phone to book a flight to Sacramento for the two of them a week later. At the grave-side service, Mario stood holding Peter from the back; Peter was holding hands with his mother Marilyn. His brother Drew and sister Elizabeth and her two children and a few friends, as well as cousin Paul Campbell and his husband David Branson were also there. On a beautiful fall afternoon on a hillside looking west toward the vast Sacramento valley, Peter's mind kept racing.
The flight back to LAX was quiet; Mario finally asked his husband "What's wrong?"
"Grandma Campbell always said things like this come in three's."
Mario asked "What does that mean? I don't understand."
Peter explained: "It's weird but sometimes when one person dies it sets in motion a chain reaction and two more end up passing at nearly the same time. I don't really understand it, but I have seen it a few times."
Mario hated hearing that explanation but kept quiet; he did not want to think about it. There were too many dreadful possibilities.
The following Monday morning, just before noon, Mario's PA walked into his office unannounced and said quietly "Ted has passed." Mario slumped in his office chair; a good friend and mentor and law firm partner and leader had suddenly expired. Mario went to Tommy's office, and they stood and hugged for a long moment. The rest of the week was subdued, as plans were made for the funeral and a memorial service. Tommy and Ted's wife Elise would accompany the body home to southern Illinois near Edwardsville where the twins had grown up on the farm; Ted would be interred in the family plot next to the little country church they had attended as kids. The memorial service was held a week later at the St. Regis hotel ballroom in Santa Monica, in order to accommodate the hundreds who knew Ted and wanted to honor him.
Three weeks after the memorial service, Tommy had been coming in to the office each day but had kept to himself and was very quiet. He had not done much work and had no visitors and had not attended the weekly partner's meetings. He finally stepped into Mario's office at the end of the week and said, "I need to ask you for a favor."
Mario braced himself, because he had a bad feeling about the nature of this conversation. "I just can't go on," a quiet and subdued Tommy began, "he was my rock, he was the only reason I went to law school in the first place, and the only reason I have lived all of these years in California. Now he is gone, I just can't stay here." Mario waited for Tommy to continue.
"I am retiring effective today, and I want you to take over as the senior partner; I have already discussed this with Berniece, and she does not want the job, she has a heavy load as the county bar association president and she is going to run for Santa Monica city council in the spring. So, it's all yours."
Mario was stunned. "I don't know what to say Tommy."
"Just say `yes', Bubba." They both grinned, but with tears in their eyes, and hugged for a long moment. That was the last day Tommy came into the office; Mario heard from him weekly, always by phone, never in person. Tommy had taken off and was flying around the world, trying to do the "Eat, Pray, Love" thing, trying to rid himself of the demons, as Mario supposed, just like Mario's jog along the Mediterranean that hung-over Sunday morning in Majorca so long ago.
At Christmas, Peter asked Mario on a quiet Friday evening just before the holiday, "How much longer are you going to do this?"
"Do what, Babe?"
"Trying to be Superman, Mr. Law Firm Senior Partner and Master of the Universe?"
"Very funny." Mario was not impressed, he was almost insulted.
Peter said "Darling, I am worried about you. You have stopped talking to me, you come home every night at least an hour later than you ever did before all of these events, you fall into bed exhausted and we have not made love in more than a week."
Mario was quiet; he was contemplating the past as well as the future and had no answers.
"I have to apologize; I did not realize how much I had let all of this get to me. I'm really sorry. What can I do for you?"
"You do not have to do anything for me; I'm going to be fine, but you are worrying the Hell out of me and I want to know what I can do for you?"
"Tell me what to do."
Peter stood up and went to the kitchen; he was back in just under three minutes with two wine glasses and a bottle of Chardonnay.
"First, drink this; then take a deep breath and listen carefully."
After sipping at the cold wine, Mario smiled for the first time in a week and looked at his lover; "OK Babe, hit me."
"Mario, you usually give advice; now it is your turn to take some. You need to make a couple of phone calls in the morning. I don't care that it is going to be Saturday, I don't care that it is the holiday season, for your own survival and my sanity, you need to make these calls."
"To whom?"
"First, Stuart and Raj. I was going to recommend that you bring Stuart into the law firm as a partner, but then I realized he and Raj are probably going to be moving to the state capitol next year when the Mayor gets elected as the new Governor. So, get their advice, and then you need to call Ted's wife Elise and ask how their son is doing in law school and how soon he is going to be ready to join the firm. Third, you need to call your old law school Dean and ask if he can send over a few hundred recruits to find some that are ready to fill your shoes."
"A few hundred?"
"Sure. You have big shoes. You have no idea what kind of load you have been carrying. Before, there were four partners doing the work of an entire firm. Now there is just you. Berniece has abdicated, Tommy is travelling the world, and Ted..." Peter did not finish.
Mario just blushed and looked out at the Pacific; this was one of those days when the old house was a sacred place, a sanctuary, and a welcoming haven from life's vicissitudes.
In honor of that sanctuary, Peter suggested, and Mario seconded the notion that they celebrate the holidays as quietly as possible: a small Christmas Eve dinner with only close friends, followed by a New Year's Eve party with only family. Sam brought his surfboard; his sister Jeanette was bragging about winning Miss Sonoma County and going on to compete for Miss California. She was a stunningly beautiful girl, and the green eyes and auburn hair she had inherited from the Campbells were great assets. Drew brought their mother, and Marilyn was still alert and bright and funny, but Peter noticed she was not as physically adroit as before. She was willing to sit and watch rather than jump into the cooking and cleaning; she had obviously turned a corner since Dave's death. Late that night Drew confided to Peter and Mario that he was arranging to have Marilyn move in with him; his condo in central Sacramento was close to everything she would need in walking distance. Sam seemed emotionally distant to Peter and Mario; they asked him how his courses were at Sacramento State, and he gave perfunctory answers. Elizabeth confided with them that Sam had seemed really withdrawn during the fall semester, especially after Dave's passing. Peter asked Mario if he could administer some `beach therapy' with Sam; the old technique of a walk on the beach to get someone to talk which Mario had learned from Mason, seemed to be the best thing. "I know what you are doing, so I won't bullshit you." Mario stared at Sam as they were walking north along the beach from the house; "What am I doing?" Mario asked. "You are supposed to get me to talk, so here it comes. I don't know who I am anymore." Sam seemed on the verge of tears. "What do you mean? You are still Sam Stephenson, right?" "Very funny Uncle; yes, I may look like the old Sam Stephenson but inside I feel different, all mixed up." "Tell me what you are feeling: describe it to me." Mario was very patient, a skill he used daily in the law firm. "I don't know if I am pursuing the right college major, I don't know if I am gay or straight, I don't know if I want to stay at Sacramento State, I don't even know if I want to stay in college." "Well that is certainly a long list. Let's take them one at a time. Tell me about your college major." "Business management with a minor in sports administration; I really think the sports part is cool, but the business management part is deathly boring." "OK, what kind of career is that major supposed to produce for you?" Sam said "Well typically the guys from my fraternity- Sigma Gamma Chi-all Biz Admin guys- go into some national or multi-national corporations. The recruiters come around every semester, and our frat is the first one they schedule for interviews." "But you don't see yourself going into a big multi-national corporation?" "Hell no. Oh, sorry, I mean, no sir that is just not for me." Mario laughed. "I'm not that sensitive, Sam. So, if you are not a corporate gunslinger type, what do you foresee?" "Well there is this YMCA near the frat house that I volunteer at every Saturday, where I help teach kids and mentor them in sports stuff, like swimming, baseball, gymnastics, stuff like that." Mario was impressed. "I did not know you were doing volunteer work. Is it required by your frat or by your major?" "No, I was just bored one weekend with all of the beer-and-drugs weekends that happen around the frat, so I took off and was looking for something to get my mind off of that shit and went running and passed by the YMCA so I dropped in to check it out."
Mario was even more impressed. "So, is there a future, a career, I guess I mean, in sports administration? I don't know so you will have to educate me."
"Yeah, I have been checking that out, there are a couple firms in the Bay Area that are agents for big-name major sports guys, you know, like the guys that get into major league baseball or basketball or football. The Jerry Maguire type of firms. Those same firms also do a lot of counseling and management for their recruits. I want to do that kind of stuff; not the physical therapy kind of stuff but the administrative, financial, life-coaching kinds of things."
"Sounds big time" Mario commented.
"I hope so; it sounds fun to me" Sam replied.
Mario said "I don't want to go out on a limb here, but you mentioned the gay/straight thing. Where does that fit in?"
Sam sighed; he was silent for a minute or two.
"I know you and Peter have a pretty cool life together, and I have always admired you guys. You don't have any hang-ups about other people's opinions of your lifestyle, but at the frat house it's a pretty big joke topic. They get off on calling people fag and queer and shit like that. It's really annoying."
"So, are you gay, or do you think maybe there is a chance that you might be gay?"
Sam laughed; "Not just gay, but probably bi, I think. I have had a swing at a couple of girls, and its OK, it was not terrible, but I really get turned on by stiff cocks."
Mario laughed. "Well that is certainly frank."
Sam joined him in the laugh. "Can you see my confusion?"
Mario said "Yes, and I have gone through this before, with our son Carlos. He is bi also, and spent a long time getting that figured out in his own mind and heart. He has two little girls now, beautiful kids, and he is a devoted father."
"So, you don't think I am going to Hell?" Sam appeared earnest.
Mario laughed again: "No, even if there is such a place as Hell, which I am sure there is not, it will be pretty crowded if there is one."
They both laughed, and Sam suddenly grabbed Mario and hugged him tightly. "So, you can report back to my Uncle Peter that I am cured."
"Oh, Sam, not so fast kiddo. I think Peter will have plenty of questions for you, so you better be prepared for his sneaky approach. He is a stealthy kind of guy. Remind me to tell you someday about how he caught me in his trap with the Famous First Kiss."
"Wow, I bet that is a cool story."
"Yeah." Mario just smiled broadly, and they hiked back up the dunes toward the house.
Late that evening Elizabeth said to Mario "I don't know what kind of magic you have but thank you for giving me my son back. He seems more like his old self again."
"You are very welcome, but I really did not do anything; he just had a lot on his mind and needed someone to listen while he worked out the solutions on his own." Peter grabbed Mario and hugged him; nothing needed to be said between them.
Law firm interviews of recruits began on January 15th; Mario scheduled all of the interviews for the three Saturdays in mid-to-late January, to accommodate travel as well as law school schedules of the candidates. The last interview was with Ted's son Terry. One hundred recruits had signed up for interviews, but only forty confirmed, and then eventually only 27 actually arrived. Mario was afraid the process was going to grind him down, but the candidates themselves made the filtering stage simple. Mario immediately eliminated all of the candidates who paid more attention to their cell phones or tablets than to the conversation (half). Second, he paid close attention to the social dynamics between the candidates, and eliminated all of those who did not seem to have the requisite social graces: holding a chair for another candidate, speaking sarcastically to another candidate, leaving litter such as cups or trash laying around, or speaking in a derogatory tone to his PA or the firm's receptionist, or not acknowledging them when they were served with anything such as a bottle of water (six). At that point, there were eight candidates left: three Latinas and five men, one of them Hispanic, as well as Ted's son Terry.
Mario had serious misgivings about Terry before the interview process. He did not want to hire some kid who thought he automatically deserved a slot, just because of his father or uncle. Mario was pleasantly surprised: Terry turned out to be the best candidate, at least on a social scale, if not the best academically. He seemed to have all of Tommy's charm and all of Ted's brains.
At the end of February, after conferring with Berniece and Stuart and Peter, Mario sent offer letters to one of the Latinas, and to Terry, and to one other candidate, Phillip Winters. All three accepted; their start dates would be July 15th. Peter was glad, but also worried about the date: he had expected the hiring to be sooner so that Mario could get some relief from the pressures of the firm, which he was now single-handedly carrying on his own. He convinced Mario to take off every Friday until the new recruits began in July; Mario very reluctantly agreed.
Mario also suggested in that same conversation that they finally look into selling the beach house and buying a condo. Peter agreed, although in his heart he wanted to stay at the beach. This house was the place where Mario had rescued him from the fire, as well as the gathering spot for friends and family during all of the storms that life sent them. He decided to keep silent about those misgivings, and just see what the house-hunting process brought.
After a month of dragging each other through open-houses and condos and new construction and real estate agent blather, Peter and Mario looked at each other in complete bewilderment and frustration. They were sitting in the LR-4, Mason's old SUV, and had just finished another hour-long visit to an overly-expensive model house dolled-up with overly-expensive model furnishings with an over-eager blonde Valley Girl-turned-real estate salesperson.
"Babe I do not want to sound bitchy or ungrateful, but this process has really dragged me down." Peter was clearly frustrated. "I need a drink."
Mario laughed; "Well we are only three blocks from the St. Regis, let's go sit on the patio and have a drink and talk about this."
After his second Martini, Peter said "Please tell me if you are really committed to this project?"
Mario sighed; "Yes and no."
Peter winced; he hated having to drag information out of his partner. He stayed silent, waiting for Mario to explain.
Mario began "This has been painful, I agree, and I am not sure if it is even the correct thing for us to do. We agreed a long time ago to find something that both of us could love, but so far that does not seem to have happened. Also, I am ambivalent about leaving the beach."
Peter asked, "Is it the beach?"
"No, to be honest, it is the house."
Peter volunteered "Let's think about this as a temporary solution. Why don't we stop the house-hunting for now, and just wait until the fall after your new law firm recruits have settled in and you have had time to get a little traction on the new pace of the firm. Then let's take a weekend off and go out of town somewhere. Kind of a head-clearing trip."
"You always have the best ideas. That's why I love you."
"Really? It's not because of my huge schlong?"
"Well yeah that's number one but your mind is a pretty good second..."
They both laughed; after getting in the car, with Peter driving, Mario called the real estate agency they had been using and cancelled all further showings. He also called Stuart and Raj and Ross and Joaquin and invited them for supper. He told Peter they were going to grill steaks on the patio. Stopping at the grocery store on the way home, they grabbed salads and fruit from the deli, along with rolls and baked beans. No cooking for Peter; the chef was taking the weekend off, Mario told him.
"Speaking of that, how do you feel about hiring a housekeeper?" Peter asked.
"Sure; why not? Ask your PA to set up some interviews."
Peter laughed; "I'm still not fully comfortable with having a PA but I must admit Greg is marvelously organized and has kept my ass out of trouble more than once."
"I know it is a California cliché, but I could not live without Mickey" Mario responded. "At first, I was not sure how to use him, but now he is indispensable. It's pretty funny that they are both gay." They both smiled. Greg Fong, Peter's PA, and Mickey Clarke, Mario's PA, knew each other well and kept each other alerted to their respective bosses needs and expectations, in order to avoid any emergencies. Both PA's had live-in boyfriends, were well-connected in Los Angeles, and worked very hard to keep both Mario's and Peter's lives organized and efficient and stress-free. Mickey and Kevin lived in Hollywood, and Greg and Brent lived in Santa Monica, and they frequently socialized together as couples. In addition, they kept in close touch with Stuart and Raj and were intimately acquainted with Peter and Mario's close friends.
Within a week, Greg and Mickey had organized a short list of four housekeeper interviews for Peter and Mario; they instantly agreed on the third candidate. Simon Robertson, a stunning red-haired 29-year-old South African, impressed the Hell out of both Mario and Peter. Beside being a classically-trained chef, Simon had spent a couple of years in London working for the Prime Minister on his household staff. They agreed to have Simon start immediately; within three days Simon was moved into the apartment over the garage, the former home of Mario himself and then Carlos.
Simon's first chore was to arrange a supper, with the guests being the two PA's and their boyfriends, plus Stuart, Raj, Ross, and Joaquin. Mario wanted a low-key evening, and in keeping with the warming spring weather Simon designed a supper of all hors d'oeuvres. Steak tartare, ceviche, grilled asparagus, smashed baby red potatoes aglio et olio, grilled baby portabella mushrooms stuffed with clams, brie, and parmigiana, and rock crabs, a native to Southern California.
Peter invited Simon to join them on the patio for the supper; he remarked to Simon while enjoying a serving of tartare, how remarkable it was to be eating in his own house but from the cooking artistry of someone other than himself.
"Hey, I cook for you !" Mario objected.
"Yes, Babe, you do, and I always enjoy it. I am just noticing that being served by a classically-trained chef like Simon usually only happens at very expensive restaurants in Beverly Hills. In other words, close your eyes and imagine Tom Colicchio or Mario Batali serving us dinner here at home tonight."
Simon remarked "Well I am very flattered by that comparison; they are some of the best in the country."
"Tell us a little about yourself" Mario invited. "We only got the brief outline when we interviewed you."
Simon was obviously uncomfortable talking about himself; he was not familiar with any of the guests except the two PA's and had only met them over the phone when arranging the interview. He related how he had been born and raised in South Africa, the only son of "English" parents. In South Africa, you were either English, black, or Boer; no matter that Simon's ancestry was Scottish. His father was a civil engineer for the national railroad, and his mother was a high school biology teacher; they lived in Durban. His two sisters were married to businessmen in Johannesburg and he saw them at all of the holidays at his parents' home. Simon had joined the Army at age 18 after completing high school; he attended the private school where his mother taught, as the tuition was waived. It was an up-scale environment, with the children of wealthy businessmen and politicians attending, away from the tawdry influences of the great unwashed masses of children forced to attend the public schools, another remnant of the country's historical apartheid.
In the Army he discovered two things: he became a cook and fell in love with the creativity he found in the kitchen, and he also discovered cock. He loved the second more, but in South Africa, where the homophobia was as strong as the racism, he was forced to keep his proclivity in the closet. He fell in love with a Boer boy in the Army, but they had only a few desperate chances to fuck, usually when on a field training exercise. By the time he was discharged, the Boer and he had gone on to separate pathways. Simon went to London to attend Le Cordon Bleu; his internship was at the private residence of the Prime Minister, going on to another year in full employment there.
"When did you come to the States?" Peter asked.
"Just in the past year; I was offered employment in the Los Angeles UK Consul General's home and spent six months there before going commercial" Simon responded.
"Going commercial?" Mario asked.
"Yes, I left the Consulate and got a job at a greasy place in Beverly Hills on Wilshire Boulevard, but it left me with a lot of unfulfilled promises, and it was not the environment I was seeking."
"What environment are you seeking?" Peter was suddenly curious.
"I want to own a place of my own- maybe a prix-fixe type of place where I can dictate the nightly menu, and customers come in and eat family style."
Peter was fascinated: "That sounds like a lot of fun." He had a new thought beginning in the back of his mind and decided not to pursue it at the moment. "Tell us what your menu style is?"
Simon smiled: "Well despite the classical French approach that Le Cordon Bleu prizes- they consider themselves the guardian of "la culture antique"- I am really down-to-earth. I love seasonal variety, using things in their natural seasons. I use local growers and producers, not so much farm-to-table but I love to ramble through the farmer's markets and street fairs and grab stuff that is absolutely fresh and then try to create a menu from what is available."
Mario asked "Is there a South African style of cooking?"
"Oh yes, it's pretty much Fred Flintstone: we eat a lot of water buffalo, elephant, zebra, and gazelle."
"Oh my god." Mario looked sick. "No crocodile?"
"Just joking. Actually, in South Africa you see a strong connection to the pioneering history of the country, by which I mean the Boer farmers and the English colonists from two centuries ago. So, a lot of simple food, no fancy sauces, not a lot of spicing or dressing up, but lots of vegetables, and recently lots of wine."
"So," Peter remarked, "it sounds like your cooking style is close to the South African historical style?"
"Yes, I suppose. But I'm really glad I have had a chance to learn a lot more about cooking in other environments, not just French."
Peter was intrigued by this conversation and filed it away in his mind: this might develop in a really interesting manner.
Mario and Peter walked all of their guests out to the parking court while Simon cleared up the party. The house was quiet and dark by midnight; Greg and Mickey drove back into the city with their boyfriends as did Stuart and Raj. As they were crawling into bed, relaxed and sated and naked, Peter asked Mario "Are we becoming a Southern California cliché?"
"What do you mean?"
"We both have a PA, `have your people call my people', we have a live-in housekeeper who is a Cordon Bleu graduate, and we..."
Mario interrupted "We are only a cliché if we get a designer dog and wear exclusively fashion label clothing."
"Oh god. I hope we never do those things. Fucking Kardashians."
Mario laughed at Peter's outburst. "Goodnight amor."