Chapter Four
Tad and Mike were enjoying hosting the Saturday night brunch group at their restaurant in Pacific Palisades; The Beachcomber was laid-back, friendly, and reflected the "whatever" style Tad had always projected as a young surfer living across Pacific Coast Highway from Mason and Mario years before. It was bright, warm, cozy, eclectic, loud, and thrumming with the vibrancy and pace of the south coast.
Tad had brought everyone up to date on the restaurant, his relationship with Mike, and the many twists and turns in the road since coming out during Mason's sex parties and meeting Mike and falling in love with him. Despite his traumatic life growing up in Oregon and losing his father to cancer and his mother to drugs and divorce, he was a pretty well-balanced young man and was enjoying his role in running the kitchen at the restaurant.
He and Mike had purchased the restaurant from a former owner who had let it run down after years of mis-management; they had together spent the past four years doing all of the heavy lifting to make it competitive and popular in their community.
They had been featured in the Sunday Times magazine several times, and had enjoyed a few visits from Hollywood types, which was always good for business. Tad was enthusiastic about his work in the kitchen: he was not an artiste, but really enjoyed the creativity and challenge of presenting old California recipes in new ways. He was not into tofu; he was not opposed to it but realized that tofu had its rightful place in some other restaurant, just not his. He was into seafood, fish, lamb, and frequently featured Moroccan and Mediterranean dishes and enjoyed presenting them in the uniquely California way.
Carlos was the first to ask the awkward questions about the sex parties of the past at Mason's house: had Tad and Mike kept up an active life of kinky gay sex, or had they settled down as a married couple?
Tad was not shy about his answer: he was still the Oregon farm boy, after all, and not much derailed him. He assured everyone that Mike was more than a handful (in several ways) and it took all of Tad's energy to run the restaurant kitchen and keep Mike happy. That was not an answer, but it was the best Carlos was going to get.
Tad turned the table on Carlos and asked him about his life since the years in Malibu, especially after recovering from the gunshots he had accidentally walked into in West Hollywood that one dreadful night with the gay neighbor boys Vince and Jeremy.
Carlos assured him that he was keeping active in the community, had no reason to settle down as yet, and had to keep his focus and his energy to take care of his daughter part-time whenever he was in town. As an internationally-known architect and engineer with expertise in earthquake safety design, Carlos was very busy. And still very sexy.
Tad was joined by Mike, who had stepped away from the hostess desk at the front of the restaurant for a moment to chat with their guests; he invited everyone to drop by their house one Sunday afternoon and enjoy a backyard barbeque. There was an enthusiastic response to that; perhaps the crowd thought it would be a replica of Mason's famous sex parties.
It was a long evening with a warm and enjoyable ambiance; it was a great way to spend time renewing friendships. Stuart and Raj were especially happy to have this chance to renew their friendships after having been up north at the state capitol for several years.
This brunch bunch were all related, in some ways, through Ross and Mason and Mario; they had been given the chance to become a family in a way, because of the house in Malibu which Mason had built as his refuge and turned into a gathering place for the men who meant the most in his life.
Joaquin was thinking about that while driving back to Beverly Hills after the Saturday night dinner; he missed Ross, of course, and he also missed the friends they had made together. He was wondering where his life would take him when he was suddenly side-swiped by another car going south on PCH: the other driver was probably drunk and nearly caused a head-on between them.
Swearing loudly in Catalan, the dialect of Spanish of his family, his native language, Joaquin dialed 911 as he quickly pulled off to the side of the road; it took nearly twenty minutes for a police cruiser to respond. After explaining what had happened and enduring the humiliation of a field sobriety test, Joaquin was pretty shaken; it took another hour to drive on home to the condo.
He spent Sunday morning in a Doc-in-a-Box clinic, checking for any injuries from the accident; he had a sprained wrist from the collision, but no other problems. He was prescribed some pain killers, cautioned to get plenty of rest for at least 48 hours, and drove home again.
As he was entering the parking garage, his cell phone rang; it was the police cruiser who had investigated the incident of Saturday night. They had found the other driver: he had parked his car further south on Pacific Coast Highway wrapped around a power pole. Luckily, no one else was involved.
Contemplating all that had happened, Joaquin decided to take the 48 hours and drive north along PCH as far as the time would take him: the California coast offers some really breath-taking scenery, and it had been years since he and Ross had enjoyed a leisurely trip just to view it. By sunset, he was in Santa Barbara, checking into a B&B; it was the same one where they had spent their honeymoon.
He was starving; dinner at a beach-side bar with plenty to drink, and a walk along the waterfront, left him far lonelier than he had anticipated. He was not sad about adjusting to being single, he was just really sad at missing his lover. Ross had always been entertaining and had filled in the moments with either a joke or a comment or wry observation, or many times, the appropriate silent warmth.
By the time he had returned home to Beverly Hills and the empty condo, Joaquin had been on the road for more than a week: he had spent time in road-side farmer's fruit and vegetable stands, had wandered through wineries along the central coast, had enjoyed truck-stop breakfasts and bad coffee and been hit on by more than one or two twink waiters. He was still a very striking, sexy man; 6 feet tall, 180 pounds, black hair sprinkled with grey, and magnetic blue eyes; he was practically a magazine model and had the crotch to go with it.
He had not taken any of the twinks seriously; they were not his type, and he was not in the mood for sex. He was still in a deep funk at the loss of his husband; he did not even feel like masturbating even after watching a few hours of gay porn.
He was alarmed to realize that he had spent so much time alone, having ignored the gallery, the newspapers, the tv news shows, the mail, his email, and even the phone. He was startled by a loud knock on the door at 6 PM: checking to make sure he was dressed, he decided that boxer shorts and a wife-beater were enough. It was his front door, after all, so you knocked on it at your own risk.
Sam Stephenson and Mickey Clarke were staring at him: perhaps he looked worse than he thought. He had not bothered to glance in the mirror and could not remember a shower or a shave in the recent days.
"We were going to invite you to dinner, but it looks like you might want to take a minute and clean up first" Mickey said. Joaquin blushed; he had never let himself go like this.
Sam did not wait for an invitation but brushed his way into the condo entry hall past Joaquin and began straightening things; it was clear that either Joaquin had fired the house-keeper, or she had left out of disgust. Sam began a quick inspection of the contents of the refrigerator; there was a smelly container of take-out Chinese food which looked like it had been there since the Ming Dynasty, along with a handful of very old wilted vegetables and a six pack of beer. Light beer. Joaquin never drank light beer.
"We are going to take you to Tommy's; dress lightly." Mickey had taken a decidedly authoritative attitude and was directing Joaquin to get showered and dressed. Tommy's Burgers, or at least the original at 3rd and Rampart near Macarthur Park in central Los Angeles, was probably the oldest of its kind in the city. It was famous for the loaded chili-cheese burgers which were served on paper towels (no Styrofoam) along with hand-made French fries and Coke out of a bottle; you ate it all standing in the parking lot competing with the pigeons.
Joaquin was silent during the drive; after the cheeseburgers, Sam addressed the elephant in the room: "What's next for you?" he asked Joaquin.
"Madre de Dios, I don't really know." Joaquin had never been confused by any of life's challenges; this was not like him and it was disturbing to both Mickey and Sam.
"Look, we both love you, and we are concerned about you. Have you thought about taking some time out of the country, traveling perhaps, get some fresh air?" Sam truly looked upset; one of the great iconic personalities who had mentored him was in trouble.
"That might be interesting; I also might have to stop in New Jersey on the way. I need to meet someone there." Joaquin was not being cagey; he was confused, tired, depressed, lonely, and disoriented.
"Care to share?"
"Sure, no problem, but I will do that when I get back. You just inspired me: I am going to call my travel agent in the morning and start packing. I will let you know where I am going before I leave."
Sam and Mickey dropped him off at his condo and drove slowly home to their own condo in Santa Monica; on the way, Sam lovingly took Mickey's hand and held onto it for the remainder of the trip home.