You ever listened to Roy Orbison? That voice. That fucking voice. Cuts deep into you, slicing you bit by bit. Until youâre just chunks of meaty, exposed flesh on the ground. All that remains is the pain you had before you started listening to one of his songs.
Been listening to him a lot lately.
Zack loved Orbison. Sung him in the shower.
I donât think about him that much these days. Well, guess I am now, âcause Iâm telling you all this, but trust me, he donât come up much in my dreams. There was a time he did.
Like the song. You know, the one in that David Lynch film. In dreams, we were together. Always together. But those are dreams of yesterday.
I donât know why Iâve been thinking of him lately. Donât get why heâs hanging out in my head, as if heâs bought a piece of brain matter and moved right in, furnishings and all.
Maybe itâs this new song Iâm writing, one that would be perfect for him. But he ainât ever gonna sing it. Not ever.
â â â
We used to go to this place near the Castro in San Francisco. The Mint. Karaoke nights seven days a week. Nothing like a bunch of drunk queens singing Queen. Of course, heâd sing Orbison.
I donât usually sing. I write songs.
But those nights I did, just to humor him.
A little Lauper. Some Benatar. And all the Lilith Fair lineup. He liked Sarah McLachlan. I liked Natalie Merchant. Ah, arenât they the same anyway?
In those days, we were roommates, sharing an apartment in a nearby neighborhood. A two-bedroom. Rent controlled. It was cute for a minute.
Sure, weâd have tricks come and go. Thatâs what everyone in San Francisco did. But at the end of every night, it was just us. Quiet moments punctuated by laughter, and the occasional sweet compliment. Zack liked my writing. I loved his voice, which had a lyrical, almost mystical, quality when he sang. Weâd share a nightcap. A glass of red for him, bourbon for me. Later, each at our door frame, saying goodnight, the long hallway between us. I stared at him as we did.
He was chiseled in a way Iâd never be. As if Michelangelo whittled away marble to make him.
Then came Josh, the boyfriend. His, not mine.
Josh came over every night. Stayed until morning.
âYou donât mind?â Zack asked.
âOh, not at all. This is as much your place as it is mine,â I said.
Every morning, I got up to find the boyfriend in my kitchen, drinking the coffee I bought from the pot that I brought to this living situation. Even using my creamer.
âNext time, bring your own coffee and creamer, Josh,â I finally said. But Josh ignored me, still made my coffee, and used my creamer.
When I came home from working down in the hell that was the Peninsula, that long stretch of smaller, uptight cities south of San Francisco, he was drinking my top-shelf whiskey.
âHey. I donât mind sharing but thatâs mine. Maybe ask once in a while, Josh,â I told him once.
Of course, he didnât. Still drank it. I finally kept the whiskey in my room. Shoulda done the same with the coffee.
Weeks turned into months. And soon it was serious. Fancy ring serious. High-end serious. Diamond serious.
But there was just one problem â the fiancĂ© loved to go out. Every night. Drank like a drowning sailor on shore leave. Drugged like the aging circuit queen he was. Then there were the fights. The pleas for forgiveness. The promises of stopping.
But they were engaged. What could be done, right? And still one night I dared to ask, âAre you sure?â
We were alone in the apartment. Josh out in the Castro somewhere.
âSure, he drinks a bit too much. But so do I. After all, Iâm the original party boy. Circuit parties and all.â
âBut are you sure?â
He shrugged and retreated into his bedroom.
That was the closest Iâd come to saying what I truly felt for him in those days. For the love Iâd never say outright.
I never knew where we stood. Maybe I didnât want to. Although Zack sure got possessive a few times when we were in the Castro. Someone would talk to me and heâd swoop in and drag me away for another round.
âThis man has more intelligence in his pinky than youâll ever have,â he said once to this twink chatting me up.
Sure, the twink wasnât the brightest strobe in the club, but Zack couldnât stand seeing anyone chat me up, or so it seemed.
âYou know that wasnât nice,â I said later. âActually, it was pretty fucking cruel.â
âYeah. Sorry about that. I donât know what I was thinking.â
âShould tell him, not me.â
Too late though. The twink was long gone from the bar. Zack didnât care much about hurting othersâ feelings. At least, those of strangers.
After another fight, Zack slept on the couch. But the boyfriend came charging out of the room, yanking the throw off him and yelling at Zack, who yelled back. And so on and so on that night. Finally, I swung my door open and told them to âshut the hell up.â Then, I slammed my door, shaking the wall.
I woke to find a note on my door. From him, not the boyfriend.
âSorry for the noise. Wonât happen again.â
But it did. Constantly.
â â â
Eventually, we left that apartment. He went to live with the boyfriend â now the fiancĂ©.
We saw less of each other but still talked. After all, we had music in common.
âHey, I have this new song that Iâm working on. Want to give it a try?â I asked over the phone one day.
I wrote the song in a flurry of angst. I wanted him to hear it because it was the only way I knew how to express my love for him.
âSure. Letâs meet next week. Oh, by the way, I didnât tell you, weâre sending over the invites for the wedding. Itâs gonna be in Napa. His family has a vineyard there!â
We never met. The wedding took up much of his time. I found someone else to sing the song. But it wasnât the same. So, I put it away in a drawer, much like my feelings for Zack.
I didnât see him until the wedding. A gay Catholic wedding. Can you believe it? Mass and everything. Shit, I gave up my Catholicism for Lent years ago. Reception was nice. They made a great couple, I suppose. The husband didnât seem to drink as much and was reasonably wasted.
â â â
Years passed. We talked once in a while. Saw each other every now and then. But it wasnât the same. More like old acquaintances meeting for a coffee.
His singing career was taking off, so they moved to Los Angeles. I stuck to the City… San Francisco that is. Before you knew it, I turned 40. The death of a queen like me. The moment when you become a daddy. I wanted to mark the passing, so I went down to Los Angeles. West Hollywood. WeHo. Was going to be us and some close friends we shared. Then, the call came.
âHey, you mind if I bring a friend?â
âOh, is Josh not coming?â
âNah. Heâs gonna stay in. Youâll like my friend. Heâs an actor. Remember that little indie movie… that one with the kid who does that funny dance?â
I did. I hated it. Pretentious dribble. The jokes were obvious. The music was the worst. Lame ass sappy alt-rock punctuated the melodrama of the picture. This âfriendâ both acted and sang in it. Let me tell you, he ainât no Roy Orbison. He ainât even as talented as Zack.
Dinner was at a trendy, swank WeHo restaurant. The kind of place where itâs best not to look too much at the prices. A place to see and be seen. Mostly, D-list queens trying to be A-listers. Like us.
Zack walked in. Still chiseled and perfectly angular in all the right places. My heart sank.
His arm, slung around his actor friend.
Short, about my height, but wiry like a wet spaghetti noodle. Pencil thin âstache. Guess he thought it looked cute. It didnât.
âOh this is Esteban. And this is my old roommate from San Francisco I was telling you about. Oh, you two should talk âcause you sing right, Esteban? Heâs got a huge role where heâs gonna be doing a lot of singing. Heâs gonna try to see if he can get me booked for it too.â
âNice to meet you,â I said, far colder than I intended. But now thinking back on it, maybe I actually wanted to deliver it with all the warmth of an arctic tundra.
We sized each other. If this had been another time, Iâd declare a duel. All for the affection of Zack. All for his attention, which he barely paid any of to me while Esteban was around. Something about them. They had a way together. A familiarity and a secret language.
A few drinks in, Esteban regaled the group with stories of his one claim to fame. Living off the fumes of that Sundance darling flick.
âSo have I heard any of your songs on the radio?â Esteban asked.
âNot yet. Been trying to break in. I play sax in a local jazz band. And I teach music for cash.â
âOh. Well, keep at it. All it takes is that one yes. I mean thatâs what happened at my audition,â he said. âThey hired me right there. Next thing you know Iâm at Sundance. And doing this musical.â
I wanted to rip that snotty little shitâs moustache from his upper lip. But I shoved it down. My anger. My disappointment. The realization that Esteban was fucking Zack when I wanted to be the one fucking him.
I ordered another drink. And another. One more. To drown out the nonsensical prattle of Esteban.
And as all dinners go, people drift to the bar or to the toilet, not to pee but to do a bump.
Soon it was only me and Zack. At last.
âSo, Josh and I arenât doing so hot, you know,â he confessed. âItâs gotten worse. We sleep in separate bedrooms now. I havenât seen him naked in years. I canât even remember the last time we had sex.â
âAre you guys open?â
âIsnât it obvious?â
âWell, I didnât want to assume. But I figured it out.â
âYou do have more intelligence in that pinky of yours than any other queen in this place,â Zack said.
I took a drink. Flagged the waiter for another. A silence fell upon us for a second. Then Zack said something I still think about to this day. Something I never expected him to ever say. Something that drove our relationship right into a brick wall.
âWhy didnât you stop me?â he asked. âWhy didnât you stop me from marrying Josh?â
What could I say? It wasnât my place to stop him. What was I gonna do? Pull a Dustin Hoffman and bang on the church windows? Would it have made a difference? Nah, saying something wouldâve made things worse.
Or so I deluded myself into thinking. Even today. So, I said the only thing that came to mind. The only way I could ever express my feelings for him.
âI wanted to spend the rest of my life writing songs for you to sing. Still do.â
Zack heard the words, but he didnât hear the feeling. He was never any damn good at picking up emotions.
âThatâs sweet,â he said with a smile.
Eventually, Esteban and the others returned, noses properly powdered. And that was that. What Zack said, what I said. It all washed away with the cocktails. Vanished like the coke in the baggie.
But after too many cocktails and bumps, I decided to say something to Zack later that night, in one final attempt to capture him.
We migrated to a gay bar near the restaurant. When Esteban fled to the restroom for another bump, I made my move.
âYouâre a butterfly. You flutter in and outta my life. And I canât catch you,â I said to Zack. âYouâre fluttering right outta my grasp. So, this might be my last chance. I love you. I want to be with you. I want to write songs for you.â
He didnât say anything. Only smiled. Then vanished into the smoke and throng of the bar.
â â â
And that was that. The last moment Iâd ever have with him. We drifted apart after that night. Until he finally fluttered out of my life completely.
Now, after all these years, I wonder if he knew how I felt all along and chose not to hurt my feelings. Maybe whatever I thought we had was one-sided. At best, our relationship was lopsided.
But if Zack was a butterfly, I was a moth drawn to a flame of false hope. I was a fool for believing there was anything more than what we had. Who the hell knows what we actually were to each other? Wild hearts, I suppose.
But like olâ Roy said, wild hearts run outta time. So then why is mine still wound up?
…
Ryan Thomas Riddle is a screenwriter and award-winning journalist. Currently, he’s developing several projects for TV/Film and comics. As a proud Fil-Am queer, his work heavily features Filipinx and queer characters in a variety of genre stories. He’s the co-host of the SHIP FULL OF JERKS pop culture podcast.