"I said goodbye to someone that I love
It's not just me, I tell you it's the both of us
And it was hard,
Like coming off the pill that you take to stay happy."
--belle & sebastian, "If She Wants Me"
I was up in San Francisco for a few days at the beginning of last week for a work trip, and it ended up being a crazy few days. First, I decided to drive up (rather than fly), even though it takes six hours of cruising up the 5 freeway at speeds exceeding 80 miles per hour. In my mind it was 100% necessary. I needed to recover the the three of four cases of wine I had left behind. You see, when I moved down to Los Angeles last month I was driving a car-full of sharp spiky cactuses and velvety thin-skinned dogs (well, several exceptionally prickly cactuses perched on the precarious pile of stuff between me and one dog with very little fur and very little body fat and enough anxiety for twenty dogs) -- and I had to practically abandon all of my excellent Napa and Sonoma wine because it just wouldn't fit into the tightly packed car. Ric, my former San Francisco housemate, assured me he hadn't raided my make-shift wine cellar (i.e. the back shelf in our garage.)
And so I found myself on a mission to recover the wine from our dilapidated Mission District Victorian apartment and transport it to my new Venice beach pad, in the hope that I could drink it while watching the sunset over the ocean. Now, doesn't that sound like a California dream, (or more aptly, a cheesy California wine commercial)?
Though I was almost certainly visibly shaking less, I was nearly as nervous as the dog. (I looked at her and said, "What?! We're not driving with even a single cactus this time!") I gripped the steering wheel with one hand and bit my nails on the other hand and worried about all the work stuff I had to do up in Sunnyvale/SF (we were running the second annual Broadband Editorial Summit; I was about to begin managing a team of six) and all the people -- friends and co-workers -- I had overlapping plans to hangout with. And I was exhausted from the previous nights spent partying until the wee hours at such places as the Viceroy and Arianna Huffington's house.
And I'd be leaving important stuff out if I didn't tell you that the biggest thing I was worried about was that August and I had been fighting on the phone, and I sensed that the end was near.
Think about it. If you were a first-year law student working your ass off up in San Francisco, you probably wouldn't feel at all very excited to hear your girlfriend gush about endless parties. And if you were a fun-obsessed girl recently relocated to Los Angeles, you probably wouldn't feel at all very excited to learn that your habit of running amok drinking cocktails 'till dawn every night and writing about it in your blog made someone you care about feel very sad. As happy that I was that August had gotten into law school and was completely throwing himself into his studies, and as happy as I was that I had moved myself back to Los Angeles and was completely throwing myself into a new social schedule -- it was apparent that we were in two completely separate places, and they (we) were further apart than a 1-hour plane trip or a 6-hour drive. To get back to where we were happy and close, it was already apparent -- it would require a time machine.
So I drove up to San Francisco mainlining caffeine -- can you say "quad venti latte"? -- and stressing about everything, but mostly about the situation with August, because I'm never very good at things like this. And I feel like maybe I should be, because I've had a fair amount of practice at this point.
August came out with Allyson, Bryan, Mali, Dave, Greg and me on Friday night (we were planning to see Juliette and the Licks) a few hours after I arrived in town, and it was immediately obvious to everyone and us especially that he and I were past the point where we could be social and hangout with other people. While everyone else headed over to my formerly favorite Mission-area bar Zeitgeist (it was one of those rare, unseasonably warm nights in San Francisco, where jackets weren't even required), August and I took a cab back to my hotel and had "the talk." It wasn't easy or 100% pretty, but it certainly will go down as my most "mature" break-up ever. No one cheated. No one threw anything at each other or at walls. No one called anyone else names. No one slammed the door and walked out. No one cried. Everyone agreed to stay friends.
And that part did make me feel better.
On Saturday I had scheduled a massage with Jenny at PSOAS. I had been getting massages with Jenny for several months, and they were amazing. Her trigger point massage technique really has been helped mend much of the computer-related pain in my back and neck, and it's also helped my posture and general wellness. About halfway through the treatment -- in the midst of enjoying the massage -- I burst unexpectedly into tears. And though I wasn't sure if Jenny noticed, but it felt as embarrassing and inappropriate as if I had had an orgasm right there on the massage table.
Crying didn't feel sad; it felt good. I thought about how August and I were 5 days shy of our two-year anniversary of dating each other. And it was on some of the rare warm late fall San Francisco nights that we first met each other. Andy had introduced us at a party in Bernal Hill in October 2003. "August Bournique is a fine fellow," Andy said, as he pulled me over to a boy wearing glasses and a curious outfit of Dickies pants, a short-sleeved button down shirt, and a tie painted with what appeared to be a Honey Baked ham. "I think you'll like him." August and Andy chatted, asking each other casual catching-up-questions, and I was largely ignored. Even though I was wearing my cream-colored vintage leather coat, August didn't ask me one single question. Eventually Andy and I moved on to the kitchen area to refill our drinks.
"What did you think of August?" Andy asked me as we sipped cocktails out of plastic cups.
"He seems interesting," I said. "But he definitely isn't into me. Are you sure he likes girls?" My occasional outbursts of unabashed conceitedness shock me now when writing about it, but Andy was unruffled.
"Yes, August definitely likes girls," Andy said. "He was dating my friend Mici for something like 5 years, and they were even engaged. But then they broke up."
Recently un-engaged myself, my curiosity was piqued. "Why did they break up?"
"I'm not sure. I think it was just that they were too young to get married," Andy answered.
After I finished my drink I told Andy I needed to go home and I left the party. I didn't think about August Bournique again until the next Friday night. It was the midst of San Francisco's elusive late fall heatwave, and I was out with Benjamin drinking beers at Sadie's when Andy rang my on my cell. "Where are you? You hafta come down here!" he said. "We're at Thee Parkside seeing this band called The Husbands, and it's so much fun. You've gotta come down here!"
"Have I missed the whole show?" I asked.
"It's still going, and besides we'll all hangout afterward," he said.
"Who are you with?"
"August, Jonathan, a whole bunch of people," he said.
When I arrived the Husbands were just finishing their set. I bought PBRs for Andy, August, and Jonathan and they introduced me to Jonathan's friend Rebecca, and gushed to me about the band, and we all plotted about what to do next. Somehow we had the idea to go swimming in Andy's pool.
In case you're not familiar with the city, no one ever goes swimming in San Francisco. First of all, even though it's California and there are palm trees growing everywhere -- hardly anyone has a swimming pool in San Francisco. The weather in the city is almost always just a touch too chilly, windy, and/or foggy for swimming (especially in summertime which always confuses vistors accustomed to warm summer nights elsewhere in the country). The days (and especially nights) in San Francisco where any sane people would want their bodies to be submerged in water are extremely rare.
But Andy's Mission District apartment complex has an LA-style courtyard layout with a sweet pool. And even though it was almost 2 a.m. that evening the night-time air temperature was still in the 80s. This type of warm evening weather typically happens in San Francisco only one or two nights per year.
I still wasn't 100% sure we were going to be able to get away with it. I worried that Andy's neighbors would hear us and get him in trouble for breaking the pool rules against nightswimming. Were we going to be wearing bathing suits? Underwear? Anything? Did Andy have towels for us? These were the questions I wondered as I drove to Andy's place, after stopping at home to feed Bocce. (Jonathan had opted to drive with me, and so he met Bocce for the first time.) When Jonathan and I arrived at Andy's, Rebecca, Andy, and August were in the pool and there were towels spread on the lounge chairs nearby.
"Are you all naked?" I asked, giggling -- shocked more by the idea that they were actually swimming at 3a.m. in late October in San Francisco than by the possibility that they might not have any clothes on.
Jonathan took off his clothes and jumped in before I did. I took my time, because I wanted to find out exactly how cold the water would be.
It only took a few minutes before they had convinced me that it was warm enough to join them in the pool. We chatted for a while, treading water in the deep end. Once in the water, it was scary to think about getting out and toweling off in the nighttime air. Eventually we all got out, wrapped ourselves in towels and pulled some of our clothes back on, and went upstairs to Andy's apartment where we watched Aqua Teen Hunger Force until it started getting light outside. Rebecca offered to drive August home, and Jonathan asked me for a ride back to Bernal Hill.
It was several weeks before I ran into August again, at a party of Sean Kelly's that Andy had invited me to on a drunken cell phone conversation. I didn't really know anyone there except Rebecca and August, and so the three of us ended up talking and flirting for most of the night. At some point, I got bold and/or we ran out of chairs and I sat on August's lap. Later that night, he kissed me, and for almost 2 years we were practically inseparable, but not in an annoying way.
We spent weekend afternoons sipping beers on his back-porch looking down at the lemon tree in the backyard. He would read me Roland Barthes "Mythologies" and talk passionately about Russian prison tattoos and Communist propaganda posters. We'd listen to the Velvet Underground and watch the rays of winter sun sink lower and lower. He'd sketch me as I reclined on the mattress on his floor. In short, we were very happy. And I will remember those times fondly. And I hope to remain great friends with the artist boy who once told me that I smelled like wood and fresh paint.
posted by Jess at 12:56 AM
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