Hi Gang, this isn't fanfic, not even Brokeback related, but I'd like to get your response on it in anycase. I first wrote this back in 1998, as a way of coping with Matthew Shappard's death. I've reworked it every few years or so. I had thought I'd keep Matthew's name the same, but I go back and forth on that. The name is so loaded and I don't want to seem like the story is riding his coat tail. I think it alludes to Matthew well enough, with the name change. I'm still not fully satisfy with the ending, and I may rework that. I've considered submitting it in a few Gay rags for publications, but not until I feel it's right.
Well, enough preamble, here it is.
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The Drive.
Nipith Ongwiseth
The road ahead curved sharply like the writing of a drunk calligrapher. Mullholland Drive was never wide to begin with, but as it turns blind corners around the cliffs of the the Hollywood hills, it narrows even more. It practically disappears at some points. The only people who drive this road live in the Hills, but even they avoid driving at night on that stretch of “accidents-waiting-to-happen.” Somehow the city’s chosen not to plant streetlights on the roads in the Hills. Tonight only a lone headlight invades the inky covers of the hills, recklessly swerving, panning back and forth, desperately searching for a grip on reality. Philip knows he’s being stupid and could care less.
Long overdue for a tune up, the Karmenn Ghia needs new tires, new bulbs, an oil change, and probably a new transmission. The thought of being stranded in the dark tugs at the back of his mind. At any moment, any number of things on the car could break down. The left headlight, which is the only headlight left, could decide to finally give up, and he would either slam into the side of the cliff or plunge off it. The tires could lose their grip on pavement. None of these very real possibilities slows the Karmenn down. Philip knows he’s being stupid.
He could give you a hundred reasons for not maintaining his car. He might tell you that he was broke. His parents finally stopped sending him money six months ago, but he’s actually making good tips bartending at Micky’s. He could tell you he had no time, but that’s not true either. He spends the day sunning himself on the balcony of his apartment. Bartending at night is his only real commitment. Philip neglects his car simply because he forgets. Every time he gets into the car, he swears to himself that he would take it into the shop the next morning, by which time he’s already move on to the pursuit of pleasure.
Unlike his brothers, whom he left behind in Minnesota, Philip doesn’t believe in working simply to make a living. Both Jack and Bob are married with kids. Philip sees them both as being miserably trapped in their occupations as accountant and insurance claims manager. Both of Philip’s brothers assumed that everyone grew up, went to college, got married, worked to pay the mortgage, and save up for the kids’ college tuitions. Neither of them did what Philip had to – he questioned the way things worked.
Philip moved out to LA five years after college and found a life he could live with. After struggling through the teen years in Minnesota, he figures he’s entitled to a relaxed and carefree adulthood. He lives in comfortable apartment with a great view, across the street from a model/actor who walks around nude. Philip enjoys his job. Making drinks can be fun, but mostly he just opens beer bottles. The part he likes is talking and flirting with the customers. He enjoys the attention. “Finally the ugly duckling turns into Cinderella.” He’s asked out a lot, but Phillip hardly dates. He tells everyone that he’s waiting for the right man to turn the corner. So everyone’s busy turning corners, hoping he’d notice. Philip works at night and enjoys the sun during the day, walking along Santa Monica Blvd., stopping for groceries at Trader Joes’ or lunching at the Marix’s, remembering that it’s November and how cold it must be in Minnesota. This is life that can only be live in Los Angeles.
All of that is far from his mind right now. The marine layer settles quietly over the West Side, like a whisper muffled into a pillow. The heater’s turned on full blast in the car while the cold damp air whips through his open window. Night stings like a tear drop running down his face. Philip screams out the window of this car, and the only witness is the fog rolling over the hills into The Valley. He hasn’t felt this hopeless anger since he’d left Minnesota. He had almost forgotten this emotion. Thought he’d left it behind forever.
The news of Andrew Crane’s killing brings back too many memories. It knocks the wind out of his sunny We-Ho existence. The young Southern boy, whose picture showed a warm smile and hopeful twinkling eyes, was beaten and left for dead in the middle of nowhere, strung up on a barb wired fence. In the media, Andrew is immediately a martyr, crucified for being different, for being openly gay. Philip thinks of the dying boy and could feel the boy’s fear, could feel each blow he suffered, could feel the desperate struggle for breath before fading into soft comfort of unconsciousness. It isn’t Andrew’s pain he is feeling. Philip is simply remembering.
The brutal killing reminds him again that feeling of not having control. He remembers when his place in life and society was dictated by other people … people who could care less if he lived. Growing up, Philip had given up hope and lived from one minute to the next. Faces that passed by didn’t relate to him. Philip walked with his head down, his eyes just ahead of his feet, and his thoughts in his own head. As a teenager, he never saw any reason to look up. If there was anything five feet ahead, Philip wouldn’t know it. And he didn’t, when a gang of five boys jumped on top of him.
Philip turned off of Mulholland, squealing down Laurel Canyon toward West Hollywood, which is now fully covered by the dense marine layer. City lights reflecting and refracting in the fog, so that it seems to glow as it hovers over the city. He could barely see ahead of him around the curves of Lauren Canyon. He hangs on to the wheel and races downhill. If a car ahead was only fifteen feet away, Philip wouldn’t know it.
Philip remembers more than he wants to. More than the particular events, he remembers, … no, he feels the old emotions. The feeling that the world just hasn’t gotten, won’t ever get better. The anger and hopeless fear overwhelms him like a thunderhead moving in on the Minnesotan plains, covering the horizon from all sides, turning the sky and everything under it greenish grey, with all of nature holding its breath in the tension that was building to an explosive downpour.
Red glowing brake lights ahead jolts him out his Minnesota. Philip slams on his own brakes and hears squealing from the car that suddenly was behind him. He exhales and realizes that he has been holding his breath since he turned off of Mulholland.
At the bottom of the hill, he automatically turns the Karmenn onto Santa Monica, heading toward “Boys’ Town,” without even thinking. That was just his usual drive each night to work. The streetlights and neon signs sparkle in the fog. “Magic lives here,” Philip had said when he first arrived in West Hollywood. The busy boulevard, the various men heading for bars, the shops, the rainbow flags; all reminds him now of what a different world this is from his boyhood Minnesota. Philip realizes that he’s also forgotten that new burst of excitement. He had been so amazed at that incredible freedom he felt.
Philip drives by San Vicente and sees a large group of men and women gathering in the park. That’s right, some friends had called earlier, saying something about a vigil. Looking at the somber smiles, Philip could tell that each person in the group was remembering his or her own forgotten memories. Rage, fear, despair, and surprisingly hope; all flickering on the creases and tears of their faces like the candles they are holding. The group glows with the determination that they would not sink into despair, holding onto each other, supporting each other. Maybe he is just projecting, but Philip feels like he knows all their stories.
On impulse, Philip pulls over, parks, and runs out to join the group. He is greeted by familiar faces. Michael, his first friend in West Hollywood, hugs him and hand him a candle. Liz, who held Philip as he wept when his grandmother died last year, is herself weeping and holding on to Josh, a friendly Jewish elderly man who helped Philip find his apartment. Peter and Matt, the first gay couple Philip ever met, the first sign that happiness is a possibility. Stephan, June, Michelle, Rich, and many others; there they were, the many friends who had help Philip find his way in this city.
The group begins walking, heading out of the park, filing along the sidewalk of Santa Monica Blvd. Dense fog glowing swirling above the candles, hovering around the heavy faces. As they walk, Philip’s mind floods with memories, of the early pains as well as of recent comforts. He indulges now in the intensity of each emotions, wading slowly through the events, letting the fear and the anger swirl around his body, feeling the glowing hope hover over him, feeling sudden joy shooting through the fog. The death of Andrew Crane brought back more memories than Philip wanted. However, he realizes that these are exactly what he needed to remember.
