Chapter 40
FORTY
Blake
His hands clasped in his lap so he wouldn’t fidget, Blake scanned the meeting room in City Hall.
Its high ceiling and dark wood paneling were grand and imposing, imbued with a sense of history and propriety.
This was the type of room that commanded respect, and Blake had never felt more out of place.
He belonged in dimly lit bars and modest, pay-by-the-hour hotel rooms, not fancy government buildings.
The commissioners – four men and three women – were seated at a long table in the front of the room. They talked amongst themselves, occasionally shuffling through papers and sliding them across the table to one another.
Blake studied each of their faces, falling back on his pre-show ritual. Who’s the person in this audience I’m going to perform for? Make the show personal for one face in the crowd, and it will be more personal for everyone.
The young man sitting at the end of the table met Blake’s eyes and smiled. He was attractive, with a thin, angular face. His outfit had a distinctly gay sensibility – sky blue blazer, cropped trousers, and dress shoes without socks. The clincher was the rainbow flag enamel pin on his lapel.
He’s the one.
“Drew is taking his sweet time getting here,” Ethan mumbled under his breath.
The two of them sat at a table facing the commissioners. Another table had been reserved for the Mazers, on the opposite side of a central podium. A screen for visual media was hanging on the wall near the Mazers’ table.
“Maybe he’s not coming.” Blake turned around in his chair to check the double doors leading into the room.
Three rows of chairs had been set up for members of the community.
Only a handful of people were present, most scrolling through their phones.
A middle-aged woman sat apart from the others, her hands primly clasping her purse in her lap, her silver-streaked hair pulled back and secured with two butterfly hair combs.
She smiled and nodded her head in greeting.
Blake smiled back. Maybe it was a good sign there weren’t many people in the audience. It might mean the community didn’t oppose the fire station becoming a landmark. But then again, it might mean no one gave a shit what happened to the building, one way or the other.
The double doors swung open suddenly, the handles twisting with a clack that echoed through the space like the first thunderclap of a coming storm.
Drew Mazer breezed into the room, his chin raised defiantly, his crisply tailored suit the color of a great white shark. He was accompanied by a dour man with coal-black hair, swinging a leather briefcase by his side.
As the two marched to their table, the black-haired man glanced over at Blake with a lizard-like smile.
Fuck.
Blake elbowed Ethan. “That guy with Drew was creeping around the club a couple months ago, taking pictures of the building.”
“What?” Ethan spun to face him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Lowering his voice, Blake said, “It was the night we had sex, after the final show. I had other things on my mind.”
“Shit.” Ethan sank lower in his chair. “This can’t be good.”
The man sat next to Drew and unloaded file folders from his briefcase. His lustrous charcoal grey suit fit impeccably, without a single wrinkle or drag line, and his black shoes were polished to a mirror finish.
He was dressed to impress the committee, and to intimidate the fuck out of his opponents.
Blake hung his head. We’re doomed.
The commissioner seated at the center of the table – a portly Latino man whose ill-fitting navy suit jacket strained over his gut – loudly cleared his throat.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. I’m Gustavo Rojas.
I’ll be overseeing the hearing this afternoon.
I’d like to get started.” He perched chunky tortoiseshell glasses on the end of his nose and read from a sheet of paper in front of him.
“The building under review today is the two-story brick structure at 428 Dolores Street, which was constructed and commissioned as Engine Company Number Nine in 1885, and decommissioned by the San Francisco Fire Department in 1943. It’s currently occupied by a nightclub named Siren.”
He removed his glasses and set them on the table.
“Today, we’ll hear arguments for its preservation as a historic landmark, beginning with the petitioners, then moving on to the building’s owner and his representative.
After that we’ll open the floor for comments from the community. Mr. Whet, you may proceed.”
Ethan stepped to the podium and clicked the small handheld remote the commissioners had provided.
A picture of Siren appeared on the screen.
Filing through his note cards one by one, Ethan outlined the rich history of the firehouse that he’d learned from the documents in Caleb’s archive, dating back to the 1906 earthquake.
He looked incredibly sexy in his suit, like a big city prosecutor in an episode of Law and Order.
In order to appear more professional, he’d dyed his hair back to a coffee-brown color that was close to his natural shade.
Blake could barely focus because of all the erotic businessman fantasies taking shape in his imagination.
Talking in front of an audience came naturally to Ethan. He presented his arguments in a clear, confident voice, punctuating key phrases with a deliberate tap of the note cards against his palm.
Bursting with love and pride, Blake sat back and crossed his arms to prevent himself from cupping his cheeks and batting his eyelashes like a lovestruck teenager.
Ethan advanced to the next slide, a photo of Common Ground Books.
“In the 1960s, Mary Mazer – the grandmother of the building’s current owners – operated a bookstore in the building.
She hosted clandestine meetings for gay men, so they’d have a safe space to socialize.
” He turned to face the commissioners. “This building has been a crucial part of the gay community for almost six decades.”
Blake glanced at Drew, who leaned over to whisper something to Mister Lizard-Smile.
After describing Virgil’s club and its contributions to the city’s nightlife, Ethan thanked the commissioners and returned to his seat.
“Thank you,” Gustavo said. “Mr. Larsen, do you have anything you wish to add?”
Blake wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and walked over to the podium. He made eye contact with his chosen commissioner – the man in the sky blue jacket – and recited the points Ethan had helped him memorize.
“Over the last few years, there’s been a steady decline in the number of dedicated gay spaces.
This has led to problems like depression, loneliness, and a sense of isolation.
It’s important to preserve this building, so we can continue our mission of strengthening the community from within, by providing a space where gay men can come together.
” That sounded sexual. “Um, I mean, meet up.” Still kinda sexual.
“Where gay men can gather.” Gather? Jesus Christ.
Blake sat down before he could embarrass himself any further.
“Thanks,” Gustavo said, his brow furrowed. “At this time, we’ll give the floor to the building’s owners.”
Mister Lizard-Smile slowly approached the podium, making eye contact with each of the commissioners in turn. “Esteemed members of the committee, my name is Alistair Bixby. I’m an attorney specializing in preservation law.”
Alistair clicked his remote, and a grainy black and white photo appeared on the screen. “This is a photograph of Engine Company Number Nine, taken in 1911, which more accurately reflects the appearance of the building during its period of historic significance.”
With a laser pointer, he projected a red dot onto a large conical tower, which resembled a church steeple set on the ground, in the space that was now the club’s parking lot.
“I’d like to draw your attention to this structure here. It’s a hose-drying tower. In the age of canvas hoses, it was essential to hang them after use to dry them properly. The tower was torn down in 1956 due to structural damage after a termite infestation.
“I would next like to point out the apparatus bay doors. These were the garage doors that would have opened onto the space where the fire engines were housed.” Alistair clicked his remote again, and a new slide appeared on the screen – two photos side by side, one in black and white, and one in color.
“The image on the left shows the bay doors from the early 1900s. The one on the right shows the current, non-functional doors that were added in the late 80s, when the building’s previous tenant opened his bar.
Although the new doors superficially resemble the originals, they share neither the materials nor the craftsmanship of the original bay doors, which we must presume have been lost to time.
That’s a significant loss that erodes the site’s authenticity.
“With these two appreciable external changes, the property no longer has the visual read of an early twentieth-century firehouse.”
Alistair returned to his seat, and Drew took his spot at the podium.
“Let me start by saying that even though my grandmother owned a bookstore in the firehouse, I have no sentimental attachment to that building.” Drew spoke directly to Blake and Ethan. “None whatsoever.”
“What about the co-owner of the building?” Gustavo asked.
When Drew scoffed, Alistair rose from his seat. “Joel Mazer does not oppose the petition.”
“Noted,” Gustavo said. “Mr. Mazer, you can proceed.”
“In addition to the structural changes described by Mr. Bixby, my grandmother made significant renovations to the building during the 60s. She modernized the kitchen on the second floor, and updated all the ground-floor bathrooms.”