Chapter Twenty-Seven
Renny
Over the next few days, as I waited for my house to be ready and for my first day on the job, Brent kept me busy while being a gracious host.
Treadmill sprints and weightlifting sessions.
Watching him play in his gay basketball league games.
Playing San Francisco tourists on the Big Red Bus.
Shopping for a windbreaker jacket that fit me. I couldn’t keep borrowing Brent’s, which were oversized on my body.
I appreciated keeping boundaries while sharing space and getting to know each other in his condo.
Juneteenth morning, Brent, as always, entered my room after giving three short knocks, with the same super polite greeting and bird-food breakfast tray.
“Rise and shine, Renny. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby, again,” I said, stretching before sitting up against the pillowed headboard. Brent was too kind with his breakfast trays, though I craved something a little more substantial in the morning. The Midwest in me, I guess. “I can make us breakfast one day, if I get up early enough.”
“It’s my pleasure to do this for you every morning.” He handed me another long-stemmed red rose and a red, black, and green gift bag with similarly colored tissue paper flowing out the top. “Happy Juneteenth, Renny.”
“Happy Juneteenth, Brent. Another gift? Why? You’re spoiling me. I haven’t gotten you anything…yet.”
“You being here in my home is my gift. It’s what you deserve. It’s what I couldn’t do for the past twenty-something years.”
“Thank you. Open now? Or later?”
“Now is cool.”
In the bag, decks of card games—Black Card Revoked, BestSelf, Tonight’s Conversation, The 5 Love Languages, and playing cards with African figures.
“Wow. Cards.”
“Don’t sound too excited,” Brent said. “I thought these would be good for conversation starters. So we can get to know each other now, in the present.”
“Ahh, now I get it. Love it. Like our own game night? For two.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I could sit and talk with you for hours, and these card games will add to the fun. Anyway, eat up, rest up. Especially with all the eating and drinking we’ll be doing later at Taylor’s and Dustin’s. I’ll give myself a pass to have one or two drinks today.”
“I’ve never been to a Juneteenth Pride party at someone’s house. I’m kinda excited. You?”
“Yessir. Because with my one or two drinks, I’m getting lit tonight and might pop, lock, and drop it on the dance floor.”
Brent shimmied and tapped the top of the covers where my foot was underneath.
“Uh, you’re such a dork and a dad.” We both chuckled. “Please don’t embarrass yourself.”
“This coming from Mr. ‘Love Is a Contact Sport’ dancing like Carlton Banks back in the day. Anyway, we can take it easy today in terms of schedule. Let’s aim for heading out around two.”
A few hours later, as soon as we emerged from the Treasure Island tunnel to the Oakland side of the Bay Bridge, I knew we were cooking with grease.
It was full-on summertime on the east side of the San Francisco Bay, a clear contrast from the city.
Sunshine was high in the clear and cloudless sky.
Temperature in the low eighties outside, according to the driver’s car temperature gauge.
People in tank tops and shorts walking and biking in the pedestrian lanes on the side of the bridge.
Us basking in the much-needed air conditioning in the car.
Luckily, Brent hipped me to the art of layering on the San Francisco side and the importance of not overdressing on the Oakland side.
I felt good with my choice of a white T-shirt with a “Detroit vs Everybody” logo, tan cargo shorts, and sneakers.
Brent looked good in a blue plaid shirt open over a white tank top, his chain and pendant, and knee-length denim shorts.
We both carried a tote bag with a pair of jeans and a light jacket in case the weather took an unexpected turn for the cool side once the sun went down.
On the ride over to Oakland, I wanted to know a little bit about the party and the people who would be at Taylor’s and Dustin’s.
“Who all gonna be there?” I asked. “Just so I know how to act, if I need to avoid any people or topics, and what the general vibe will be.”
Brent explained that shortly after his separation and move from Oakland to near the Lake Merced campus, he had disclosed his pending divorce and coming-out process to Taylor, who was his direct supervisor, just in case any rumors or gossip made it to the president’s office.
“He didn’t trip about anything I told him about myself.
In fact, he introduced me to his partner Dustin, his gay adoptive brother Markell who manages a bar with Dustin’s brother in the Castro District, all their friends and associates, and a whole lotta drag queens they know.
Taylor and Dustin sometimes host us over for dinners or movie nights or book club discussions either here in Oakland or over at their San Francisco place.
We’re mostly Black, grown folks in our thirties, forties, or fifties, professionals, and pretty chill for the most part.
Taylor and Dustin know a lot of people, so who knows who’ll all be there. ”
“You know me and Dustin knew each other back when we lived in Chicago, right?”
“I know. How so?”
“Just friends, some benefits,” I said. But I assured him we were just platonic friends now. “You asked. Thought you should know.”
“Ah. He knows what that mouth can do, too, huh? Does Dustin know the extent to how you and I knew each other back in the day?”
“He does. But not the whole story, and definitely not about Missouri last year. Not yet, anyway. Do we need to say something to Taylor and Dustin? About then or now?”
“There’s a now?” Brent asked.
“I’m just asking.”
“We can be honest with them about our past. Unless you’re thinking about you and me working on campus and something coming out. There’s nothing to hide. We’re not together in that way.”
“True. You’re right.”
Brent said, “Now, when we become something, or when there’s a development in our situation, we can say something.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, mister.”
“It’s just a matter of time, Renny.” Brent looked at me and winked.
“But back to your question. Taylor and Dustin are cool people, and they keep good people around them, especially with Taylor being a university president and all. No drama. No surprises. Oh, and don’t ask anything about why they’ve decided not to get married. ”
“Sensitive topic?”
“No. Just a personal choice. We’ll have a good time.”
As we approached Taylor’s and Dustin’s street, according to my phone’s map, I noticed parts of the neighborhood where we exited off the freeway looked a little rough around the edges, but nothing any different than what I’d grown up with in Detroit.
In fact, the visuals of Oakland reminded me a lot of Detroit.
The visible number of Black people everywhere definitely reminded me of home.
I knew looks and first impressions could be deceiving, and from one block to the next, a community could go from having shuttered and abandoned buildings to half a million or million dollar homes.
Here, I saw a mix of old structures, new construction, bike lanes, yoga studios, coffee shops, street-side dining, and parks.
In other words, gentrification. We looked and listened but did not judge.
Their block, however, elevated in the hills, was lined with mature trees, sprawling green lawns, and landscaping that indicated the homeowners took pride in living on a street that was taken care of.
I noticed Juneteenth and Pride flags alternating from house to house, a sign to me that we were in a progressive and open-minded district.
The driver pulled over in front of Taylor’s and Dustin’s home, which looked modest and modern, and with good curb appeal.
I guessed either new construction or a complete refurbish.
“You can signal to me when you’re ready to go,” Brent said, tapping his phone to pay our driver. We exited the rideshare with our bags and headed up the driveway to the side fence where Taylor and Dustin asked guests to enter. “I’ll leave it up to you.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, grateful for his consideration. After all, I was new to the area and didn’t know anyone who’d be at the party except for Brent and Dustin. “I hope you’ll do the same.”
“Like I said earlier, I’m ready to pop, lock, and drop it,” Brent said, mocking dropping low to the ground. “I might get inspired to shake it like a salt shaker and do a college all-nighter.”
“Don’t make me have to take you to the emergency room because your knees gave out and you can’t get back up, old man.”
I heard Anthony Hamilton’s “Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens” transition into Jill Scott’s “Golden,” and the sounds of laughter and splashing water coming from the back of their home as we approached the fence.
When we opened it and entered the backyard, I couldn’t believe how festive it looked compared to the unassuming appearance of the house from the curb.
Rainbow-colored balloon arches stretched across the large swimming pool, with a few partygoers in the water tossing beach balls and others sitting along the edges with feet dangling in the water.
Behind the pool was a portable dance floor under a tent with clusters of red, black, and green balloons surrounding it and go-go dancers of all genders on boxes encouraging the few dancing at the time.
Beyond the dance floor, we saw an elevated area with picnic tables nestled under canopies adorned with red poppies and red hibiscus floral arrangements.
Nearby, but not too close to the picnic tables, was an outdoor fish fryer and an open barbecue pit with uncle and auntie types cooking and tending to the various meats.
Next to them stood an outdoor screen house with the food buffet.
Mixologists served drinks around the pool and at portable bars strategically placed throughout the backyard.