Chapter Six To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar, dir. by Beeban Kidron
“You know, my friend Amy, she has a son. And he’s cute!” Eli’s mother stands at the sink, rinsing lettuce in a strainer.
“Mom...” Eli throws his head back, nearly hitting it against the cabinets. “You don’t have to set me up with anyone.”
“I’m just saying! He’s even interning at the press.”
Eli’s mother is a woman of prominence, the name Rue Clark carrying weight in the art circles of the Bay Area as the longest-serving
director at Orion Press, one of the last publishing companies in the United States that creates their books completely from
scratch.
From the paper to the binding to the illustrations to the lead they melt down to do the typesetting, it’s all done in-house.
Eli’s taken the tour of the foundry more times than he’d care to admit, watching as the lead is melted down to form the individual
letters, how the ink printing and illustrations are made, how the books are bound, glued, and sewn together with care.
There’s a reason they do just two projects a year at very limited print runs, and why the price tag for those books would cover Eli’s rent for several months.
“I’ll pass.”
“Eli, honey.” She swats the water off her hands, putting the lettuce in a pretty comical device that she spins like a centrifuge
in order to dry it. “It’s just one little date, and he’s a nice boy.”
“Then you go out with him.” Eli turns away from her at his spot seated on her counter, playing with the magnets on the side of the fridge.
The photos they hold up almost serve as a timeline of his life: baby pictures at Golden Gate Park or North Beach, Eli lined up with his childhood softball team, his first day of middle school. The few he’d been okay with keeping up.
Then there’s Eli’s mother on her second wedding day, him stuffed into an uncomfortable suit beside her as she stands next
to John. His mother in her hospital bed just hours after giving birth to Eli’s half sibling, Les.
“I’ll give you his number,” she continues, dumping the lettuce into a bowl and reaching over to hand Eli a block of Parmesan
and a cheese grater. “I want you to call him, you’ll like him.”
She’s been like this since Keith broke up with Eli—after she got over the pain of losing the man she’d considered a second
son.
For a brief second, Eli considers telling her about Peter, just to get her off his back. But he knows that’ll lead to a whole
string of questions he isn’t ready to answer just yet.
“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Eli tells her, leaping off the counter and setting the grater above an empty bowl.
“I’m fine just how I am.”
“Yes, you are,” she tells him, pulling him in for an aggressive kiss on the cheek. “You’re my perfect baby boy who I adore.”
“Mom...”
“I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” he tells her.
“Are you? You don’t seem happy.”
“Jeez, your confidence in me is inspiring,” Eli mourns. “I’m fine. And I don’t need a man.”
“We all want love, Eli. It’s the human condition.”
“I have you, and Rose and Patricia, and Les. And I’m assuming John likes me.”
His mother tsks at him with a long finger. “You hush, John adores you.”
Eli hides his smile, handing her the bowl of grated Parmesan. “I’m fine. I promise you,” he tells her, knowing that couldn’t
be further from the truth.
What’s worse is that she knows it’s a lie as well. Eli considers himself lucky, growing up in the house that he did, with
parents who saw so clearly through the embarrassing teenage angst of everything feeling like the end of the world, navigating
dysphoria and his mess of gender. They played it safe; they gave Eli the space to explore himself while also attempting to
be as aware as they could of what was going on with him, silently promising that they’d be just around the corner when he
wanted to talk about it.
Of course, those feelings had taken a back seat when his father got his diagnosis, when the X-rays showed his lower abdomen
glowing like the Christmas tree in their living room. It took less than a month, Eli spending every second he could at St.Mary’s
when his holiday break began, sitting across the room from his mother, who slept on the uncomfortable cot that the hospital
brought for her, Eli supplying her with clothes, toiletries, food.
He used to find it impossible to sleep on Christmas Eve, the excitement of the next morning looming over him, wondering just
what he’d get if Santa had actually read the list of things he wanted. It was a normal thing for him to wake up when the sky
was still dark, his parents asleep, and he’d sneak into the living room to look at everything laid out for him, unable to
see his gifts through the wrapping paper but still doing his best to guess.
That year it was still dark, and he was still awake when his phone began to ring. He knew two seconds before, that feeling
in his gut settling, that honest relief that came with knowing that his father was no longer in pain.
Then his mother said the words.
There was no crying, not until he got to the hospital, the staff bare bones so early on a holiday morning. Rue met John less than a year later in her group therapy session, the two of them becoming quick friends before things turned romantic.
Eli wasn’t exactly pleased, and he remembers with shame how much he resented John when he was a dumb teenager. The worst part
was that John never minded, not once. He identified with what Eli was going through, what it was like to lose someone. He
simply gave Eli—and by extension Rue—his space, only making Eli feel more guilty because he knew how happy John made his mother.
As he grew older, Eli promised them that everything was okay, that it would take time but that he thought John was a good
guy. He stood beside them at their wedding, spent as much time with his mother as possible as she went into labor with Les,
helped them pack up their things and move to Berkeley when he left for college.
“You know, it’s not wrong to want to date someone,” his mother continues. “It’s not some... grand stance against cis-heteronormative
standards to not want to date when you’re gay.” Her lips struggle around the words.
“Who taught you the word ‘cis-heteronormative’?”
Eli’s mother turns toward him, her eyebrows raised and a smile on her face. “I’m hip with the children! I watch Drag Race !”
That’s when the back door opens and Eli’s stepfather, John, walks in, leaving his keys on the counter, Eli’s half sibling,
Les, right behind him.
“Are we talking about RuPaul?” he asks loudly. “I love that Jaida Essence Hall, what a lady!” The name Jaida Essence Hall coming out of John’s deep, straight, fifty-year-old New England mouth makes Eli laugh in a way that he’s quick to hide.
Les, ever the embarrassed preteen, breezes right past their father, setting their cello case and backpack next to the counter
before they speed off down the hall toward their bedroom.
“Les!” Eli’s mother calls out as John comes up behind her and kisses her cheek. “Come and get your things and put them in your room, please!”
There’s no answer, leaving Rue to look at her husband.
John gives her a sympathetic look. “Their teacher told me some of the girls in their class have been picking on them.”
“Oh, God...”
“Do you want me to talk to them?” Eli asks.
“No, no. I’ll do it.” Rue sets the tomato she was about to slice down on the cutting board. “We can’t go to you for everything.”
“Just the trans stuff, right?” Eli prompts.
And Rue agrees. “John, honey, can you slice these? And, Eli, watch the bread in the oven.”
“Can do!” John leaps right at it, taking the deep chestnut handle of the serrated knife and cutting into the tomatoes. “So,
Eli!”
Despite growing more accustomed to John over the years and appreciating his company, Eli still finds it difficult to make
small talk with the guy.
“So, John!” Eli mimics John’s enthusiasm, opening the oven and peering in, earning a blast of hot air to the face before he
shuts it.
“Rue told me she’s gonna give you the number of that intern at the press.”
“No,” Eli assures him. “She is not.”
“Yeah, I said it wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Really?” Eli hops back up to his old spot on the counter, watching John carefully cut the tomatoes.
“Of course! I told her, ‘Rue, you’ve gotta let the man go at his own pace.’ You don’t just get over heartbreak. Trust me,
I know.”
“Oh, well... thank you,” Eli says slowly.
“How’s the job going? Did you get that writer spot that you wanted?”
“Oh, uh...” He hadn’t yet broken the news to either of them about how poorly the interview had gone. “They went with someone else.”
“Ah, they’re idiots. I’ve read some of your stuff, they’re stupid for not promoting you.”
“You read my stuff?”
“Yeah! I mean...” John struggles for a bit. “It was just your high school and college writing that your mom found. I looked
online and couldn’t find your portfolio or anything. But it was still impressive.”
“Well, when you only have a few articles to your name and they’re for some San José State student newspaper, it’s not exactly
a point of pride.”
“The stuff I read might’ve been old, but it was good. And it’s clear you have a passion for it.”
“Well, Vent doesn’t want those kinds of articles; it goes ‘against the brand.’”
“Then quit! We could always help support you?” John says these last few words very carefully, almost as if he’s unsure.
“It’s not about the money,” Eli tells him, even though that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The single perk of working
at Vent is the slightly-above-average pay and the benefits that come with working for Michael. Eli can’t imagine how expensive his
wisdom teeth removal would’ve been without their dental plan.
Besides, he’s taken enough money from both of them. Even before Rue met John, the hospital care for Eli’s father had done
a number on her savings. Then therapy and counseling for both of them, Eli’s gender-affirming care, student loans, rent. At
least in the early days.