Chapter Ten Cruising, dir. by William Friedkin #2
tried to slip in a few lines about Peter’s experience growing up Korean in the South, the intersectionality of being a gay
Korean man, having no one to learn the formative basics from, how he was never permitted to earn experience, never given the
chance to mess up and learn until it was too late and everyone around him expected Peter to just know everything.
It’s all struck through by Michael, the words a bright red as he tracks the changes to the document.
The article isn’t even his anymore. There’s nothing from him; even the voice is wrong. Michael’s comments populate the margins,
highlighting passages with notes like “I can feel the awkward” or “Clean this up, too clunky.”
He looks at the Lavender Country article, trying to envision his own writing from Michael’s perspective, wondering what might
be too much, what might need refining. He spends an hour second-guessing his word choices, wondering if the introduction is
too dated, if he needs to come up with something else.
At the very least, he can recognize that his writing is good. There’s a connection there, a soul to the story. When he closes
that window, going back to the Build-a-Boyfriend article, his stomach churns. He stares at the blinking cursor, almost as if the Google Doc is making fun of him. He holds
the backspace key down, then switches to Ctrl+Z’ing when he goes a little too far and deletes some of the things that Michael
actually likes.
His coworkers start filing out as the day reaches its end, gathering their things and muttering their goodbyes. Eli takes out his phone, staring at the last messages between him and Peter. Basic conversations about potential plans, more pictures of himself that Peter’s taken.
Eli rereads their old conversations, and he begins to type.
Eli: want to grab dinner tonight?
Eli stares at the message, hesitating. Then he deletes the text.
Eli: hey, want to do something?
Eli: the alamo in the mission is doing a horror marathon, want to see something?
Eli: i don’t think we should hang out anymore
Eli: i’m an asshole, i’m sorry.
Eli: it’d be better for both of us if we just stopped this whole thing.
He almost sends that last message.
Almost.
But then, a message from Peter comes in.
Peter: I’m sorry, that big project is still going on, my boss has me working all weekend to make sure things go smoothly.
Peter: Sorry
So there; it’s decided for him.
Eli: it’s okay.
Eli: i’ve been drowning in work too
Eli: we can hang out next week!
Peter: Yeah. I’ll let you know how it looks.
He almost tells Peter what’s going on, just to give Peter an out. But he can’t bring himself to do it. Because he can’t stand
the thought of a world where Peter Park hates him, where he no longer has that smile to comfort him, where he no longer gets
to hold Peter’s hand, where he—
Oh.
Oh.
“Fuck me...” Eli almost throws his phone onto the desk before remembering just how little protection the rubber case grants
him.
“Only if you buy me dinner first.” Patricia sets down her purse, pulling up an empty chair like she always does.
“You know, despite us sharing the same plumbing, I’m not sure I’d be able to give you what you need,” Eli says with his hands
over his face.
“At least you know where the clit is. Not many men can say that.”
“Fair enough.”
“What’s got you down, clown?” Patricia crosses her long legs, accentuated by the flared pants that she wears. Eli’s always
been jealous of just how effortless her style seems, how she bleeds confidence almost naturally, even though he knows better
than anyone how long it takes her to get ready. “Boy problems?”
Eli thinks for a moment, hating how easy it is to see right through him. “Nothing, just... Michael...” Eli lies, almost dar ing to tell Patricia the truth, just to have someone, anyone who he could open up to about this. He almost does.
Almost.
But he can’t bring himself to. “I don’t wanna talk about it right now.”
“So, it’s Friday,” Patricia says, leaning all the way back in the desk chair.
“That is a fact, yes.” Eli types out a last-minute reply to an email from the marketing team before he shuts off his computer.
“We’re doing something!”
Eli feels his mood sink further. “I don’t know if I want to—”
“Come on, we’ve all been so busy this week. I’m cracking under this deadline and I’ve got a model demanding she renegotiate
her contract, Rose had a kid lose their two front teeth thanks to a kickball to the face, and you... well.”
Eli stares at his best friend, a blank expression on his face.
“Self-explanatory.”
“Thanks,” he grumbles. “I don’t think I’m feeling tonight, though.” It’s the perfect night to sit on the couch, the window
open, letting a nice breeze in while he bundles under a blanket with his heating pad, turning on a horrible horror movie while
getting high, devouring the bag of Oreo-flavored popcorn in the pantry that’s been calling his name all week.
“Come onnn!” Patricia whines, spinning back and forth in the chair. “We haven’t gone out in weeks ! Plus they’re doing a Halloween thing at Mulholland Drive.”
“I’ve never understood that place. Mulholland Drive is in LA, and whoever named it definitely didn’t see the movie.”
Patricia rolls her eyes so far back that Eli can see the whites fluttering. “God, you’re such a dork.”
“Why are they even doing a Halloween party?” Eli asks. He’s usually such a fan of the holiday, but it wasn’t even on his radar this year. “It’s not for weeks.”
“What about gay people makes you think they’ll only celebrate Halloween on Halloween?”
He has to give her that one. “I don’t have a costume.”
“Okay, I have angel wings you can borrow, you can be every basic white twink out tonight.”
“I’m tired, Patricia,” Eli tells her. That, and there’s a twisting in his stomach that he can’t escape, and the last thing
he wants to do is go to a crowded club with pounding music that’ll just make him feel worse tomorrow morning.
“For me?” She bats her eyelashes. “Just for a few hours, come on. We’ll get Mickey’s afterward.”
Because the only thing that could make him feel worse than alcohol are boozy milkshakes. But Eli’s never been able to turn
down Patricia, no matter how hard he’s tried. Back in college, she was constantly pulling him out of his dorm to go to parties
and showcases that were far too cool for him. But if it wasn’t for Patricia, he wouldn’t have made any friends during those
four years.
“Patricia...” Eli moans.
But she just keeps staring at him with those bright brown eyes of hers.
And eventually, he relents. “Fine.”
“Yes!”
“But I’m not dressing up,” he tells her.
And Patricia scoffs. “Neither am I. But I think Rose is doing something.”
“Well, she’s doing it alone.”
***
“I still can’t believe you made me do this,” Eli mumbles as the three of them stand outside the entrance to Mulholland Drive. Despite his and Patricia’s protests, Rose had three costumes laid out for them when they got back to the apartment.
Though given how Patricia had to dress as Annabelle, complete with pasty doll makeup that leaves lines painted on either side
of her mouth and an awful pigtail wig, he figures he got off easy with his Freddy Krueger costume.
He already had the sweater after all; Rose just provided the glove.
“How long have you been planning this?” Patricia asks.
“A few weeks.” Rose sounds like she’s smiling, but the creepy Michael Myers mask she wears hides all expression on her face.
“How come Eli is the only one who gets a weapon?”
Eli peers at the knifed glove on his hand, the quintessential Krueger weapon with rounded plastic blades at the tips to avoid
taking any eyes out. “You can have it if you want. It’s too big for me.”
“No!” Rose protests. “We’re staying in costume.”
At least she couldn’t find a fedora , Eli thinks, grateful that his hair has been spared a flattening night.
The three of them stand in stark contrast to the sexier versions of characters that wait along with them for their turn to
enter one of San Francisco’s most popular queer bars.
“Plus, Annabelle doesn’t have a weapon,” Rose reminds Patricia.
“I could’ve been that other doll, the android thing.”
Their IDs are checked at the door, the three of them pushing through the tight hallway at the front of the club, through the
fake spider webs and past the stack of jack-o’-lanterns with scary faces carved into them.
The club, normally decked out in full rainbow regalia, has exchanged all of that for more spooky attire. Lights glow orange
and purple, bats hang from the ceiling. Each cocktail served seems to pour out dry ice from the lip of the glass, and everyone
is dressed up.
Eli passes by at least three Trixie Mattels and two sets of Sanderson Sisters before he, Rose, and Patricia find a tall bistro table where they can stand.
The last time he’d been here was with Keith, who’d dragged Eli along much as Patricia had tonight. But back then, Eli didn’t
mind doing things that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t mind going on hikes, or trying new restaurants, because Keith was
there next to him to reassure him. But now he can already feel his palms getting sweaty, though maybe that’s because of the
sweater and the too-large leather glove with fake knives attached to the fingertips.
“Smile!” Patricia shouts at Eli over the Lady Gaga B-side that shakes the very foundation of the club floor.
“I’m fine!” he says back. “I promise.”
“Do you want a drink?” Rose asks.
“I can get them,” he shouts. “What do you want?”
Armed with their orders minutes later, he navigates the perimeter of the sunken dance floor in an effort to get to the bar,
walking past two women making out dressed in incredibly accurate costumes from the League of Their Own television show and a couple dressed like Daphne and Velma. He glances at the platform stage right in the center of the club
where a local drag queen is lip-syncing to the song while dressed in an outfit made of sacrificed Kermit the Frog plushies.