02/04/2003 Entry: "I Start In One Place And End Somewhere Very Different."

Last week, I went to visit Vince at the hospital. I have to confess that I'm fortunate not to have spent a lot of time at hospitals, so they leave me a little dazed and confused. After squeezing off a very full Muni train, walking the long way around the building through a parking lot, trudging up a hill and back through another parking lot, entering the wrong tower...by the time I got to Vince's floor I was so gunshy that I had to ask one of the nurses if it was OK to go visit him. She gave me an odd look that said, "Yeah, you think you have to ask me for permission? This isn't a prison, just go on over there."

She said, "Yes."

I've seen enough hospitals in movies and TV to know what to expect in there. I was not expecting to walk in on Min Jung, Cheyenne and Gretchen. Talking about sex. (Well, what better topic to discuss with our favorite kinky celibate nun?) We made introductions; I thought about stepping out and coming back, but they were friendly enough about letting me join the conversation. (Besides, that'd be conspicuous, and I was feeling conspicuous enough already, c.f. my paranoia entry.) But we had a nice visit. There are a bunch of great people in the San Francisco Blogosphere, and it's always good to spend some time with some of them.

I chatted with Vince for a little while longer after the three women left until he was too sleepy from the surgery and morphine. I told him to get better soon and get the heck out of there. He told me to be careful getting home.

I chuckled to myself as I left about being careful. In fact that hospital parking lot was the place where I was held up at gunpoint one night. It's maybe not as innocent as that, but that's the basic facts of it.

This might be the point where Mom might want to stop reading. (I kid. I think my Mom knows by now I'm no angel, but l don't like to give her any more reason to worry; it was a long time ago, anyway.)

See, there's a street nearby that, when I lived in the Castro, anyway, was particularly popular for late evening strolls to meet like-minded men for intimate relations. And one late evening I was there, admiring the architecture of some of the Victorian and Spanish-Revival homes on the street when a reasonably attractive guy—about my age, which is a novelty, dressed in hip-hop style jacket and a knit cap, pretty contemporary by gay standards in 1994—approached me and asked if I was looking for what he was looking for. I was, so I thought, though I had roommates, so we weren't going to my place; did he have a car? No, but he suggested the parking lot over there, and waved towards the medical center.

Well, I was young and horny and stupid for adventure. We walked over there, not really making small talk—not too unusual for these anonymous meetings, and he seemed really nervous besides. We got to the corner, and at a spot between lampposts, up over the cyclone fence he went. Well, what was I supposed to do, walk around and meet him there in a couple of minutes? Up I went. Now, I'm not an athletic boy and never was, so at the top, ass met fence and suddenly there was a large hole in the back of those jeans. Whoops. Well, I'd be home soon enough after this. Maybe they would be mendable. I followed him up some stairs where he stopped. I wondered why he sat down in this somewhat open and vulnerable corridor until I noticed the small silver gun aimed at me.

I've seen enough guns in movies and TV to know what to expect in there. I wasn't expecting to look at one this closely. I grimaced, asked if he wanted my money. He nodded. I pulled out my wallet and emptied it of bills, handed them over to him. He counted and looked up. "Seventeen dollars? That's it?"

I showed him the inside of my wallet. Seventeen dollars was it. He looked stunned, as if he'd expected me to have a fat bankroll. Hello, I was a proto-punk who worked in a coffee bar. He told me to take off ahead of him. I walked out the long way around the parking lot, humiliated and fuming. It must have shown on the outside. If I remember, he actually said something behind me, like, "I'm sorry I had to do that." I rolled my eyes and told him not to bother apologizing. Now I was being sassy to the guy with a gun? Brilliant.

No matter. As soon as we got to the street he told me not to follow him, and took off across the park in the streets beyond. What was I going to do, chase the guy with a gun? I might have been stupid, but I wasn't suicidal. I slinked home $17 poorer, pulling my jacket as low as possible across my butt.

While I'm pretty sure he didn't want to shoot anyone, at least I didn't have to visit a hospital myself that night.

On the other hand, I would have at least been close to one.

Replies: 2 comments

Jeeze Louise... I have been held up twice in my life.. scary shit..and embarassing...

Glad you survived long enough to become my friend.

HUGS
Vince

Posted by vince @ 02/04/2003 10:16 AM PST

you seem so much more calm and level-headed than i was when being held up. maybe memory erased the confusion. maybe fear crystalized the moments.

Posted by aaron @ 02/04/2003 11:47 AM PST