the trouble with george

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one of these days i swear i'm gonna codify all the pillow-talk stories i've collected over the years of all the uniquely gay messes all the gays i've come across in the course of my gay travels have suffered at the hands of their various and sundry gay boyfriends/roommates/hookups, because there's definitely a book there.  until that happens...


hadn't seen alvaro in ages, so when he hit me up outta the blue this past week and invited me over, it was a nice surprise.

his new place--a neat little suburban ranch with a pool on a peaceful street in the foothills above pasadena--is also a nice surprise. a far cry from the pico/union hellhole he used to call home, it's a definite step up, and i'm happy for him--at first, anyway.

i note the for-sale sign in the front yard, and, once inside, look around for evidence of roommates.  there is none, and the house has a definite empty look.

"how are you swinging this place by yourself?" i ask him.  and then he tells me about george.

george, the owner of the house and alvaro's benefactor, was apparently a hale-and-hearty specimen of the genus silverus daddyolus--right up until the day his tanned, pot-bellied ass suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack in some bar in palm springs, that is.

[alvaro found out when the last twink george gave his number to called it, got alvaro and told him, "old dude handed me his card, spread his arms to give me a hug and instead of leaning in, got this look on his face, fell backward, and wham! he was gone."

dunno about you, but that's totally the way i wanna go out.]

anyway, alvaro shed a tear or two for george, who had apparently been a good guy, and started preparing himself for yet another move.  he packed his shit and awaited the inevitable call from george's family.

while he waited, he poked around in george's shit, found his will

"weirdest thing--it was right on top of all his papers"

it left everything to george's enfeebled, elderly mother, with the specific stipulation that nothing go to his brothers, who had been mean to him all his life.

alvaro got a taste of what poor george had endured a few days later when mean brother #1 showed up with a u-haul to clean out the house.

"he walked in like he owned the place, and as soon as he did all the lights in the house started flickering--he asked me how long that had been happening, and i told him it had never happened before.  he laughed like he didn't believe me and said he'd call an electrician to fix it.

"the whole time they were moving george's stuff out, i kept tryin to talk to him, and he wouldn't listen--just waved me away.  and the whole time they were there, the lights were flickering like crazy.

"when they were done, he told me i had five days to clear my faggot ass outta there, or he was gonna call the cops.  i didn't say anything--just stood there in shock with my mouth open as they drove away."

and this, gentle readers, is where karma enters the tale.

because, see, the two things alvaro kept tryin to communicate to mean brother #1--but that mean brother #1 apparently didn't wanna hear--were, respectively:  (1) alvaro had found the will; and (2) all alvaro was asking was a little time in which to find a new place to live.  and if mean brother #1 had merely troubled himself to listen to alvaro with even a modicum of respect on that fateful day, this story would've ended then and there.

what happened instead?  alvaro--the sweetest guy in the world, trust me--got righteously pissed, lost the will, called an attorney, got clued into the tenant's paradise that is california, dug in his heels and has been successfully battling poor dead george's mean brothers for the past two years.

yeah, two years--since no will had been filed, probate dragged on forever due to fierce internecine battling between mean brother #1 and mean brother #2 (because by that time mom was half-addled toast), no doubt at great expense to the estate, and every attempt to sell the house once ownership was finally settled has ended badly.

"whenever people look at the house," alvaro tells me, "things just seem to go wrong."

mostly, it's the lights, he says--while they're perfectly fine most of the time, and the wiring has been given a clean bill of health by any number of electricians, they have an uncanny tendency to dim and flicker whenever a prospective buyer (or, for that matter, either of the mean brothers) is on the premises.  or sometimes a realtor will show up with a prospect, the place will suddenly "smell funny", and they'll leave quickly.

whatever--sucks for the mean brothers, but good for alvaro, right?  well, not exactly--his cheap rent has cost him dearly.

"my car died last year.  it's in the garage--it starts, but it won't go, and nobody can figure out what's wrong with it.  and without the car, i'm stuck up here in the hills--i'm barely making it."

we're in the master bedroom, admiring a vintage, beautifully framed, signed and numbered tom of finland print that mean brother #1 had found in a closet and contemptuously tossed to alvaro--the only scrap he'd left behind.  i'm researching it and i hope it turns out to be worth $15,000.

"sometimes, mike," he continues," i think i should just leave the car, throw some shit in a bag and get the hell outta here."

and with that, the lamp in the corner--which, like all the lights in the house had been burning steadily and true the whole time i'd been there--starts flickering.

he half-laughs, looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, "see?  it's like george doesn't want me to leave."

i walk him out to the living room, sit him down on the sofa, and we talk.

before i go further with this story, lemme describe the living room: a large, square space, empty save for that single sofa, its perimeter ringed with track lighting shining perfectly-spaced parabolas of light down onto art which is no longer there.

"look, alvaro," i tell him.  "i dunno if dead george is tryin to use you as a foil to keep his mean brothers' hands off his estate or not, and i don't care how cheap your rent is.  for whatever reason, this place has become a prison for you, and you need to get out--now."

simple and direct, right?

yeah.  it's at this point in time that this transient incident in my life--one of countless such moments i've experienced and have long since forgotten--becomes suddenly memorable.

because the instant those words cross my lips--and i shit you not--every light in the living room goes out.

as my eyes try to adjust to the sudden darkness, i look at alvaro with my mouth open and, in the dim twilight afforded by the shaded windows, i can see him smiling ruefully as he says, "see what i mean?"

as spooked as i am, the hairs on the back of my neck don't come to full attention until i look up and see, amongst all the dead soldiers above me, a single, solitary bulb in the perimeter track pulsing steadily with a dim, yellow glow.  because that can't be--either a circuit's dead or it's not; there's no kinda-sorta when it comes to electricity.

"i gotta go, alvaro [because i suddenly really do].  walk me out, ok?"

halfway up the driveway, i quietly tell him, "listen to me, baby:  you need to very suddenly and without warning clear the fuck outta here--like, tomorrow.  i'll come back and help you if you want."

he nods in half-hearted agreement, but he won't meet my eye, and that's when i realize alvaro's not going anywhere, and george's power over him is far greater than mine.

*     *     *     *     *

as for the above picture:  i snapped it when i was back in the car with the heater running full-blast.


as for the lights:  i called when i was a couple miles away--they were all back on.

as for this post:  just like the last story of its kind for which over the years i've taken no end of shit, i stand by every goddam word.


update: if you're interested in the further adventures of alvaro, click here.