September 2015 began on a Tuesday. I started the day by sending out birthday wishes to my former life partner of 20 years, John (with an “h”), with whom I had once shared many happy times and adventures. It was John who prodded me to get a passport so that we might see London on our first vacation together.
Even though the last of our years together devolved into a series of often bitter arguments, in the end he once again became the true friend I’d originally known him to be. It was John who covered my inability to fully meet my share of the costs of keeping the house during those final months prior to its sale.
I was, and still am, very happy that we’ve restored that portion of our relationship and we remain good friends to this day.
The remainder of that week, with my unemployment insurance running out and little-to-no prospect of finding any type of work, I reexamined my finances. I determined that, for the coming year, if I returned to living like a monk—although I have no earthly idea how modern day monks live—I could scrape by, using the funds from the sale of the house to cover expenses, until I qualified for full Social Security payments on my 66th birthday December 7, 2016.
It would mean a hit of nearly $9,500 to my savings, but that would still leave me with well over $50,000 in the bank.
Additionally, there was always the chance, no matter how slim, that I might find work of some kind during those months.
That settled, I got ready for the coming Labor Day Weekend. And what a weekend I had planned. First one, possibly two, glasses of wine (after all it was a holiday) during Hunters Fur Friday happy hour, followed by two sixty-cent, senior’s discount, Dollar Menu tacos at Del Taco, and a Netflix movie.
On Saturday I would go shopping for provisions and, because it was a holiday, I would treat myself to a bottle of Costco’s finest and cheapest bottle of Pinot Noir.
On Sunday, I’d continue to splurge by having brunch at Rick’s Restaurant and Bakery, followed by a disco nap before venturing out later that afternoon to the tea dance at Oscar’s Cafe and Bar in downtown Palm Springs for one or maybe two drinks. Sunday dinner would once again be catered by Del Taco, a $4.75 seniors priced-to-go order of Nachos Grande, which would be enjoyed while watching a movie on Netflix.
What a weekend it was going to be.
I arrived at Hunters, as was my custom, forty five minutes into the two-hour Fur Friday happy hour gathering.
Like virtually every holiday weekend in Palm Springs, the bar was packed and overflowing with visitors from all points. – www.hunterspalmsprings.com
Like virtually every holiday weekend in Palm Springs, the bar was packed and overflowing with visitors from all points. The line to order drinks at my favorite bartender’s station had patrons smooshed up against one another like commuters during rush hour in the Tokyo subway.
I found myself face-to-face, or I should say face-to-neck with a guy, who, judging by his rippling neck muscles and massive shoulders, had to be a bodybuilder.
“Certainly well built, isn’t he,” came a voice directly behind.
I turned to see a handsome fellow in his thirties standing behind me. “From what I can see,” I said, “I’d say so.”
Attractive as these two men were, I really wasn’t thinking about anything other than getting my drink and finding someplace in either of Hunters two large rooms to escape the near constant jostling we all were experiencing as celebrants tried to mingle and move about the bar.
I turned to face forward, and as I did I noticed an arm reaching past my left shoulder, hand out stretched and on its way toward the left ear of the well muscled gentleman in front of me. The cute guy behind me flicked the bodybuilder’s ear and then quickly withdrew his arm.
The very muscular man waiting in line before me turned and with a bemused look on his face just stared directly at me. Caught off guard and still being buffeted left and right I did the only thing I could think of. Without changing my expression I just pointed directly at the thirty-something man, feigning innocence, badly, behind me.
He shrugged his shoulders, smiled and laughed, the bodybuilder laughed and so did I. Names were exchanged, the roguish younger man was James, the bodybuilder was Steve. Throughout the evening I got to know each of them a little better.
After securing my drink, I headed deeper into the bar. There at the entrance to the dance club portion of the bar I saw Steve standing there with another, older, bodybuilder. I stopped, we chatted, and Steve introduced me to his husband Rick. They lived on the outskirts of LA and had a weekend/vacation home in Palm Springs and as I would discover later that weekend, theirs appeared to be an open relationship.
“Par for the course,” I thought to myself, although unlike most of the muscle boys I’d met over the years in Los Angeles, they were both thoroughly engaging and very nice to talk with.
Moving about the room, I ran across James a short while later. James who was visiting from the San Francisco Bay Area with friends was handsome, with a wry sense of humor, rapier-like wit, and—best of all—single.
“Eureka!” I thought to myself.
“What in the name of Erma Bombeck is he trying to do,” Brain asked Griselda, “start up a whole new relationship?”
“No,” Griselda said impatiently. “He’s just looking for someone to spend time with without feeling like the proverbial fifth wheel.”
“I dare say,” Brain retorted, “that’s not the only thing he’d like to spend.”
I had a great time talking and verbally sparing with James. He was as intelligent as he was handsome. That said, it soon became clear after chatting for a while he wasn’t interested in straying from the plans he and his friends had made for that weekend or for that matter expanding their circle.
My evening wasn’t over yet. It seemed as if everyone I knew in Palm Springs had decided to stay in town for the Labor Day Weekend. Over the course of the next hour, I chatted with friend after friend, all of whom were there with either their current partner in crime and/or lawfully wedded husband.
Fortunately for me the subject of my trip to Toronto or the status of my relationship with Jon never came up during any of those conversations.
Besides that, for the first time since returning from Toronto, I was enjoying myself and having a good time.
Just before leaving I ran into another couple I knew from northern California, George and Vern. I’d met George prior to moving to Palm Springs during a Halloween weekend visit and well before I’d stumbled across Mr. Breithaupt’s GROWLr profile picture.
At last, something to do besides sitting around and feeling sorry for myself, and have a good time to boot.
George was handsome, tall, somewhere around six-two or six-three, broad shouldered and with a chest that ran on for days. I’m beginning to think there might be a pattern here.
Of course, it turned out George was married. He was and is a sweetheart of a guy and he and Vern are two of the loveliest people I know.
All of this socializing completely changed my plans for the weekend. I had pizza with friends after Hunters, was invited to a brunch on Sunday at Rick’s, of all places, and a Labor Day pool party at the home George and Vern had just taken possession of.
At last, something to do besides sitting around and feeling sorry for myself, and have a good time to boot.
It was the Tuesday after Labor Day before I had a chance to post some of the pictures from the pool party, which, as it turns out, James, as well as Steve and Rick, also attended. In fact, I had been enjoying myself so much that weekend, this was the first time I’d had a chance to check my Facebook account.
Among the thirty-some notifications that had piled up, there was one from Sunday morning from an older bearish guy I’d never heard of. He had “liked” one of my pictures. I clicked on the notification to see which picture of my pics it was.
It turned out to be the picture from Joshua Tree National Park of Jon standing shirtless, face up to the sun, in front of my car. The single most viewed picture in my account. It was the picture I’d earlier quipped, “Who knew there were that many fans of Chrysler 300s.”
Who knew there were that many fans of Chrysler 300s.
This wouldn’t be the last time that picture popped up unexpectedly.
Edited by
Kenneth Larsen
Join us again on November 7 for: An Oberleitner Always Pays His Debts
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