Ancient text describing "2003 Gay Pride Parade"
We kick this temporarily dead horse with a recently discovered papyrus chronicling a series of rituals enacted in the temple-village of Xan Fraxixo some several centuries ago.
It was probably the third time I had driven into the city. I had moved to the Bay Area six months before, but I lived down on the Peninsula, and to this boy from a small town in Georgia, Redwood City and the surrounding neighborhoods seemed to offer enough to keep me exploring for years. Then again, some may say I was simply afraid of the city. And perhaps I was: In talking with city folk then and since, I have always tried to describe a certain something about the city that I did not like or that did not suit me. But I have not yet been able to describe that something.
My goal was Market Street, which was easy enough. I had taken the train in from time to time to walk along Embarcadero, and some of those on-foot explorations had led me across the Golden Gate Bridge, to Chinatown, and down Market itself all the way to Castro (and back). Today I was driving, and I exited on Fourth, saw my friend the CalTrain station, and knew I was on course. After several stoplights, I began to see groups of people sporting rainbow flags, so I figured I was close enough. I pulled off on a side street and found a parallel spot I could pull into. A cautious stranger in a strange land, I wrote the address on a scrap of paper and put it in my wallet: the 600 block of Harrison.
The city was warm today, so I was wearing just a gray T-shirt and jeans. I hadn’t thought to bring a jacket, so I was lucky the weather was behaving. The sun was bright in the incredibly blue sky, and strong cooling winds blew through the buildings. I found Third and headed north. Others were making the same migration, stopping only to wait for crossing signs. I walked faster than these, overtook them, all the while glancing to see what people, like me, were intent on the spectacle of the 2003 Gay Pride Parade. I walked quickly partly out of habit but more out of the knowledge that the parade began at ten and it was twenty past.
A block from Market the road was closed, so I left the sidewalk and entered the broad street, crossing over to the west corner. A mild crowd was pressed against the metal railings lining Market, and no parade in sight. I stood a moment behind the spectators, and there seemed to be fewer than I had expected. But they were much more diverse than I would have thought — meaning that instead of tight shirts, sunglasses, and highlights for miles around, there were families and babies of all races and ethnicities, white yuppies among them. All wore smiles, and some babies waved rainbow flags. All looked expectantly but patiently east.
I was looking for love, as usual, but not expecting to find it. There was an interesting group of men on my right. All were shorter and thinner than I, and all were older. They seemed to be hardened by work in the sun, and a few had broken teeth that I could see behind their smiles. The shortest was also the oldest — perhaps midforties — and also the most interesting to me. He wore tight brown Calvin Klein jeans, which I thought he might have found at T.J. Maxx like I had, a tight shirt, and a straw hat pushed back on his head. I could not look away from his tanned face, which would crease with his smile and laughter and then return to an infant’s smoothness.
In time, though, nature called. Since I had woken before eight, coffee — and lots of it — had been necessary. More was necessary now. There was a small cafe behind me, and though I felt sorry for it as I saw the mass of people inside looking out and waiting, waiting, and as I imagined the sign “Restrooms Are for Customers Only” being ignored again and again, and though I was afraid I might stand in line for twenty minutes or so for the bathroom, I went in. In fact, it seemed everybody else had already taken care of their business, and now they were just watching for the parade. I ordered another coffee — still necessary since it was not yet eleven — and got rid of that I’d brought inside me from the Peninsula.
Back outside, there was still no sign of the Dykes on Bikes who I knew would initiate the parade, so I stepped back from the crowd and took out a cigarette. I had hoped to quit smoking once I moved to the most antismoking state in the Union, but alas the adjustment had proved stressful. I spent the first two weeks in California on the porch of my ghetto house pacing and smoking and waiting for that phone call from someone offering me an interview. Now I stood and smoked and allowed myself a short rest, and a mild congratulatory celebration that I had come this far — namely, thirty miles to Market Street.
After my second or third celebratory cigarette, I heard a ruckus down the street. Yes, it was motorcycles, and soon the dykes came rolling by, slowly, like maids of honor making their entrance. They were in two rows and waved left and right, smiling happily and openly as you might not expect from a woman on a Harley. Standing in the shade of the buildings on Market, I grew chilly, but these women were in tank tops, T-shirts, or nothing. I saw more breasts in those first few minutes of rolling lesbians than I had up to then. Some of the women had children with them, a boy of ten waving a pride flag from the passenger cart, a girl of eight clinging to her bare-chested grandmother from behind.
As I looked at each motorcycle and its driver in turn, I failed to notice for a while that the parade had stopped. The women had their feet on the ground or were resting on the kickstands, and I overheard other spectators asking the tall gay men who roller-skated along the edge of the parade what the delay was. There had been an accident way up ahead, so the parade was going to be delayed for fifteen minutes or so. I sipped my coffee and left the crowd, walking west on Market Street, as much for a change of venue as to prolong the parade by being able to watch the lesbians vroom by again.
The wind whipped my shirt, and a chill ran down my limbs. I sought a sunny patch between two blocks, where the shadow of a building stopped abruptly as the sun shone from nearly overhead. Here I smiled and looked at the happy crowd lining Market, waving flags, whispering to one another, raising their chins and hooting. Yes, it had been a wise migration. Although I was still a stranger here, and although the city was stranger still, I belonged here and fit in. I moved closer to the crowd until I could hear English, Spanish, Chinese, and a hint of Russian. “My name is PG McCurdy,” I said in my own language, and smiled. Yes, I was part of this great, big organism.
The crowd roared, and motorcycles begin to rev. Content in my sunny patch, I pulled out another cigarette and looked up at the sun. A single bit of white fluff shared the sky, too far from the sun and too small to threaten it. I began to eye the crowd. Was there anyone here who might be . . . ? Summer arms around summer waists, summer lips whispering into summer ears, even a summer twink on the shoulders of a summer hunk. I was late for the orgy; pairs had already formed, and I didn’t want to be the third. The smoke from my cigarette tasted sad in my mouth. I ground it out on the edge of a trash can and threw it away. Enough introspection at the edge; I walked down Market and found a spot at the rail. I put my hands in my pockets and watched some of my old friends the Dykes on Bikes.
It was probably the third time I had driven into the city. I had moved to the Bay Area six months before, but I lived down on the Peninsula, and to this boy from a small town in Georgia, Redwood City and the surrounding neighborhoods seemed to offer enough to keep me exploring for years. Then again, some may say I was simply afraid of the city. And perhaps I was: In talking with city folk then and since, I have always tried to describe a certain something about the city that I did not like or that did not suit me. But I have not yet been able to describe that something.
My goal was Market Street, which was easy enough. I had taken the train in from time to time to walk along Embarcadero, and some of those on-foot explorations had led me across the Golden Gate Bridge, to Chinatown, and down Market itself all the way to Castro (and back). Today I was driving, and I exited on Fourth, saw my friend the CalTrain station, and knew I was on course. After several stoplights, I began to see groups of people sporting rainbow flags, so I figured I was close enough. I pulled off on a side street and found a parallel spot I could pull into. A cautious stranger in a strange land, I wrote the address on a scrap of paper and put it in my wallet: the 600 block of Harrison.
The city was warm today, so I was wearing just a gray T-shirt and jeans. I hadn’t thought to bring a jacket, so I was lucky the weather was behaving. The sun was bright in the incredibly blue sky, and strong cooling winds blew through the buildings. I found Third and headed north. Others were making the same migration, stopping only to wait for crossing signs. I walked faster than these, overtook them, all the while glancing to see what people, like me, were intent on the spectacle of the 2003 Gay Pride Parade. I walked quickly partly out of habit but more out of the knowledge that the parade began at ten and it was twenty past.
A block from Market the road was closed, so I left the sidewalk and entered the broad street, crossing over to the west corner. A mild crowd was pressed against the metal railings lining Market, and no parade in sight. I stood a moment behind the spectators, and there seemed to be fewer than I had expected. But they were much more diverse than I would have thought — meaning that instead of tight shirts, sunglasses, and highlights for miles around, there were families and babies of all races and ethnicities, white yuppies among them. All wore smiles, and some babies waved rainbow flags. All looked expectantly but patiently east.
I was looking for love, as usual, but not expecting to find it. There was an interesting group of men on my right. All were shorter and thinner than I, and all were older. They seemed to be hardened by work in the sun, and a few had broken teeth that I could see behind their smiles. The shortest was also the oldest — perhaps midforties — and also the most interesting to me. He wore tight brown Calvin Klein jeans, which I thought he might have found at T.J. Maxx like I had, a tight shirt, and a straw hat pushed back on his head. I could not look away from his tanned face, which would crease with his smile and laughter and then return to an infant’s smoothness.
In time, though, nature called. Since I had woken before eight, coffee — and lots of it — had been necessary. More was necessary now. There was a small cafe behind me, and though I felt sorry for it as I saw the mass of people inside looking out and waiting, waiting, and as I imagined the sign “Restrooms Are for Customers Only” being ignored again and again, and though I was afraid I might stand in line for twenty minutes or so for the bathroom, I went in. In fact, it seemed everybody else had already taken care of their business, and now they were just watching for the parade. I ordered another coffee — still necessary since it was not yet eleven — and got rid of that I’d brought inside me from the Peninsula.
Back outside, there was still no sign of the Dykes on Bikes who I knew would initiate the parade, so I stepped back from the crowd and took out a cigarette. I had hoped to quit smoking once I moved to the most antismoking state in the Union, but alas the adjustment had proved stressful. I spent the first two weeks in California on the porch of my ghetto house pacing and smoking and waiting for that phone call from someone offering me an interview. Now I stood and smoked and allowed myself a short rest, and a mild congratulatory celebration that I had come this far — namely, thirty miles to Market Street.
After my second or third celebratory cigarette, I heard a ruckus down the street. Yes, it was motorcycles, and soon the dykes came rolling by, slowly, like maids of honor making their entrance. They were in two rows and waved left and right, smiling happily and openly as you might not expect from a woman on a Harley. Standing in the shade of the buildings on Market, I grew chilly, but these women were in tank tops, T-shirts, or nothing. I saw more breasts in those first few minutes of rolling lesbians than I had up to then. Some of the women had children with them, a boy of ten waving a pride flag from the passenger cart, a girl of eight clinging to her bare-chested grandmother from behind.
As I looked at each motorcycle and its driver in turn, I failed to notice for a while that the parade had stopped. The women had their feet on the ground or were resting on the kickstands, and I overheard other spectators asking the tall gay men who roller-skated along the edge of the parade what the delay was. There had been an accident way up ahead, so the parade was going to be delayed for fifteen minutes or so. I sipped my coffee and left the crowd, walking west on Market Street, as much for a change of venue as to prolong the parade by being able to watch the lesbians vroom by again.
The wind whipped my shirt, and a chill ran down my limbs. I sought a sunny patch between two blocks, where the shadow of a building stopped abruptly as the sun shone from nearly overhead. Here I smiled and looked at the happy crowd lining Market, waving flags, whispering to one another, raising their chins and hooting. Yes, it had been a wise migration. Although I was still a stranger here, and although the city was stranger still, I belonged here and fit in. I moved closer to the crowd until I could hear English, Spanish, Chinese, and a hint of Russian. “My name is PG McCurdy,” I said in my own language, and smiled. Yes, I was part of this great, big organism.
The crowd roared, and motorcycles begin to rev. Content in my sunny patch, I pulled out another cigarette and looked up at the sun. A single bit of white fluff shared the sky, too far from the sun and too small to threaten it. I began to eye the crowd. Was there anyone here who might be . . . ? Summer arms around summer waists, summer lips whispering into summer ears, even a summer twink on the shoulders of a summer hunk. I was late for the orgy; pairs had already formed, and I didn’t want to be the third. The smoke from my cigarette tasted sad in my mouth. I ground it out on the edge of a trash can and threw it away. Enough introspection at the edge; I walked down Market and found a spot at the rail. I put my hands in my pockets and watched some of my old friends the Dykes on Bikes.
posted by Paul G. McCurdy at 11:51 AM
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