Love Hard: Stories 1989-2009

By D. Travers Scott

For the first time, the best pieces of D. Travers Scott’s celebrated short fiction from the past twenty years are gathered together. Love Hard collects work originally appearing in award-winning anthologies, underground queer ‘zines, erotica magazines, and live performance, along with new stories never before published. Together, they offer the first comprehensive overview of Scott’s ongoing explorations of masculinity, sexuality, cities, family, love, and the power of writing. All stories are newly revised for this collection.

For over two decades, D. Travers Scott has worked as a writer, critic, and artist, appearing everywhere from underground ‘zines to Harper’s and This American Life. He is author of two novels: the internationally acclaimed Execution, Texas: 1987 and the Lambda Literary Award winner, One of these Things is Not Like the Other. After many years in the advertising industry, he is currently completing a PhD at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Southern California. He and his husband live in Los Angeles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebel Satori Press
• Release date: Mar 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781608640645

D. Travers Scott

For over two decades, D. Travers Scott has worked as a writer, critic, and artist, appearing everywhere from underground ‘zines to Harper’s and This American Life. He is author of two novels: the internationally acclaimed Execution, Texas: 1987 and the Lambda Literary Award winner, One of these Things is Not Like the Other. After many years in the advertising industry, he is currently completing a PhD at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Southern California. He and his husband live in Los Angeles.

Book preview

LOVE HARD:

Stories 1989-2009

by

D. Travers Scott

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Rebel Satori Press on Smashwords

Copyright 2009 by D. Travers Scott

Discover other Rebel Satori Press titles at:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/rebelsatori

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Detachment never lasted long—as the toiler must live in the city’s belly,

so I was compelled to live in its disordered mind.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, My Lost City

For Bob, and all the other missing.

Table of Content

Men

Gas Works Park

Pedestal

Beating Mickey

Everclear

Cutting

Archeology

Alphonse

Parchment

Just for One Day

Cities

Library of Congress

Falcons

California. Stop.

Little Armenia

Truncated Offramp

Instruction

Yidland

EuroTex

Recitative

Where Hearts Were Entertaining June

King of the Universe (pt. 1)

King of the Universe (pt. 2)

Sex

Get on Your Bike and Ride!

Living Room

It's Not You

Symphonic Disco

New Wave Skinhead Flight Attendant

Aegis

Workplace Safety

Palladium

Digestion

Catafalque

Acknowledgements

Men

Gas Works Park

Dave opened his mouth, words absent, uncertain tongue. An empty page mid-book. A blank actor. Silence—expectant, undeniable.

Pauses swelled the phone line between Dave and David.

Dave wanted to say, Go play pool at Linda’s. He remembered past visits there with David and you. I don’t want to go to a bar, he said. He eyed the drawn blinds. It’s so nice out.

Across the line, David cleared his throat. It is gorgeous today.

Dave traced a fingertip across holes in the receiver mouthpiece.

We could go play Frisbee, David suggested.

Sure. Dave thought of you still. But not at Volunteer Park.

Expectant, undeniable.

You mind driving over to Gas Works?

Upon the northern shore of Seattle’s Lake Union, Gas Works Park rises from the earth in an unruly manner, hardly typical of a playground. The brute machineworks gussied into a public park bears a vaguely grotesque air of the malapropos, similar to a gorilla forced to wear a pink bonnet.

The machines’ coal-firing glory days had long since ceased. For decades no one had been able to envision any profit from razing the huge iron complex. The gas works had lingered as a rusty, lifeless eyesore to boaters and waterfront homeowners. The black and brown metals had grown slashes of gray and white graffiti. Class of ‘65. Patrice + Shaun. In those days before nighttime security patrols—post-closure but pre-renovation—the ladders and pipelines, twisting under predawn starlight, had offered drunks obstacle courses and lovers trysting alcoves. A few too many fatal missteps had brought on security fencing, making the place even more unseemly.

In a flush of 1970s idealism, the city had seeded grass over the waste mounds, planted trees around the employee parking lot, painted one section of machinery vivid orange and blue, and built a shaved-ice stand in the shade of the cylinders. Closest to the lakeshore, however, two conglomerations of tanks and towers had been denied the colorful makeover. Their unadulterated hues of aged metal had maintained a tart mechanical flavor in the landscape, and had upheld a more visible link to the past, even a suggestion of educational or historical intent on the part of the park’s re-creators. The old gas works had been reinvented as Gas Works Park. Technological progress had become urban necessity had become eyesore had become tasteless joke had become one of the city’s prized landmarks.

Today, in the parking lot, a modest placard advises visitors, Please DO NOT let children dig in or eat the dirt! Semi-toxic residue from the park’s past remains in the soil. Buried industrial waste, in the form of a black tar, oozes up in viscous slicks, almost as if to spite the park’s added niceties. Hurricane fencing quarantines the insubordinate sludge, chain-link trapezoids cordoning off gray concrete and green grass besmirched by pitch. There are four such zones in Gas Works Park, none more than 20 feet square. A section of cracked, sticky sidewalk is cordoned off-limits, forcing visitors to detour through the grass. A freewheeling cartwheel or somersault down the hillside now must swerve to avoid a rhombus of restricted grass, suspiciously yellowed with ominous dark roots. The two large, unpainted machineworks are also fenced off, deemed too dangerous for child’s play, a tempting but tetanus-rich jungle gyms of pipes, ladders, and tanks.

The blunt honesty of the oily and rusty risks does not curtail the park’s usage. The park hosts concerts, film screenings, Native American kayak cruises, and much more. The chain link restrains only visitors’ movements, not views. Every vista, every panorama, every scene can still be seen.

Dave inhaled, pulling his stomach tight. He squeezed through a rip in chain link, stepping over curled claws of wire and into the prohibited space. Tall, dry grass scratched Dave’s calves. He glanced around, feeling zoo-like inside the fence. No one yelled at him to stop. He stepped over a bit of piping and reached for the Frisbee.

Hey Dave, there’s a boomerang over there! David called. Beside his face, his fingers looped through the fence-links. Get that boomerang!

Right on. Where? Dave looked around. Sweat slid under the bridge of his black, thick-framed glasses.

Around the other side, that big round bit— David frowned. His freshly shaved scalp prickled in the sun.

Dave stepped northward.

No, that square casing, near the spigot—

Dave corrected his direction. He peered down at the welded-shut cube of antique mechanics. He thought it resembled a storage locker from his Army days at Fort Lewis. He’d seen one with a plant growing out of it in the window of Six Arms. Six Arms had been your favorite restaurant, the one you’d always suggested when Dave and David and you went out to dinner together, not for the food but for their private brews. Six Arms’ oddly flavored seasonal beers had never failed to seduce you, the startling flavor juxtapositions such as pumpkinseed ale and licorice stout, at which Dave and David had wrinkled their noses. Dave and David had opted for reliable IPAs or hearty porters: time-tested brews, which now, in your absence, seemed simply dull.

David watched Dave bend over. Dave wore a sleeveless white A-shirt, brown wool suspenders, and gray canvas pants cut off below the knee. David thought of that painting of peasant threshers brandishing scythes, but couldn’t glean the title. The Reapers? That can’t be right—sounds more like some heavy metal band than agrarian Realism.

Dave grabbed the orange plastic blade wedged in the brittle grass. Dave’s lanky figure folded onto itself as he bent, like the legs of a card table. The lock of black hair dangling from his forehead—his between-cigarette fidget toy—swung forward. He straightened himself and held the boomerang aloft for David to see. The white Frisbee hung limp in his other hand.

That’s great! David said.

Dave squeezed back through the gap in the fence.

He’s so thin, David thought. Is he losing weight?

Dave waved the boomerang and took off, putting distance between them so he could try it.

David felt a bit of relief: the boomerang’s discovery temporarily suspended their Frisbee game. The back-and-forth volley had grown to feel simplistic, its elementary binary making him long for the triangular relationship he had been used to, more complex, richer, smoother. For the past six months, it had been merely David and Dave, with no indication of your return. D ‘n’ D. He felt naked.

David’s focus shifted from Dave practicing the boomerang to the hillside beyond. A cement plateau crowned the hill, inset with a mosaic of astrological signs. There, a woman and girl flew an orange kite shaped like a Japanese goldfish. They’d probably bought it down in the International District. (Chinatown, Dave still called it.) A man juggled oversized alphabet blocks. Two boys careened mountain bikes down the hill’s face, shirts flapping open as they dodged a fenced-off section. They nearly ran over someone suntanning, who didn’t look anything like you, David told himself. He shaded his eyes. He scratched the sweaty armpit of his T-shirt, olive green too dark a color for this brilliant weather.

Dave followed David’s gaze and looked back over his shoulder at the suntanner. Younger than you were, Dave thought. Way too young for David. Fuck. He turned back to David, smiled, and raised his eyebrows. He blew his forehead lock up in the air. Dave threw the boomerang, slicing high up into the air, and waited. The boomerang returned wildly, grazing his hand but eluding his grasp. Fuck! Dave shouted, shaking his hand. He sucked his fingertips, bent, and grabbed the boomerang. I can get it to come back, he called to David, but I can’t catch it. He shrugged.

David watched Dave practice his throw, snapping his wrist, jerking the boomerang forward without releasing it, stabbing the air. He appreciated the boomerang’s singularity. Trading turns felt more comfortable, a together-yet-separate way for them to spend time, like a family watching TV.

David tried to walk a fine line with Dave, not to avoid him but also not to be so transparently consoling. That would make your absence even more apparent. David didn’t ever invite Dave over; he knew Dave would feel uncomfortable in David’s new apartment among the pictures of you, you with Dave, you with David, and you with Dave and David. Your collection of 1960s discotheque LP covers balanced on the picture-hanging rail.

It wasn’t only about you and your absence, David told himself. Dave and I have an autonomous relationship, even now. Dave actually enjoys spending time with someone who’s not a kid. He’s always had that with me. He doesn’t see me as merely a charity case, crutch, or souvenir. David remembered how, when dinner conversation would be full of David’s and Dave’s anxieties over jobs or school, weighing possibilities, pro and con, you’d be right there with them, analyzing options and suggesting new lines of thought. Only later, when David was alone with you, would you casually drop some bomb, such as a promotion at work or acceptance to grad school. You would mention it as casually as folding laundry. Your calculated cool obscured how ambitious David knew you really were, only your ambition didn’t seem to require validations from David and Dave’s debates.

When you’d told Dave, Maybe journalism school would be a good idea after the Army, your voice had been so benign no one would ever have guessed you had been a journalism major yourself. When Dave changed schools for the fourth time, David had tried to drag some sort of consistent interest out of him, tried to draw connections between the schools. You had merely asked Dave what he liked about the new school. Dave’s present happiness seemed to satisfy you, not the direction of his actions. David knew your concerns and saw you hide them from Dave.

After you left, David wondered what you had hidden from him.

You wanna try? Dave asked.

David nodded, Sure, I’ll give it a go.

The two men sat on the grass, at the base of a six-foot cement arch, one in a row of six. Constructed more recently and unconnected to the gas works, the arches stood painfully incongruous and without apparent function, like abandoned pieces of a cathedral-building kit. Too bland for public art in a city that preferred giant steel peonies, yet too tall and rough for playground equipment, the arches nevertheless functioned as both. A teenage girl grappled her way up the angled leg of one. Once on top, she leapt from one arch to another.

David stole a peek at the girl sailing above.

Jailbait, Dave said, clicking his lighter.

David chuckled. The girl sung along with a song in her headphones.

Dave exhaled and held up his cigarette package, Dave’s Lights. Look, he said. I’m so stoked there’s a product named after me now.

"At least you smoke. Wish there was something named after me I liked, like David’s Vodka."

Dave smiled and put the pack in his shorts’ cargo pocket. What about that Ben and Jerry’s you dig so much, that fruity shit?

The sorbet?

Yeah.

I do like sorbet. He smoothed the air before him with his palms. "David’s Sorbet," he announced.

Dave exhaled. Sounds kinda faggy.

Yeah, I suppose so. It’s French. Maybe if I was named Jacques. Too bad, it’s great stuff. But it does sound kind of pretentious asking for ‘sorbet’.

Dave nodded. Yeah. You need something not in another language. It’s so snotty to speak another language.

David screwed his lips up. ‘Icefruit’, he tested.

Dave shook his head. Obvious.

‘Brrreeza’, he suggested, trilling his r’s.

Dave shook his head. That’s way faggy.

‘Jhuise’, he offered.

Dave shook his head. Bhitaktg!

They faced each other. They turned to the park.

C’klhaue Hu sdabou h’fod? David said.

C’klhaut?!

Q nfaou, c’klhaue Hu sdabou h’fod?

Bhitaktg.

David opened his mouth, closed it. He looked from Dave to the park. Did you understand what I just said?

Phsgtr, Hul gnyuais q trebdou, Dave sighed.

Huais! Jiiouwf asdfujh, q Hu gfid hnoht c’oskf letk, David barked. Tnuexr. Ifd qi Hol nys’t h’is!

Dave’s face darkened. His lips struggled to form the right words. He lowered his eyes. You’re not speaking English, he muttered. How come I understand you?

Gfid asohuihe! David said. Ho q Hu— He shook his head, closed his eyes. Neither are you, but I get it. He pushed himself up off the grass. He stood, eyes darting around the park. He paced around an arch and glared at Dave. He turned away and took off down the sidewalk, looking down at his feet. When he reached the fenced-off section he stepped back onto the grass to circumvent a quarantined area. He slapped the chain-link as he passed.

Dave looked around the park and felt alone.

In the fierce sunshine, Seattle’s skyline appeared hazy and distant across the lake, cool glass towers an opposite world away. A pontooned seaplane coasted down for a landing: an ominous image, one signaling a dramatic arrival or departure in countless films. Pilots and cyclists navigated sky and earth with their machines, which worked, which performed useful transportation functions. The gas works looked on, resentful. If entertainment could be deemed a function, they were still functional, but it was not their original, intended function. It was a stopgap, a substitute, a transformation. Nothing was inherently shameful or disrespectful in that, but when questions of intention are raised, pride does become pricked. Was the transformation willing, or merely a clumsy necessity, the best that could be managed given the circumstances? Were the gas works a gorgeous butterfly? A noble phoenix? Or an older sibling’s church slacks taken in and poorly passed off as school clothes?

The girl hit the grass loudly beside Dave, startling him. He took off along the sidewalk after David. He glanced over his shoulder, glimpsing the girl’s triumphant smile.

Dave entered the parking lot. He could see David on the far side, sitting in the cab of his battered ‘68 Ford pickup. Dave could hear the AM radio warbling some wartime crooner on the music of your life station. David sat in the cab, engine rumbling, and stared out the windshield. He threw open the door as Dave approached. Dave clambered in, careful to avoid scraping his shins against the rusty frame. He slammed the door, smelling oily decades in the floorboards and leather. He looked at David. David glared: Don’t say a word.

They drove home without speaking. In the your absence, Dave and David had grown accustomed to denying the obvious.

They nodded good-bye as David idled outside Dave’s apartment. Dave didn’t invite David in, or to go get a beer, even though it was only early evening. David watched Dave hike up the steps into the hillside horseshoe of apartments.

Dave’s apartment complex resembled 1940s Hollywood writer bungalows, quaint stucco dwellings with vine-trellised sidewalks, tiny security nests like those the movie studios had paid for to keep alcoholic writers happily churning out stories.

For the next three days, Dave kept himself inside his bungalow. The Internet reassured him in its steadfast English, until he accidentally popped into a search engine a word only he and David knew. He experimented with typing in the other tongue, finding it at least had no nonstandard characters. He sent discussion groups random postings, hoping for recognition of the tongue. Only angry chastisements returned. He sent David emails in both languages, with no response. Between dial-up Internet connections he played back voicemails, hoping to hear David’s voice. When he did venture out to the grocery store or a bar, he spoke as little as possible. He flinched whenever someone asked him to repeat what he’d said. Warily he looked at the calendar—school started in two weeks. At night, Dave dreamed of you, talking with you in the new language.

David carefully picked up the phone. Hello?

Gfid—

C’lhod! David barked. Q basdi ghiu c’ynauith. Ho jhuiset, clethious, gretully, q asohuihe klet!

Q- q- Hu gretully fhaelstock ghiu c’yunt. Elt vrhioultes fed vrhialtes sekken Ho lykklio. J’nre Hauio—

Jo, jhig c’lhious basdi ghiu—

Fsanku!

David jerked the phone from his ear.

David!

David hesitated at English. He returned the receiver to his ear, gingerly.

I’ll try to stick to English, but it’s fucking hard. This damn other language’s running all in my head, and you’re the only one who gets it.

I know.

Did we get some kind of disease or something? It feels normal, just like English, you know? I keep speaking it to other people by accident. I can’t remember which is which, they sound all the same.

Calm down, damn it, David hissed. Just try to ignore it.

What the fuck is happening?

I don’t know. It’s obviously something between us; maybe we’re bringing it out in each other.

But what the fuck is it?

Look, I think we’ve got to just steer clear of each other a while and see if it lets up.

Dude, I don’t think—

Don’t think about it, OK? Just don’t think about it, and don’t call me.

David—

He set the receiver down. He went in the bathroom and gargled with warm water and sea salt. He ignored the ringing phone. Returning to his couch, he increased the TV volume, staring hard at subtitles on PBS. He tried to lose himself in a drama of a writer with psoriasis, but felt irritable and distracted. Not merely over Dave and their unwanted new language, but also you. He felt you strong in the room, your mood in his own. David didn’t want to think about you.

The phone rang, and he checked Caller ID. The building’s front entry. Could be Dave. David stepped away from the phone and grabbed his keys. He stormed out of his apartment and up to the roof.

Dave hung up the building entry phone and sat down on the building’s front steps. He lit up a smoke and glared across the street at a car. Kijhiou, he said. His gaze darted about the intersection. He blew smoke disdainfully from between his lips as he named each object: Stoplight—Huloai. Tree—Nudaklyrgno. Store—Qoihg. He tapped the cement steps at his feet, F’kuiets. He traced his pinky-finger along the cool brass of the arm rail, Jhufi c’haju. He saw his twisted reflection in the tarnishing brass, Lek. He put his finger between his lips and sucked it, searching for taste.

On the roof above, David surveyed the city.

From the interstate highway below David’s building, it appeared Seattle to the west was solely bold modernism: the retro-utopic Space Needle, the glass skyscrapers of downtown, the cubic R. E. I. Outdoor Supplies storefront. The east, however, held an unbroken row of outdated apartment buildings crowded shoulder-to-shoulder on the hilltop above the expressway. Their unified front of prefab iron railings and communal balconies attested to the city’s eastward expansion during the late 1960s. What was once evidence of prosperity had lingered to become an eyesore, but people were willing to withstand inferior domiciles for a superior view. Anything for a view, that’s why the freeway buildings had never been razed and updated. Not till the next boom. Hidden behind these ugly 60s complexes, venerable brick buildings from the 20s, such as the one on whose roof David now stood, suffered quietly through the decades as their views became blocked by the freeway complexes, then trees, then parking garages, and now a slow but steady infiltration of dot-com condominiums infesting Capitol Hill.

Seattle filled the landscape of Puget Sound like a liquid, like the toxic sludge at Gas Works Park, something whose shape and form was dictated by laws of nature rather than urban planning.