Twin Memoirs

By Robert W. Parsons

The continuing saga of the DeMarco brothers begins with book 3 as they both struggle through college. The inheritance the twins received from some mystery man would not only bring change in their lives but also in the life of their mother. This event will forever change their future, their journey and their story. Years of intense study at college prepare the boys for this new global adventure. New people enter their lives which results in great friendships and eventually business associates. Book 4 continues as the DeMarco brothers run the gauntlets of Wounded Knee in the early '70s, the building of the town of Eagleton, Colorado high in a valley of the Rocky Mountains in the late '70s and the sky tower, the DeMarco international headquarters in downtown Denver being built in the early '80s. Several deaths occur, natural deaths, because we all grow old. But as one dies, others are birthed and the story of the brothers continue. Within the same family, to be quite honest and somewhat crude, out with the old and in with the new. More secrets are revealed, old friendships are reunited, challenges lie ahead, dreams come true and new adventures begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640273726

Book preview

Berkeley

All throughout my high school years, I knew that my desire for men had been in conflict with my religious and spiritual upbringing. Whether I was in some sort of strong delusional vortex or just confused by my lustful gratifications, I don’t know. Michael, Johnny, Carlos, Danny, Tony, and Donna were the only people in the world who knew about my homosexual desires. At least, I thought they were the only ones who knew. I kept a very low profile and was scared to death someone would find out. I don’t know for sure if Mother knew at this point, but I had a feeling she did since I had informed her about Michael. It seems that parents always know what is going on in their children’s lives. If she knew about my homosexuality, she didn’t say anything to me about it. I’m sure she already had been praying for our lost souls whether she knew or not.

I have always been good with numbers. I helped Mother with the books on the ranch and became quite good at accounting. My goals were to do my undergraduate work in accounting and business law. I wanted to become a certified public accountant. I then wanted to go on to law school to see if I could make a difference in the lives of my Indian brothers by becoming a lawyer. That was my dream, but it seemed so unreachable until I remember what Father had told me.

He said, Everything is doable! That was his way, as a minister, of telling me as a young boy that all things are possible with God.

Michael found his niche in sports and directed his studies in that area. Michael thought he would like to major in nutritional biochemistry and minor in exercise physiology. Michael had a long-term dream of getting into sports medicine. Time would tell if Michael was serious.

Michael and I were fortunate. Michael had received a football scholarship, and I, an academic one. That helped out our limited finances tremendously. We had the first four years of college covered financially. Graduate school and beyond was left up to faith once again.

Donna threw us a going away party before we all left for college late in the afternoon two days before our departure. It was good to see a lot of our high school friends one last time before all of our lives would change.

As the party was winding down and Donna and I were saying our goodbyes to our friends as they left, Donna had an idea.

Let’s go for a drive to our spot on the ranch. It was an hour before dusk.

Donna and I had our own special spot in a grove of Aspens on the ranch. We would go there to talk and just be silly. We’d pretend we were Rhett and Scarlet over and over. I loved the idea. It might be our last time together, since we were both heading in opposite college directions.

Donna grabbed a thermos filled with the remaining punch. I told Donna to drive. I wasn’t feeling well. It must have been something I ate or drank. But I still wanted to spend some alone time with Donna

I remember arriving at the grove of Aspens and talking with Donna while drinking the punch. I drank most of it. The next thing I remembered was waking up in the back seat of Donna’s car which was parked in her driveway. It was almost sunrise.

That was some party.

* * *

August 17, 1958 - Donna had a great going-away party for Matt and me. I must confess, I spiked the punch. Wonder if anyone noticed? Matt didn’t make it home. Were he and Donna spending the night together? That would be a first.

August 18, 1958 – Matt said he woke up in the back seat of Donna’s car which was parked in her driveway. I guess the spiked punch was noticed. Matt got drunk. That was a first.

August 19, 1958—Matt and I packed up the two Chevys and headed to California. The trip will take four days. We decided to take our time and see some of the country. We will head south on Highway 25, connect with Highway 50 westbound, and end up on Interstate 80 near Reno. Gambling sounds like a plan—just another sin to embellish in. I have my fake ID.

August 21, 1958—I fell in love with Lake Tahoe and the Sierra Nevada Mountains, especially the Donner Pass area. The mountains reminded me of home. Matt said the Lake Tahoe basin look very similar to the valley he came across in the Rocky Mountains. I prefer Donner Lake myself; it’s smaller.

My car broke down on Interstate 80 just outside the small town of Roseville, California. A family stopped and asked us if we needed help. We said we just needed directions to the nearest filling station. They offered their home to us as my car was being fixed and said we were welcome to spend the night. We accepted the invitation and spent the night with the Parsons family in Roseville. Matt enjoyed playing with their young son, Bobby, who was not quite three.

* * *

I first met Bobby when Michael’s car broke down just outside a small California town, Roseville, on Interstate 80. Michael and I were on our way to Berkeley, near San Francisco, to start our first year of college. We decided to drive our own cars to California. You know how it can be for siblings to share.

A young family stopped to assist us as they were returning from a day in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They were gold panning on the American River just beyond Auburn in Placer County. Gold panning was one of their favorite family outings.

That evening, they showed Michael and me a picture of themselves from the Saturday Evening Post magazine dated June 21, 1958. (8) The picture was from a gold panning adventure earlier in the spring. You will be able to see a picture of Bobby, hiding behind the gold pan with his father in the background, kneeling, panning for gold. His sister and mother are in the left-bottom corner. The Parsons family just happened to encounter the magazine crew that day in late spring, and pictures of them were taken and published in the magazine. A local newspaper, The Press Tribune, followed up with an article following the release of that issue.

I sent a thank-you card to the family for their hospitality and the overnight lodging as Michael’s car was being fixed. Over the years, Bobby’s mother kept in touch with Michael and me, mainly me, through Christmas cards. I too kept in touch by returning the gesture.

It was the fall 1958 when we began our college careers. Our college years started off rather quietly. During our freshman year, we had little free time due to our studies and sports. Michael, of course, played football, and I chose track and field. We continued to train with weights at the college gym whenever we could. I enjoyed running because it took my mind off the strenuous hours of study. Michael also joined me in running.

Michael had gotten the Olympic fever when he first heard the Melbourne Olympics broadcast on the radio in 1956. I can remember those two weeks so clearly because that summer Olympic game was held from November 22 to December 8. It seemed so unusual to listen to the summer games in the winter with snow on the ground. We had to keep reminding ourselves that the games were being held in the Southern Hemisphere and the seasons were reversed from ours.

Australia’s summer was our winter and vice versa for the land Down Under. Michael was glued to the radio. He didn’t want to miss anything. It was only now, two years later, he began to give the 1964 Olympics serious thought and began training. He didn’t think he would be ready for the 1960 Olympics with the schedule he had.

Michael tried to get me interested in the Olympics. He said I would do well with swimming since I had won a lot of competitions in high school. My heart wasn’t into the hours of training it would take to qualify for the Olympics. I told Michael that I would do all that I could for him and support him the best I knew how. This was his dream.

Michael chose his sport to be running and began training for the ten thousand–meter race. After football season, Michael began running ten to twenty miles every other day. Michael became good, and I had a hard time keeping up with him. He entered several competitions and won quite a few. Michael had his eye on the Boston Marathon as a pre-Olympic training ground. He said he would be running in that race someday.

* * *

September 6, 1958—It has been two weeks since our college lives have begun. Matt is studying accounting and business law. I decide to study nutritional biochemistry and exercise physiology. Matt couldn’t believe in my course of study.

The Melbourne Olympics I listened to back in the summer of 1956 left a very distinct impression on me. A dream rose up in me to run in the Olympics someday. After arriving at UCB, I decided I would begin training for the ten thousand–meter race. This would be all I had time for with school, sports, and work.

I found a job bartending at a gentleman’s club in San Francisco on Friday and Saturday nights. I responded to an ad last night for a bartender. The bar is located in downtown San Francisco near Chinatown. I called and made an appointment. It was eight o’clock in the evening when I arrived.

I have an appointment with the owner, I told the guy who was guarding the front door.

He asked, What’s with the long hair? Are you one of those hippie freaks?

I’m an Oglala Lakota Indian, I said with a proud and confident presence.

This is a white man’s club. No coloreds, chinks, Japs, and especially Injuns allowed in here, he said in a vulgar tone.

That’s not your decision to make, I said as I attempted to go in.

Racism was alive and well and wasn’t going to stop this Injun!

He blocked my way and grabbed my arm. You better leave unless you want to get hurt! he said with a scowling smirk.

The bouncer was bigger than me. And again, this idiot wasn’t going to stop this Sioux warrior.

I’m sorry, but you will be the one to get hurt if you don’t let me pass! I said with a cocky attitude.

This guy, who was over six feet tall and weighed over 250 pounds—maybe even 300 pounds—picked me up and attempted to throw me out into the street. I boxed in his ears with my fists and kicked him in the groin at the same time. He released me as he dropped to his knees. Before he could make his next move, I had him sprawled out in the gutter after just a few jabs and kicks. He was out cold. What a wimp, I thought, a pile of dumbass.

I walked into the bar and made my presence known.

I’m looking for the owner.

Three guys were sitting at a table: the owner, the manager, and the head bartender. The evening crowd hadn’t yet gathered.

The bald guy, who I assumed was the owner, asked, How did you get in here?

I just walked in, I replied. By the way, there was a rude guy blocking the entrance. I had to move him out of my way when he wouldn’t let me in. He’s out, lying in the gutter.

Two of the men quickly got up and went outside. Shortly there afterward, the two came back in with the big, fat guy between them and set him down in one of the chairs.

The owner looked at me and asked, Did you actually do this to Bull?

Only in self-defense. He attacked me first, I said.

He started laughing. No one has ever challenged Bull, let alone win a fight.

Bull, I learned, was the bouncer’s name.

I was dressed in a sleeveless white T-shirt and tight jeans that hung low around my waist. My hair was in a ponytail.

I asked the owner, What did Bull mean when he said this is a white man’s club?

The owner explained, No coloreds, Asians, or Indians are allowed.

I informed the owner, I am both Asian and Indian.

Then there is no job for you here, he said.

Standing, I let out a cry and put the full force of my weight into my arm as it came crashing down on the table. The table shattered, sending glasses and papers flying everywhere. All three men fell over the back of their chairs as they tried to scramble away from my sudden burst of power. I just stood there with a smile on my face. I had taken off my T-shirt, and with my arms crossed, I flexed the muscles in my arms, shoulders, and chest.

I wish that you would reconsider since Bull is in no position to throw me out. I really am a nice guy, but I hate to be treated like a second-class citizen.

I must have said the right thing because after a few minutes, in a huddle, the men informed me I had a job.

The owner confided in me that he too hated to be treated like a second-class citizen as a gay person.

He said, I have been having trouble lately with the people in the neighborhood. They don’t want a bar like this in their neighborhood attracting, all those different kind of people. In fact, they don’t want a ‘gay’ bar in their neighborhood at all.

This was the first time I had ever heard the word gay describing me or anyone else.

The owner figured, with my presence and fighting talent, things would calm down a bit.

Besides, he began to tell me, you have a fantastic-looking body, which will draw more men into the bar as word gets around that we had an exotic bartender.

The correct term, I informed the owner, is Oglala Lakota Sioux Indian.

The owner apologized for the insult. Otherwise, I would have made him apologize.

Will you bartend without a shirt? the owner asked.

How about if I bartend in cutoffs only? I inquired with a smile.

Definitely! was the last word they agreed on.

December 20, 1958—Matt and I are flying home for the holidays. I didn’t want to go, but Matt reminded me of family. I wanted to stay behind and work at the bar. From the day I started, business increased dramatically. I didn’t know if it was because of me and the cutoffs I wore or it was because Asians, coloreds, and Indians were now allowed into the bar. I had broken the color barrier. I convinced the owner that we gays had to stick together, no matter what color of skin we had.

And besides, I told them, it would be good for business.

Mom didn’t raise a dummy—maybe a little misguided at times, but no dumbass here.

December 23, 1958—Matt and I got a Christmas card from the Parsons family in California. Matt had written them and thanked them for their hospitality when we got to school. Both of us were surprised that they remembered us. Matt said we needed to call them even if it was just to wish them a Merry Christmas. Matt made the call.

January 5, 1959—Classes began today. Back to the old grind. I can’t wait to get back to the bar.

January 23, 1959—The rock-and-roll music was blaring as I climbed onto the bar and began dancing to the music. The guys, especially the older men, began stuffing dollar bills into my cutoffs. I liked the attention I was getting and especially the extra money I was making without having sex.

January 30, 1959—I had an idea and shared it with the owner. He agreed and thought it was an excellent idea. He said to me, Go for it!

Tonight, I put on a show I thought up. I came out onstage dressed like an Indian. I danced around to the beat of the music and slowly, piece by piece, began taking off my outfit. I was down to a very tiny breechclout that barely covered myself. The guys were going wild as I danced before them almost naked. Dollar bills, along with some fives, a ten, and even a twenty, were stuffed into my breechclout. I made an extra ninety-seven dollars in tips just by dancing.

February 3, 1959—Today the music died. I’m so sad. Matt’s friend, Carlos, had a friend by the name of Richard, who died in a plane crash. Matt wasn’t listening to the radio to hear the news, so I told him. Matt is sad too. He said he needed to call Carlos.

February 6, 1959—Sweat was pouring down my chest as the guys continued to stuff their hard-earned money down my breechclout. Suddenly, the crowd split in half, and down the center of the split came a man dressed in a suit with a coat draped over his shoulders. Two men followed behind him.

I had been on my knees with my back arched backward, letting the guys stuff my breechclout with money. I put my hands on the wall behind me to take the pressure off my folded legs as I watched this man come toward me. Excitement stirred in my loins.

I watched as I thought he was pulling just another dollar bill from his sleeve. It turned out to be a C-note. The man folded the bill lengthwise and ever so slowly began stuffing it into my breechclout. I had lost control of myself because of the mysteriousness of this man and the hundred-dollar bill that was resting alongside my erection. I arched my neck forward and looked down the length of my body and into the eyes of this stranger. He was Chinese.

He turned, snapped his fingers, and the two men behind him pulled me off the stage and ushered me out the door into a waiting black Lincoln Continental.

Once inside the car, the man introduced himself, My name is Tsai Wei Kwan.

Wait a minute, I thought, Tsai Wei was the cook in my dream.

I’ve been watching you, and I like what I see.

My ego was being caressed, and so was my leg, when he said, I have a job for you.

I already have a job I like, and it doesn’t interfere with my schoolwork, I said.

You will like this job and the benefits it has to offer.

Benefits? I asked with a question, yet with a tone of adventure.

He took me back to his apartment, which was a penthouse on top of a tall building. We entered by the way of a private elevator. I was still wearing only that small breechclout. The view of the lights of San Francisco was magnificent from his living room window.

Here is a change of clothes for you, Michael, he said as he handed me a very fancy suit and leather shoes.

You know my name? I asked.

I know everybody’s name who works for me.

Who said I would be working for you? I asked rather sharply.

I want you to deliver this package for me. In return, bring back to me, personally, another package. Here is a hundred dollars. You will get another hundred dollars when you return. Here is the address. You have one hour to return. Don’t disappoint me, my dear.

My dear? I asked with a surprised look.

The benefits I had mentioned earlier.

Tsai Wei was truly a benefit. I guessed his age to be in the mid-twenties.

I delivered the package and returned within the hour. Another hundred-dollar bill was waiting for me along with another bill extended to me from Tsai Wei.

He was dressed in a silk bathrobe and handed me a drink as I entered the room. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and thanked me for a job well done. His demeanor had totally changed from being a businessman to a kind, gentle soul.

He escorted me into another room with only a foam mat on the floor. He let the silk robe drop to the floor, leaving him all but naked. He got into a fighting stance. I was out of my clothes in no time and had joined him on the mat. We fought and wrestled and then had incredible sex all night.

March 9, 1959—I heard a new word today to describe me. It is Amerind, pronounced am-e-rind. The word is a combination of American and Indian. I went to the library on campus to see if the word actually existed. It does. The word was suggested by John Wesley Powell in the 1800s as a convenient term to use for American Indians.

I’m not a convenient term to be tossed around. I am an Indian born in the land of my forefathers. The country I live in just happens to be called America, a word chosen by white men.

April 4, 1959—Matt and I turned nineteen today. I had told the owner of the bar I was twenty-one when he hired me. He didn’t even bother to check even though my fake ID said twenty-one.

I can’t wait till summer vacation. I don’t like running on campus. I’ll run all over the ranch and into the mountains. I’ve entered a few races, won some, lost others.

* * *

It was during spring break of 1959 when Michael and I returned to the LeBlanc Vineyards. We headed north on Highway 29 to Calistoga from UCB. I had remembered the LeBlanc vineyards and winery from our visit as children. I can remember quite vividly the layout of the land. As we pulled off the highway onto the main road to the house, I could remember the road being lined with almond trees. The trees made a tunnel of leaves and branches as we drove toward the main house.

The house was similar to our ranch house with the same Victorian-style architecture and wraparound porch, but only one story. From the porch, I could look back at the long tunnel of trees we had just driven through.

To the left and to the right were hundreds upon hundreds of acres of grapevines. This had been the first time I had ever tasted fresh Concord grape juice. My uncle had made it fresh the season before and had it frozen. What a treat, pure Concord grape juice.

In the back of the main house was the guesthouse where we had stayed. I couldn’t believe we had our own house to stay in with our own kitchen. Of course, our great-aunt told Mother not to use the kitchen because all of the meals would be eaten in the main house. Between the main house and the guesthouse was a swimming pool. My great-uncle called it a lap pool. It was very, very long and not too wide. I asked if Michael and I could go swimming. After lunch, we were told we could.

Great-Uncle Pierre LeBlanc took us on a tour of the winery. He showed us the enormous wine vats and the thousands of bottles and barrels that were used to store the wine. He then showed us something I have never forgotten. He opened a big door on the side of a hill. Behind that door was a long, long tunnel. Inside the tunnel were more bottles and barrels of wine. As we got deeper into the tunnel, the cooler it became. It was nice inside those tunnels compared to what it was like outside.

We had lunch, went swimming, and spent the rest of the week learning how to make wine. Father even let us sip a little bit of the wine. I can remember Mother frowning on that. I didn’t like the taste of the wine anyway, but Michael sure did.

To our disappointment, the winery had fallen on hard times and was quite run down. It wasn’t like I remembered it to be. I told our cousin that I would love to buy the place if I had the money. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the money. Michael made an unusual comment to me just then. He told me to watch out for what I wished for. I might just get it. He reminded me of all the coincidences that had happen to us. It was then that I told Michael of his wish to run the Boston Marathon. We both laughed at the possibilities.

We toured the coast and ended up in San Francisco for the weekend. Michael showed me where he had found a gay bar while on one of his trips in San Francisco. I had no idea there were such places. Michael had a good time, dancing to the latest rock-and-roll hits with the other guys. I was told by many of the guys that Michael was a good dancer. I just smiled and thought nothing of their comments. I just watched and talked with a few of the guys. We returned to school and finished out the school year successfully.

Michael and I returned home for the summer and caught up on old friendships. Grandmother had been ill all winter and wanted to return to the reservation. She knew her time was close and wanted to die on the reservation amongst her people. Michael and I took her to the reservation one last time where she passed. While on her deathbed, Grandmother told us a vision she had. She spread her arms, like she was flying, and then circled them over her head. Then she raised her hands above her head and made her fingers like claws and growled. Then she grabbed both my hand and Michael’s, kissed them, and said in Lakota, The valley of dreams.

She closed her eyes and died. She was ninety-two.

It was the first week of June 1959, and Bobby Darren had the number 1 song, "Dream Lover." Today I can still hear that song blaring on the car radio as Michael and I drove back from the reservation.

Michael asked, What does ‘the valley of dreams’ mean?

In response, I told Michael, "I think Grandmother was