Prettyboy

19: Down By Winter

San Francisco, CA

June 1st, 1965

Frank,

I can only hope this letter finds you well. You have been out of touch for a while now, but then so have I. I was in Tenderloin recently, downtown San Fran., and a protester (I don't actually know what he was protesting for) had a bunch of pictures of communist figures lined up across the side of the street. He had your photograph of Che Guevara, too, and I sort of laughed aloud at that. Your signature was at the bottom left. Funny, you did that. What are you doing, if you are doing anything at all, vis a vis your photography these days?

So, it just happened that the last time you wrote was on my birthday, but I happened to get the letter a few weeks too late. See, I was on the run since New Year's, I barely had the time for school. I'm thinking of packing in, actually. What good will an English Lit degree do me? I spent New Year's with some friends who go to UC Berkeley, then I went to see Mikey in D.C. and he told me Raymond had visited you recently, that you were in Massachusetts for some reason. I thought you meant it when you said you'd be living in New York from here on out. I reckon something has given you a good reason to leave.

Then, for my birthday, I was at Ma's. You've probably haven't gotten word yet, so here's the exposé: Ma's got a new beau. Married. I didn't know anything about it either. Some Wallace guy, pretty well off. I was starting to cause a scene when I learned for the first time that they had sold off the house on Squirrel Hill without running it by me first, so he paid me to disappear. Now, funny thing, love. I mean, wouldn't you pay your wife's son to disappear, if you knew it'd make her happy? Don't we do everything for love? And anyway, what do I care? I got my share.

Since April I've been back here in San Fran. I moved to a new neighborhood some days ago, I've just gotten settled. It's pretty crowded here, in Eureka Valley. So much better than the school's campus. I have a job in the vicinity and I work at the Randall Museum, for kids. It's fun and all, better than working at the coffee shop where Oliver is working and is constantly getting hit on by girls. I go there after work and split my sides laughing at how inept he is at finding good excuses. So, it goes like this: say the girl scribbles her number on a napkin and Oliver hands it back, saying, "My Ma won't let me call girls yet." So, the girl will usually say, "That's fine. I can call you, pea." And Oliver, out of ideas, will just stutter out excuses until the girl is so worn out, she's repelled by him. I was horsing around once and told Oliver that cuffing your jeans was slowly becoming the new fad for homosexuals and that girls would see that and get the hint, first thing, so I got him to cut all of his bell bottoms and roll them up, like I do to my jeans. I'm having such a good laugh over here, you see. 

So, that's all that's happened to me the past months. 1965 doesn't seem that bad, though it started off preposterously. If you heard the news, that is. Have you heard anything? New Year's at Barkley was groovy, and that's one way to put it.

I write to tell you that, even if you don't want to meet up this summer, I'd like to know what you've been up to. Raymond told Mikey you were going through something—I didn't know what to make of that. 

When you stopped writing after December I thought you were trying to put an end to it. Now, I'd respect your decision if I had a bit more insight. I find it absurd of you to cut me off and leave me high and dry without a word. You better write back. 

I can meet you this summer. I start (if I decide to continue) school early August again. You have my new address. God, you better write back. 

Yours, PB.

***

I hadn't left for Massachusetts. I told Robert I did and he, in turn, told Ray because I had informed everyone I would be out of reach.