Pride Party Sunfish

William is wearing the same “himbo Aladdin” costume from last year. I didn’t actually notice, but I heard three queens at the door sss-sss-saying so when I walked in. What the fuck will they say about me? I see a few faces I know in the kitchen, but the kitchen is on the other side of the living room, walls sponged in buttercup Marcus said, “would make it seem like sunshine all year long.” This may seem romantic, but we live in Southern California, the beach is right outside and down the street. So, you see, like Marcus, it’s probably romantic and a little ridiculous. Like this Pride Party – a “costume” pride party. It’s 98 degrees outside, maybe 90 in here, the men and the questionable deviled eggs are glistening like regrettable choices. “Honey, honey,” Marcus is pointing and beckoning me like Marie Antoinette or Madonna at the MTV Music Awards, fan and all. I am making my way, kissing bearded lips, margarita and mimosa sweet, grab an ass (have no idea who that guy was). “Happy Pride, bitch!” My first wish would be a whole lifetime of parties at Marcus and William’s “sunshine all year” apartment in Long Beach.

I cried over a sunfish the other day. Technically, they are ocean sunfish (but like, aren’t a lot of fish “ocean” fish?), and they are huge and ugly, bless their hearts. Truth be told, I was crying about a Pride Party a long time ago, but it was the story of the sunfish that brought me back there. Marcus wasn’t with William yet, and we were in our sexy and severe twenties. Marcus was tired of “all the old queens” throwing pride parties “a million miles away” from the beach and the parade (they were two blocks away, at most), so he calls me and says, “I’m throwing my own goddamn pride party,” I felt so honored to be one of the first friends he called, “And, girl, bring anyone you like!” Maybe I should have run it by Marcus, but he did say bring anyone, and I had been regaling my mom and my family about this new group of friends, “I can finally just be me around them!” They were happy for me, and they were thrilled when I said, “Come join us at Marcus’s first Pride Party!” They came, my mom with three glass dishes of food, my brother holding his two small kids. My second wish would be to be better people in our twenties.

The ocean sunfish can survive attacks from sea lions and sharks. You can see a sunfish swimming along with huge chunks torn off of it like nothing at all has happened. But a sunfish cannot be alone. “What are they doing here?” Marcus was furious, and I was perplexed for a moment. Then I was angry, “You said…” He just put up his hand and walked out of the kitchen. The rest of the day, my brother would try to strike up a conversation with one of the shirtless guys (everyone but my family was shirtless), my mom would offer someone passing by a lumpia or a plate of grilled flank steak, some would accept, none would say a single kind thing to her. My best friends, led by Marcus, would all-but-run from room to room if a member of my family approached. After the fireworks on the beach, when it was clear the party had been a success, my friends called me over and said something sweet. I told them all they could go to hell.My final wish would be that that were true. Instead, I nodded and left with my family.

What made me cry was the story about this sunfish at a Japanese aquarium. He had to be isolated for medical treatment, which meant weeks without the adoring crowds. The loneliness left him listless. He was dying. Age softens all of us; if we are lucky, it makes us better people. Marcus lost his mom a few years later, just around the time he met William. Now they throw pride parties brimming with doting moms and new babies (thankfully Philip convinced them to strike deviled eggs from the spread). To save the sunfish’s life, the staff at the aquarium cut out cardboard people, placed them around his tank. It worked. He lived. Before they both died, I never asked my mom or brother if they had a good time, I didn’t apologize for the awkward situation, not to them, not to Marcus. I never said to those friends who are still my friends on Facebook, but we rarely see one another, “No, but really, fuck your weak ass mea culpa!” I like to think we would have survived the honesty. Instead, I spent years, decades maybe, wearing my little cardboard costume, wondering if everyone else was, too, hoping we are better people, because I am all out of wishes.

Good Enough

My plan was ambush. Some poor waitress or double-duty cook at the Waffle House would have to bear witness to my misery. For less than ten bucks and endless tinny mugs of stale coffee, I would purchase—no, require—a sympathetic ear.

And it didn’t matter if my imagined waitress merely feigned some care for a better tip, which I’d absolutely give. Always give a big tip. Go in debt for a tip. You’ll pay a lot more in this life to people who won’t even bother to pretend to give a shit or bring you lukewarm coffee.

But it was busy. Busiest I’d seen this place, driving by, the whole time I’ve lived here. At 3 A.M., there was only gonna be a cook and a waitress, maybe just the cook. The fluorescents’ buzz made the inside of that dressed-down box of a restaurant pulse like the dying heart of a body made of a tar parking lot, an unlit alley with some smudge of animal carcass for a neckline, and the abandoned Office Depot for a head.

I parked in front of the heart. Composed myself in my rearview. “Good enough,” I always say to myself alone in my car. Nobody turned to take me in. There was no bell or mechanical ding to welcome me, just a woman’s back, her hair styled and fresh, “Take a seat anywhere. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

It was less than a minute. She turned over the mug already positioned on the booth table and started to poor coffee, “You want some water, too?” I nodded. “Menu’s right there on the table if you’ve never been,” she had pulled out a pad to write my order and waited. I’ve always loved the efficiency of Waffle House, the no-nonsense, “don’t waste my time” feel that reminds you of your mom practically shoving toast in your mouth on the way out the door to school.

I gave my order and added, “It’s been a day.” Before I could say another word, she was off to another table. I drank some coffee.

When she came back with a glass of water, she had a waffle and a smile, too. “Your food will be out in a minute, but here’s a waffle they made extra.” She didn’t wait for a thank you. 

And she didn’t linger when she dropped off my order, or the two times she refilled my coffee. When I gave her my check in cash, she counted it right in front of me. I’d given her a $20 tip for $10 of food, a free waffle, and avoidance. She didn’t protest, just smiled, gave me one more refill, and moved on to the next table.