Falling

Carnival is the biggest, craziest, most well-attended event of the summer.   The crowds are fun and unaffected.   The faux Mardi Gras theme always inspires grumbles and extreme creativity.   Big, little, young, old, gay, straight, Townie, tourist all party together.  It is a supposedly wonderful week.

I’ve never liked it.

And yesterday proved no different.

I arose early to cast off any past Carnival demons, picked up a bagel at Farland -the local all-in-one grocery and made a beeline to Meg and Mo’s to help them decorate for their annual Carnival Party, a lovely benefit for the local art museum.   I saw several friends as well as my landlord en route to the store.  People were pleasant and the town had an expectant hum about it.

I arrived at the Girls’ house and got to work.   Nathan and Terry were already there and we set about hanging the many decorative items Meg and Mo had purchased to deck the house according to the “Can’t Stop the Music” theme.

We made good progress.  I took on the task of hanging LPs and CDs from the porch ceiling.  One after another, I climbed the ladder and ensured the ancient music media were well hung.

The ladder only caused me minor delay as I stopped to move it and reconnect its collapsible pieces.

And then it happened.

As I scooted the ladder, on whose last rung I was standing, over to hang the next trinket, its not-connected parts gave way and I found myself falling.  Falling through a void of which I knew not where or how I would land.

I was extremely coherent of the fact that there was not longer anything supporting my weight.   I was exactly clear on what just transpired.  And I fell.

And I seemed to fall for minutes.

I remember thinking clearly and calmly about what was going to happen next.  Was I going to meet the ground on the other side of the porch, some 9 feet away and quickly approaching?  Was my head going to be split by the rickety antique bench I had hastily moved?  How would my spine actually connect with the 3-inch wide railing and would it remain intact?

Then my brain went blank and I think instinct took over.  The wincing pain of hitting the rail with the lower Lats and upper waist area of my right side jarred me into the reality.  At some point, I think I rolled, extending my right arm to break my fall and in doing so, saved my body from permanent, debilitating damage.

And it all took place in a matter of meer moments.  Not even two seconds.

Aside from the embarrassment and the pain of the fall, I was genuinely frightened.  The thoughts and questions I asked myself while airborne are still disturbing.   My summer came crashing down with me.  The potential and promise of striking out on my own and starting my life anew rushed up to meet me like the bushes and the deck railing below.   It all hung motionless for a millisecond.

I assume and trust that the lessons of my fall are to make sure the foundation on which I stand is firm.  Then to be careful, be creative and trust the instincts that may from time to time take over.  To trust my history.  And then, of course, to listen to lessons that you are taught daily and listen closely.

God Shines His Light

I think for anyone that writes, sunsets and their description can border on cliche’.   I’ve tried very hard to avoid describing the Cape Cod sunset ad nauseum.   In all honesty, pretty much every night here features an amazing light show as the sun sinks behind the town and lights up the water, boats and the Cape to the South and West.

But last night’s was extraordinary.  It had been mostly cloudy all day, spitting rain now and then even.  But around 7:30, as the sun reached its lowest angle, the light shined beneath the cloud layer like a flashlight under a blanket.  The rays were direct and intense and bright.   A collective hush fell over the Town as everyone immediately took note of the spectacle before them.  People climbed to rooftops and decks, they gathered on the shore and the pier, cameras in hand.    And then, the most amazing thing happened, a rainbow formed over the harbor, stretching from Truro across to the West End.   The gasp of wonder was audible.

I am so thankful for moments like these.   They make me pause and consider the beauty of this life, this world.   I feel insignificant.   I give thanks.

Housework

Sorry it’s been so long.   The iMac’s keyboard got an unexpected dousing during Sunday’s surprise blow.   All’s well that 86 dollars and FedEx cures.     Actually, could Apple design a more beautiful keyboard?  I think not.

So, the last week or so has been super, super busy.  But, in the best possible way:

*  My folks departed 10 days ago, on a Tuesday morning.   It was bittrersweet as we had such a nice, connected visit.  It was not without its arguments (we ARE  Browns, afterall), but I truly loved seeing them.  We ate well, went on a full-breeching-tail-slapping-everyone’s-doing-it-31-whale watching tour, watched an amazing sunset or two, drank a little too much and generally enjoyed exploring my new town.

*  EriK was here for two full weeks.   And I gotta tell ya, there’s never been an easier guest.  I barely knew he was here….:-)  I cried harder when he said farewell.

* And then this week…..began with with amazing, head-clearing, self-affirming sex.   Melded into furious, insecure cooking and wedding arranging.  Then finished with a JohnBrown prepared meal for 10 of the most lovely, geniune and pleasant people I’ve ever had the priviledge of serving.   I cried today when I was paid.   A signal event, for sure.

* And then tonight…..extremely casual….tea dance with Joel….a Gift of a sunset….unexpected friends on a harborside bar….an amazing bbq sandwich from the The Red Shack….and red wine.

* Life is good.   The unexplored and unexpected is certain worth more than the “uns.”  Go for it y’all.   It’s amazing what one can learn.

Summer Lovin’, Had Me A Blast…

One not insignificant thing about Provincetown is that, for whomever is here, Love is not at all difficult to find.   Depending on how you define “Love,” it’s available everywhere:  from the casual greeting of acquaintances on the street to the warm hug of a close friend to the not-so-infrequent roll in the hay with some stranger from Darien, Connecticut.  People here are happy.   They eat well.  They drink.  And then….they do what’s naturally next.   They Love.

And they Love a lot.

One shade of Love that I had been mildly aware of before this summer, was the casual, yet borderline serious, crush.   For me, it could take the form of the overweight lady that owns Angel Foods…..or the Pedi-Cab driver whose brick-like calves are granite hard….or even the youthful geriatric owner of the Lobster Pot, who unbeknownst to most of us, not only runs P-Town’s most successful restaurant, but also has a “family” of 20 or 30 Jamaican immigrants that she takes care of and looks over and provides employment for.   None of these crushes will be requited;  they are what they are and  I enjoy them for their “never-t0-manifest” qualities.

And so it  is once again, that I have a Summer Crush.  Devon.  The namesake owner of my place of employ.

This man is totally not my type.  He’s an attractive, small-framed Jewish/Chinese man with dark hair and slight build.  He’s almost overly effeminate.  He has amazing tattoos.  On the floor, he’s somewhat manic and  hyper-aware of what’s happening in his restaurant.   He’s relentless.  He never ceases to notice mistakes and constantly revises what were Standard Operating Procedures.   He does not settle for less.  He’s 4000 miles-a-minute.  I would never had been attracted to him in the past.  There’s too much to be off-putting.

But I have a huge, huge  summer crush on this man.

And so it is with so many people in this town.  They’re open to whatever.   They live in the moment on so many fronts.  I’ve heard from more than one person about their pan-sexual adventures.   Or pan-physical.  Or pan-mental.   White bread American would never think of finding an amputee  attractive.  But here someone does.  Here Trannies hook up with straight boys on a regular basis.  I came *this* close to a 3-way with two lesbians.

Not that this behavior does not happen off-Cape; it most certainly does.  But here, people are honest about their attractions and their proclivities.  They are not ashamed and will share with you their latest conquest.  It’s above-board and…..in a way, unbelievably healthy.

Surprisingly to me, I’m OK with this summer Love.   It’s refreshing.  It’s nice.  And above all else, it’s honest.

I See Light in Life. All the Colors of the World.

One my very favorite things to do after hanging out, drinking, gossiping and observing the sunset at Tea Dance, is to hop on my bike and escape the crowd.   I head west to the Circular, where the Breakwater meets the mainland and the final mile or so of the Cape’s hook wraps around like a curlie-cue tail.  This is supposedly where the Pilgrims first set foot in their Promisedland and I think it is one of the most lovely places on the Cape.  One can see the “backside” of the sunset:  the eastward light reflecting on the water and the western side of clouds and boats in the  harbor.   Then, a quick glance over the shoulder yeilds the real sunset, to the west, over real land.  It all takes place within 2-300 yards, this spectacular interchange of light, water, magic and peace.

Last night certainly reinforced my love of this spot.

Suddenly, Last Summer

The Fourth of July week ended a couple of weeks ago.   The Fourth, the height of summer.   The thick of it.   Full tilt.  The Season!

It’s all wonderful and heady and fun but I heard things from people, both from regular customers at work and from people around town, that made me do a double take.

“How’s your summer been?”

“We’re leaving for the summer.”

“It’s been a great season.”

And the knife in my rose-tinted calendar, “See ya next year.”

Really?  Really?  Surely it can’t be.   And there I was, standing in front of Devon’s Sunday morning, watching my new customer/friend/neighbor pack his car, gather his neices and head back to New York.   Waves of very mild panic passed over me.

And like the tides that come and go, it is with many people.   They come for a week, two, even a month, then the inevitable happens and they pack up the car and drive up Cape or clutch the rolling suitcase and head down Commercial to the pier.

I let the panic pass with only the reassurance of the calendar which tells me I have a good two months of summer left.  Summer, not the rainy months of May and June.   Summer in all its glory.

But I know it will be a dark day in October when my car is packed and I turn down Route 6 and head south.  A dark day indeed.

The Children Are Our Future…

At Devon’s, I work mornings, Friday to Monday.  This was a conscious choice on my part, for a couple of reasons.  One, was that these are the most lucrative mornings of the week, tip-wise.  And two, was that although working weekend days might curtail my nighttime carousing, working a bit hungover or tired was nothing I couldn’t handle.  I am a 46-year old gay man who likes to live life to the fullest, afterall.

One surprising thing about this schedule is that it most certainly has curtailed my going out.  As I mentioned before, my weekends are relatively sedate, and I only stay out till closing one or two nights during the week (closing here is sensible 1am).

And maybe because of my….maturity and habit of actually showing up to work, Devon and my coworkers call me “the last man standing.”  I’ve worked with 3 people in two short months who couldn’t hack the early hours.  They’ve dropped like flies, mainly because they enjoyed their nights so much.  I’m now working through the fourth.

He showed up this morning in absolutely no shape to work.   I’ll not go into details, but I put him in the corner rolling napkins and finished the pre-breakfast set-up myself.  When I couldn’t reach Devon, I took matters in my own hand and got ahold of the other reliable morning server.  He had a yoga class to teach, but said he’d come in afterwards.  That left me with two and a half hours solo on one of the busiest Sundays of the year.

But rather than panic or freak out, I developed a plan.  Lucky contestant number 4 would continue to roll silverware, run my drinks and clear tables.  I’d work the door until Dev arrived, allowing myself up to 10 tables at a time (the place has 15 total).   It was me vs. the whirling machinery of a popular, busy morning restaurant.  I had no fear.  I would do what I had to do.  This could work.

And it did.

Hector, the sous chef, help up his end of the deal and provided me with flawless food.  Devon showed up and ran defense at the door.  Customers seemed to arrive at a nice pace and were not interested in special orders.  There were no parties of 8 with special-diet-needs children.  I was generally upbeat and fun.   I was efficient beyond belief.  Not a single slice of bacon slipped through the proverbial cracks.  I rocked it.

I learned today that I can do anything.  Anything I want.   I can make this dream – whatever it is – happen.  Once I have it figured out, look out.   I’ll be ready to roll.

The Hands of June

June has brought a nice routine to my life here.  My work week starts of Friday morning, 7am sharp.   I’m usually early to the restaurant, before the other server.  I like the early quiet of Commercial Street.  Hector, the sous chef, is busy downstairs in the prep kitchen and I can zone out and set up for service.  The next four days proceed mostly the same; work, a chill-out, catch-up-on-communication time on the steps of Joel’s store, then a quick bike ride home.  Now that the weather’s nice, I’ve started spending an hour or so at the end of the afternoon on the beach.   Just me and the sun and the water.   The water is cold, but not bracing.  It refreshes and relaxes me.  There are usually drinks somewhere — at Meg and Mo’s, or at Tea Dance or at Joel’s.   Then usually I grab something to eat or come home and cook.   I’m in bed by 10 most work nights and that’s fine with me.   5:45 comes early and 7 hours on my feet are no fun tired or hungover.

My days off have a nice pace as well.   Tuesday is laundry day, either here at the condo association laundry room (cellar, actually) or at Joel’s.  Errands are easy to do on foot or via the bike.   And once a week I’ll drive to the grocery store to stock up.  My going-out nights are usually Monday and Wednesday.  Showgirls, the bawdy drag review is Monday and Fag Bash, the biggest night for Townies, is Wednesday in the basement of the Governor Bradford.   There’s lots of dancing, socializing, kissing, drinking and general merriment.   Then the work week begins again and the working population goes back to their jobs, some holding down 2, 3, 4 or even 5 at a time.

Add frequent waves of Atlanta visitors and summer is suddenly very interestingly busy.  It’s a nice routine.

However, this weekend the “Season” kicks into high gear with Fourth of July festivities.  The first gigantic wave of visitors will feature the young, overly-worked-out party boys knows as Circuit Queens.  Then come the big, hirsute, overly-masculine men for Bear Week.  Then another onslaught of women.  Then Family Week.  And so on until Carnival Week and then summer’s last  big hurrah at Labor Day.  They say if you can get through the Fourth, and its attendant attitude and angry overt sexuality, the rest is easy.  I’ve been on that side of the coin and am looking forward to seeing things from a local’s perspective.

In other news, Joel and I catered our first wedding last Monday.  We were asked by two friends to help them host the marriage ceremony for their best friends and serve the wedding meal on their new patio.   The picture above is the table, set for dinner.   Joel crafted the amazing driftwood chandelier and my 4-course meal was a huge success.   The mood was set with 3 dozen votives, peonies floated in bowls, beach stones for place markers and a 2-hour playlist of beautiful songs, each chosen to reflect the love and peace of the evening.   That dinner struck a nerve, opened my eyes to some opportunity and has my head working towards what might be next summer’s occupation.   Stay tuned.

Crying, Over You

I’m still crying an average of once a day.  Today, 3 times.

To Steve Bell, I sure do like my emotions at the surface.  Thanks for starting the process some 9 years ago.  You are a joy in my life.

Off To See The Wizard

One of the very first things about Provincetown that appealed to me was how genuinely friendly people were.  The other tourists were nice.  Service people in shops smiled.  People smiled on their bikes.  It just seemed that everyone was so unbelievably happy and kind.  And it kept on being like that for the 12 years I continued to visit.

My friend Joel and I used to fantasize about moving here and one thing we’d laugh about was that once we got here, we’d see behind the Wizard’s curtain and our seemingly idyllic little Oz would be exposed for what it really was….a tiny place full of back biters and gossips and petty people.

Well, everyone gossips, but in the best possible way.

I have never lived in a place where people are so genuinely kind and caring.   Folks look out for each other.  They run errands out of niceness.  They check on the old neighbor lady.  They ask about your dinner party.  They’re interested in your “story” and happy to bring over something wonderful they cooked up.  I’ve yet to lock the door.  And on a deeper level, they look out for what’s right and important in their community.  I overheard a man in the liquor store the other day explaining to the clerk, in the nicest possible way, that they should limit what they sold his friend, who was having a particularly bad streak of luck and a difficult battle with schizophrenia. When’s the last time your friend went to bat for you like that, when you couldn’t help yourself?  It rarely happens in our modern lives.

I would theorize the reasons for this.  The most apparent and most practical is that it really is a two street town, both streets stretching 4 miles long and 2 blocks deep.   Everyone knows everyone.  People see each other 2,3,4 times a day on Commercial St.  There’s no anonymity to speak of, unless you venture out to the National Seashore or further down Cape.  It’s the very best of small town America, albeit with a liberal streak a mile (er, two blocks) wide.  The other, more metaphysical reason for this is that I suspect that the shape of the Cape, its swirling wrap that points back on itself, is a sort of karmic boomerang, deflecting and redirecting whatever energy one puts out almost instantly back upon oneself.

As a friend says, “Karma’s a bitch, y’all.”   It’s easy here to stay on the right side of that coin!