Page 72 of The Frog Prince
Brian looks at me for a moment, his sandy hair flopped down across his forehead, and he looks both wry and serious at the same time. “I’ve got someone who might be willing to interview your boss, Burkheimer, as part of a look at AIDS, twenty years after. It’d get you a lead into promoting the ball.”
It’s an amazing offer, but I don’t know that David will agree to the interview. “I don’t know if David will discuss Tony in an interview like that.”
“I don’t know, either.” Brian leans on the table. “Especially since Tony was Antony Pelloci.”
The name’s familiar, but I can’t figure out why, and I look at Brian blankly.
“He was an actor, very talented, one of those serious actors who does only theater, no film or television.”
“Would anyone recognize his name?”
“Lots of people would, at least those that read the pink section.” The pink section being theSan Francisco Chronicle’s weekend arts-and-entertainment section, where all the pages are a pale bubble-gum pink for easy identification.
“How do you know so much about Tony?”
He gives me that frank, appraising glance again. “Olivia.”
“Olivia?”
“She brought this to me a couple years ago, wanted me to help massage this angle into a story.”
“And you wouldn’t?”
“Not after the shit she pulled.”
But he’d do it for me, I think, and I’m not sure if I’m nervous or excited. It could be a great story, could be a really wonderful human interest piece, but David might not want to do it, and Olivia…
Olivia wouldn’t be happy if she knew the idea came about because, well, it came from Brian down to me.
But I say none of this. “Let me see what I can do.”
*
Tuesday morning atthe office I shoot Tessa an e-mail. “Can we talk?” I write.
I get an e-mail back a little later. “Are you still hiding from the big bad wolf?”
I’m grimly amused and wait for Olivia to head off for lunch before I drop by Tessa’s office. I report the details of my conversation with Brian, and Tessa is nodding thoughtfully. “It’d be a great story,” she says. “A wonderful human interest piece that would get the focus off the craziness of the ball and back onto the Hospice Foundation.”
“Will David do the interview?”
“I don’t know. But maybe we don’t need David’s permission. Maybe we just authorize the story on Tony, kind of a retrospect on the local talent lost since the AIDS epidemic began.” Tessa reaches for the phone. “I’ll give Brian a call.” She smiles at me. “Thanks. This could be good.”
*
Brian gets astaff reporter on the story, but since David can’t be interviewed, the story gets bigger, becoming a true feature about the tragedy of AIDS, and a sampling of the great local artists lost in the past twenty years. Staff members at the paper have compiled a list of dancers, designers, painters, writers, actors, models, and more. Stark black-and-white photos will accompany the text.
The story keeps its San Francisco focus, and on the same page where the feature ends, there’s a lead-in blurb for the Leather & Lace Ball.
Sunday the story runs, and it’s a terrific story, tautly written and yet deeply emotional. Brian and I celebrate by going to a Thai restaurant, and then we’re to head to a jazz club to hear some music. But after dinner we stop by Brian’s apartment first.
I’m not exactly sure how or why we ended up at his apartment. I think we returned for a coat or tickets, but once inside, I remember little but being shocked by his Spartan apartment. There’s no way this man could have been married ten years. He has nothing. Nothing. Ancient milk crates packed with ancient vinyl records. Black-and-white photographs of India and Nepal, matted but not framed, lean against the baseboard. A futon-type mattress on the floor without even the benefit of a cheap futon frame. The one thing he does have is books. Bookcases of them, boxes, stacks.
Books are everywhere, and Brian steps over a stack to head into his minuscule kitchen. “A beer?” he asks.
I keep doing slow circles, checking out his place. “No, thanks.” Sounds rude, but I didn’t want to stay.
I like Brian, but his apartment feels so empty and sad.