Day last year. Things were…different then. This year, though, everything’s going to be awesome. And you’ll be with us!
I’m writing this in the morning before work, so I’ve got to go or I’ll be late, but I won’t get another chance since we’re going out tonight. You’ll like the Avengers—their lead singer’s almost as good as Patti Smith. (Well, not really. But you’ll still like her.)
See you soon!
Yours, Sharon
P.S. Speaking of my brother…last night I finally told him about your aunt calling. He wasn’t actually surprised. He said he’d figured your family might have read my letters and found out about him, but that they were hundreds of miles from here and either way, getting to have you come here mattered more. He isn’t scared of your aunt the way I was, either—he said anyone who hates San Francisco as much as she does isn’t going to risk getting her shoes dirty walking on our streets. He made it sound so obvious that I feel silly now for being worried, but then…he didn’t have to hear her voice on the other end of the phone.
Friday, June 23, 1978
Dear Sharon,
It’s late, and…it’s possible I’m a little drunk. So, I’m sorry in advance if anything I write here is something you’d rather not hear. I’m going to try to stick with our honesty pledge and not cross anything out.
Tonight at the show, I was watching you dance, with your eyes closed and the music pounding. You were off in your own little world, a world I can only try to imagine, and I realized something.
Well, okay, I’ve actually known it for a while.
Sharon…I want to share that world with you.
I used to think that was how I felt about Carolyn. Back then, I didn’t understand how it really felt to want to be with someone.
I understand it now.
When I was watching you tonight, I felt something I never felt with her. Something I’ve never felt with anyone. I didn’t know I could feel it.
Anyway…I’m sorry. I know you’re straight. You wrote it in black and white and everything. If you tell me to back away, I promise I’ll never say anything about this again.
But right now…I want to be with you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Okay. I read this over and I realized there’s no way I can give this letter to you. I never would’ve written it at all if it hadn’t been for those drinks.
We sleep in the same room. Besides, you’re straight. There’s no way you can feel what I’m feeling.
Reading this will only make you feel terrible. If I give you this letter it’ll ruin our friendship.
Your friendship is the best thing in my life. I won’t give that up. I can’t.
Sorry. I guess I won’t bother signing this.
I… Sharon, I…
God, I wish things could be different.
Saturday, June 24, 1978
Dear Harvey,
I’m stupid. I’m so incredibly stupid, sometimes I can’t believe it.
First there was that ridiculous letter I started writing to Sharon last night. At least I wised up before I actually gave it to her. God, I can’t imagine how badly I almost messed everything up.
But what I did tonight might’ve been worse.
Javi and Rosa were out, and they left Peter and me in charge at the store. Sharon came over, too—we were planning to go out after we closed up. Until I fucked everything up.
The store was empty except for us for most of the night, and after I swept the aisles we were all hanging out by the cash register, waiting for closing time, talking about Gay Freedom Day and flipping through the L.A. Times. That’s what gave Peter the idea.
“Hey,” he said, holding out a page for me to see. “Isn’t that your uncle?”
I’d seen the ad before, for my aunt and uncle’s radio show, but I hadn’t paid attention to the date. It turned out the premiere was tonight.