“Bullshit, Lane, you know it’s hackneyed and obvious and that you’re better than that.”
“I am not! I am no fucking better than sunshine microphone. It is me. Or it is of me. I am one with it.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’ve had less to drink than you.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not drunk. Maybe I’m drunker than you are, but you’re still drunk.”
“Chrissakes, Harry, I’ve had maybe three glasses of wine.”
“Oh for the love of god, I’ve seen you drink at least four.”
Lane Pettibone and Harry Constantine were best friends but they were always getting into those kind of circular arguments. This one was on a late November night in 1966, a couple of days before Thanksgiving, at my apartment in the North Beach section of San Francisco. I was a young reporter for the Chronicle, only two years out of college, working the crime beat. I’d gotten to know a lot of fledgling writers and struggling artists, most of whom had day jobs. No one was making anything substantial — among my circle, that is — from their art. I’d seen the writing on the wall (pun most definitely not intended) and had cast aside any thoughts of being a novelist. I knew any success I had as a writer would be from grinding out pieces for the newspaper. I was okay with that. I didn’t have the ambition of fellas like Pettibone and Constantine. The former fancied himself a poet and bragged about the fact that he’d gotten to know Allen Ginsberg and even had had a one-night stand with the great poet. Pettibone was bi-sexual. He was one person who was split right down the middle, equally happy with a man or a woman, claiming that he could satisfy either gender equally well. I guess he was a better lover than a poet because as far as I knew he hardly sold a line. His day job was as a house painter and in that line he was apparently pretty good.
As for Constantine, he was convinced that he would some day write the great American novel (what aspiring novelist, isn’t?). He was working on a massive tome called The Light of Another Day and people I knew who’d had a look at it said it was uneven, wordy and — like Constantine himself — pretentious. So far it was over 900 pages long. Supposedly a scene at a funeral went on for 125 pages. But credit the man, he plugged away at it and believed in himself. His day job was as a substitute teacher. Constantine conceded that his novel wouldn’t be ready for awhile and that he likely needed to secure a full-time gig teaching English at a high school. He admitted that a drawback to such a job was that he lusted after teenaged girls. As long as I’d known him he’d had a steady stream of girlfriends and none of them had been underage but I still worried about the way he spoke of sixteen and seventeen-year-old girls.
Earlier that night we’d enjoyed a big spaghetti feed. There were seven of us and because everyone had brought a bottle or two, we had enough wine for twenty-seven.
One of the guests was a girl who I had a crush on named Celeste Brigham who aspired to be a folk singer. She was pretty good with a guitar but her voice, while nice enough, was nothing special. Celeste was special to me in other ways, though. She was tall and beautiful with long straight black hair that extended down to her extraordinarily cute ass. She was also extremely intelligent. Usually I considered gorgeous women to be out of my league, especially smart ones, but Celeste did not have a big ego. She was charming and kind and loved a good laugh. At the time she was working as a secretary for some schmuck lawyer that she hated.
My greatest desire in the world was to get Celeste in the sack. I’d been working on it like crazy for awhile. I felt justified in my attempts because it was clear that Celeste liked me. The problem was that she’d just gotten out of a long relationship and wasn’t ready to date yet. My persistence was going to have to be matched by patience.
The other three guests included Jane Chekovsky a dancer and sales girl at I Magnum, who in my opinion was the most talented of the group. There was Johnny Chang, a sculptor and waiter and Cicely Mason-Coakley, a Brit. She was another poet — also not a terribly good one — but she was from a wealthy family and didn’t need a day job. Cicely and Johnny were occasional lovers.
I finally tore myself away from Celeste — who had again rebuffed my advances (“maybe after the holidays, I simply don’t know”) — and interceded in Pettibone and Constantine’s little to-do.
“Lane my old friend,” I said. “Harry my good pal. Is the use of ‘sunshine microphone’ in a poem really worth starting world war three over? Do I need to call in the UN?”
Harry waved his hand derisively at me and said, “this, is nothing, this is just me and palsy walsy over here quibbling over whether something is a tired cliche — which it very much is — or not a tired cliche.” With that he put an arm around Pettibone.
“You know Harry,” Lane answered good-naturedly, “he can get up on a high horse and fall right the fuck off and not even know how he got on the ground.”
“I’m glad,” I said, “to see that two words cannot nor will not come between your friendship.”
Constantine leaned toward me and conspiratorially whispered, “you having any luck with the luscious Celeste? I’d try myself but she already told me in no uncertain terms to taking a flying fuck.”
“Yup,” Pettibone said, “she’s got way too much taste for the likes of this guy,” he said pointing at Constantine. “You on the other hand,” now he had reached out and put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, “you, have got a snowball’s chance in hell. Which is to say you’re a better bet to crack the iron maiden than this lush.”
“Lush? You’re every bit as inebriated, intoxicated and intimate with John Barleycorn as I am!” Constantine pronounced a bit too loudly.
I left the two old friends to bicker like a happily married couple and chatted with Jane who had slipped into the kitchen to pour herself another glass of vino. I’d known Jane the longest of anyone there — since freshman year in college. We were always friendly but there was also a distance between us. We’d only ever saw each other because of our many mutual friends. We rarely did more than exchange pleasantries and talk about old classmates or the news. She had recently been particularly exercised about the growing U.S. involvement in Vietnam and we’d discussed it briefly earlier in the evening. As I moved next to her I imagined that it would probably be the topic of our conversation again. But I started with the following:
“So how been lately Jane? You look particularly well.”
“Nice of you to say, Mark. Physically I’m fine but to be perfectly honest I’m fed up. My life is going nowhere, I’m not terribly happy. I keep thinking I’m wasting my time dancing and that I should just give it up, find some nice well off man and get married. But it’s hard to give up on a lifelong dream. I guess all of us here are in the same boat to one degree or another. Except maybe you. You’re doing all right. You’re happy at the Chronicle, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, actually I am. But I’ve never been terribly ambitious. I can see myself being a newspaper reporter for another forty years and then retiring.”
“But aren’t you a pretty good writer? Wouldn’t you want to write a book?”
“I’m a good writer but I feel like to get a novel published you have to be a great writer.”
“Maybe that’s the thing with me, maybe I’m just a good dancer and not a great one. It’s like Constantine and Pettibone and, well, all of us here, good at what we do. But when it comes to the arts that’s not enough to make a decent living. I suppose it doesn’t matter to Cicely, she’s got more money than god. I think Johnny should marry her and she can support him while he sculpts.”
“Yeah, that’s the ticket, to have a patron or marry rich.”
“Can I say something — maybe it’s the wine, maybe I’ve had more than usual — but can I say something brutally honest?”
“Sure.”
“I think you’re wasting your time chasing Celeste. She’s a cold, hard person and to be truthful, of all us, she’s got the least talent. When she sings it reminds me of a cat in heat.”
Having such a crush on Celeste as I did, I was stung by what Jane said about Celeste being cold and hard though deep down I agreed that Celeste was no great shakes as a singer.
“I guess I just see Celeste differently than you do.”
“Of course, after all you lust after her and I can’t say as I blame you, but if I were to give you advice I’d say you’re wasting your time.”
“You may be right.”
“I know we don’t usually have deep conversations with one another and that we’ve never been close but I’ve always liked you.”
“I like you too.” Suddenly I felt awkward. Where was this going? Were Jane and I about to become good friends? I’d never given her a great deal of thought. She’d always been around. Always there, part of the scenery when we all got together. It was strange that she’d opened up to me and been so unflinching in her comments about Celeste.
Finally I said, “You’ve always seemed pretty happy. I guess you’re working through some things.”
“I mean, it’s the whole scene. Well, like tonight is fine. The food was good, the people here are swell, I like everybody, but it’s more of the same. I don’t have anything new or exciting going on in my life. It’s a rut. It doesn’t help that my last audition went poorly. Who knows when or even if I’ll get another gig. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck selling goddamned perfume for the rest of my working days. I don’t know what’s going to shake things up for me, what’s going to make a difference.”
“Why not have a fling?” It was a silly off-the-cuff question. But...
“My goodness, Mark, is that a proposition?”
This caught me by surprise and I stammered for a second managing only to utter a few ums and uhs and wells.
“Because if it is…” She paused — whether it was for effect or not I don’t know — and said, “I’d like that.”
I think my lower jaw hung in the air for a few seconds and I’m certain that a feather would have been plenty to knock me over. I took a big sip of wine, looked Jane in the eyes — finally recognizing how cute she was — and said, “I hadn’t meant it as such, but if you’re really interested, I think it would be a terrific idea.” While I’d been surprised by what Jane said, I was stunned at what I’d said. At the same time, I wouldn’t have taken it back.
“Hell, why not. You’ve been futilely chasing after Celeste and I haven’t seen anyone since that idiot, Billingsley — who by the way you introduced me to, fuck you very much for that. Maybe we can have a strictly physical relationship. No strings. I’ve always thought you were a handsome devil and guess I was unconsciously disappointed that you were never interested in me.”
“It’s just that I never thought that you’d be interested.”
“Okay, Mark, well, I guess I am now. What say we wait for this crowd to clear out and have it.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah, aren’t you?”
“Sure. My god I can’t believe it’s taken all these years to see how beautiful you are.”
“Me? Beautiful? I think that’s the wine talking. I admit I’m not unattractive. But we’ll see if you still think I’m beautiful tomorrow morning.”
The next morning I thought Jane was “very beautiful” and told her so. I was impressed that she replied, “grammatically speaking you shouldn’t modify beautiful with very, but I’ll gladly accept the compliment and respond that you’re not so bad looking yourself and I’m happy to have woken up next to you.”
So began our love affair.
At first it felt odd to have gone from lusting after Celeste to actually sleeping with Jane. In some ways I thought I’d accepted second best. Jane was undeniably cute but while Celeste, like me, was nearly six feet tall, Jane was about six inches shorter. Celeste had long lustrous raven colored hair and Jane cropped her auburn hair short. They were both equally intelligent but Jane lacked Celeste’s wit and charm. Still, I was happy with Jane; she had a healthy sexual appetite that I took full advantage of and we had more common interests than I’d previously realized.
Our gang didn’t get together again until New Year’s Eve at Cicely’s spacious new apartment in the fashionable Russian Hill section of San Francisco. There was much to celebrate besides the coming arrival of 1967. Harry Constantine had accepted a full-time teaching gig at a San Francisco high school and as if as insurance against making improper overtures toward his female students, had a new girlfriend names Felicia, a graduate student. Johnny Chang had sold a sculpture to a wealthy couple for several hundred dollars and Lane Pettibone had actually sold a poem to a literary magazine. I was in a celebratory mood because I’d been having a wonderful time with Jane. We’d spent most every night together since the late November party. I wasn’t in love but I was happy to have a regular sexual partner who I got along with well outside of the bedroom. Neither of us had any notions about our future and were happy reveling in the moment.
Only Celeste seemed down. I’d heard that she’d had a string of unsuccessful auditions and that it was dawning on her that she’d never make it as a singer. She’d quit her job after a nasty argument with her boss and was supporting herself with a waitressing job in some greasy spoon that she felt was demeaning. I felt bad for her and also realized that I desired her as much as ever.
There were a dozen or so other people at the wingding, some of whom I was acquainted with and some of whom were strangers. By ten o’clock everyone was through chatting and eating hors d’oeuvres — loud music and dancing were on the agenda. It was a wild scene and we were all constantly changing partners as we experimented with the latest dance moves and made up new ones.
Finally I found myself paired off with Celeste.
I’d never seen anyone so glum while dancing. She moved beautifully but her facial expression was more suitable for a funeral.
After a minute she shouted to me over the music, “Hey! Can we talk?”
I said “sure” and we slipped off to a vacant bedroom.
“So you and Jane. I’d have never guessed at it.”
There was something odd about Celeste’s tone, almost accusatory. Though taken aback I said, “yeah, we suddenly found one another.”
“Gave up on me, did you?”
I thought this an odd thing to say and wondered where it was all going.
“Admittedly I had a massive crush on you but—”
“But I gave you no encouragement.”
“Well, no, as a matter of fact—”
“I guess I blew that one. Everyone’s doing great but me. I’m doing worse than ever and to top it off am regretting not being more open to your advances.”
I felt terrible. Poor Celeste. In addition to being unhappy she had regrets and they related to the fact that I was with another woman. I wouldn’t have predicted this in a million years. I had no idea what to say.
“Okay well, mister, you are apparently speechless and it’s my fault. I’m a bit drunk and have said too much. So I suppose I should just apologize and — ”
“I love you, Celeste. I have since I first saw you two years ago and I would leave, I will leave, Jane in a heartbeat to be with you. If that’s what you want.”
No sooner had I said the words than I wondered if I’d gone stark raving mad. Sure I’d had a bit to drink, but this wasn’t the booze talking —I’d been honest. Perhaps I sensed that this was my last chance with Celeste and I had to act immediately to ever have a chance with her.
Meanwhile Celeste seemed totally nonplussed by what I’d said, almost as if she’d anticipated it.
She studied my face for a few seconds before responding. “Let’s not go overboard with the word love. That being said, I’ve no doubt you have strong feelings for me and I’m glad. I always — and I do mean, always — really liked you and here admit to having indulged in a few fantasies about us. I hadn’t been ready to get into a relationship and worried that you’d eventually lose interest because honestly I could tell how you felt and it made me very happy.”
“Wow,” I said and meant it.
“But I hate the idea of coming between you and Jane, you seem to have something special between you and I —”
“But we don’t. I mean we do, but it is purely physical. It was never going to go anywhere. There’s no commitment on either of our parts.”
“So you’d really be perfectly okay with breaking it off with her?”
“Oh absolutely.” I had been feeling pure elation at the idea of getting together with Celeste but now it was tinged with misery at the thought of possibly hurting Jane. But what choice did I have?
“I just don’t think I can do it tonight.” I said sadly.
“And you don’t have to,” Celeste said and took me in her arms and hugged me and then released me with a quick kiss on the lips.
“But soon, okay?”
It was soon. Two days later I completed what for me was the agonizing task of telling Jane that, while I had thoroughly enjoyed our fling, I needed to move on from it. She sobbed for a bit, composed herself and admitted that, “it wouldn’t have lasted more than a few more months, anyway” and said that while we were compatible in the bedroom, “there was no spark.” I was delighted when, two months later, Jane showed up at a birthday gathering for Pettibone with a new beau named Gregory (they married a year later).
As for Celeste and I, we lasted together for over fifty years. She died of cancer a few years back. She dropped her pursuit of a singing career shortly after we started dating and studied to become a music teacher, which gave her a career she enjoyed for over thirty years. I stayed at the Chronicle for the forty years I’d predicted and never bothered trying to write a book.
Lane Pettibone died of AIDs at the height of the epidemic in the late 1980s. He’d been working at a bookstore in the Castro district for over twenty years. When I saw him shortly before his death he said he hadn’t sold a poem in ten years. Of the mourners at Lane’s memorial, Harry Constantine was visibly the most distraught. Harry drank himself to death a few years later, never having found a publisher for his novel. He’d struggled with depression and alcoholism all his adult life, both of which worsened when he lost his teaching job after credible charges of sexual harassment against him were made by a student.
Cicely and Johnny married in 1968 but divorced three years later. She returned to England and was never heard from again. Johnny moved to Seattle and hopped from one job to another until he was killed in a car crash in 2000. As far as I knew he’d only ever sold the one sculpture.
Jane and Gregory lived in Berkeley after Gregory became a professor at the university. Jane gave up dancing when she got pregnant for the first time. We were all good friends and our three children and their four were constant playmates throughout their childhoods and remain close to this day. Jane was a great comfort to me after Celeste died as I tried to be to her a year later when Gregory suffered a fatal heart attack.
I live alone now which is strange after five decades of constant companionship. My two oldest children live out of state but my youngest is here in San Francisco and looks in on me from time-to-time as do Jane and a few other friends.
I’m not particularly sad or lonely. I had a good life and that it will likely end within the next few years does not grieve me. I have a lot of memories and play them back on occasion. Most recently, as should be obvious, I’ve been recalling that party from November 1966 and the two months that followed. It was a pivotal time in my life. Jane and I never talk about it although we exchange glances every now and then that — to me, at least — convey pleasant memories of our affair. I don’t regret anything about it nor the way it ended. Jane, in her own words, recovered from our break-up in a matter of hours.
It was a time when everything seemed so desperately important. Thoughts, feelings and actions all portended life-altering events. A good time then was a great time, a great time was orgasmic. Observations carried a more profound weight and conversations offered great insights and suggested brilliant minds at work. Laugher was heartier. Love-making more intense. Food and wine more delicious. My friends had big dreams of a glorious future while I looked forward to decades of contentment. And it was the time I found my one true love. Everything worked out for me and how many people can say that about their life?
I loved being a newspaper man just as I loved raising three children and being married to Celeste. But I also loved that time in my life when I was on the cusp of permanence. They were exciting, heady days full of possibility and I made the right choices. I also had good friends from whom I learned a lot and drew inspiration. That none of my friends realized their dreams is not so sad. Back then, at least, they were alive, vibrant, interesting, funny and enjoying pursuing their dreams. They all found other paths in life and were proud that they’d at least made the effort to achieve glory. I didn’t make the effort but I’m satisfied that I found a profession I loved and excelled in it for so long.
I recently decided to honor those times by writing a poem. I’ve just learned that it’s to be published which in turn inspired me to write this little reflection.
By the way, the name of the poem is Sunshine Microphone.
