Excerpt: California Lottery

It's April, 2008, and Paul and Julie get married. Julie tells the tale.

When Alan first brought up to Paul and me that we should marry, it didn’t seem right. After all, Paul loves Alan, so why should he marry me? I could have our baby and he could be a father without our getting married. I was fine with things as they were. But, “No, no,” Alan said, “this isn’t about ideals. It’s about pragmatism. Paul, if you’re married to Jules, there’s no questioning your parental rights. They’re sealed in stone. Jules, if you’re married to Paul, you and the baby go right onto his health insurance. And since you’ll be unemployed for a while, it’s a financial necessity.”

There was no way I could argue with what Alan was saying. But something didn’t feel right to me. “What about you?” I asked him.

Alan’s eyes got big behind his glasses, and he spread his hand over the middle of his chest. “It has nothing to do with me or how we love one another. It has everything to do with how you present yourselves to the world and how the world acknowledges you, and your kid. Do you think that when people marry they’re marrying each other? Uh-uh. They’re entering into a contract with the rest of society that says ‘we’re doing this thing so that you – society – will consider our union valid and give us certain rights and privileges that can only be accorded to married people.’”

Paul had been silent, looking at the floor, till then. He said, “Alan, I see what you’re saying, though I think I’d have parental rights anyway as long as I’m listed on the birth certificate. It’s the health insurance angle that’s persuasive. And I suppose even if I could get Julie covered as a domestic partner, we’d still have to sign an affidavit, and I’m not sure whether I’d need to formally adopt the baby to get her insured.”

“See?” said Alan.

“Yeah, I see,” said Paul. “But it annoys me. No reflection on you,” he said, looking at me.

“I get it,” I said.

Paul went on: “Alan, I’ve always felt good about being out concerning our relationship. Now I’m contemplating an action that will shut us into a box.”

“It’s an imaginary box.”

“A box nonetheless. I have an ideal, and that ideal is you and me openly in love while forming a family together with a woman who I love and respect as a friend. I want to join others who, rather than trying to appear normal, present themselves to the world on their terms, not on the world’s terms.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and remember I’ve been married before. It’s nothing to write home about. No offense, Paul.” I didn’t want him to feel rejected.

“None taken,” he said.

Alan’s lips compressed. “Think about the kid,” he said.

“No one cares anymore whether a kid’s parents are married. It’s not as though she’s going to get beat up on the playground, at least not for that reason,” said Paul.

“Look at Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt,” I said.

“Yeah, look at them,” said Alan, “million-dollar celebs who can buy whatever they need outside the system. We haven’t yet attained that status.”

In that moment the balance changed.

Paul said to Alan, “You’ll be our witness, best bro and give the groom away?”

“All of the above,” said Alan, “and I’ll be photographer, too. Think of it as working the system, guys. We’ll still be who we are no matter what other people think they know about us.”

Paul and I finally agreed. And now we celebrated – Alan’s treat – before heading to city hall the next day. We were in the Celestial Room at The Stinking Rose, one of my favorites San Francisco restaurants. Our table was curtained off from all the other tables in the room. Paul had been about to order wine, then remembered I’m not drinking. So he got some kind of fancy water instead. We had marinated tomatoes for an appetizer, along with a garlic spread and focaccio.

Alan had proposed that we rent a hotel room with two beds rather than try to be comfortable in either his or Paul’s apartment. Fine with me. We ended up at the Hotel Nikko. The room was kind of bare, but the beds were scrumptious. The bathroom was wild – the mirror had a little TV screen built in. The shower was wonderful. I took a big long shower before putting on pajamas.

When I got out of the shower, Paul and Alan were already in their jammies, tucked into one of the beds and watching TV.

“We found a movie,” said Alan. “Come join us.”

The bed was queen-size, and I climbed into the space Alan and Paul made between themselves. We snuggled together and watched the movie. The bed was piled with pillows and the mattress was so soft and deep I was afraid we’d sink out of sight.

I have no recollection what the movie was about because I started to cry. Paul noticed first, and hugged me tight without saying a word. When Alan noticed, he turned toward me, laid an arm across my stomach and kissed my cheek. “What’s up, Loweezy,” he whispered in my ear.

I didn’t know what to say to him. After ten years of marriage to a guy who I had great sex with but who ended up treating me like shit, I was about to marry a guy I had little sex with but who treated me like I was royalty. They both treated me that way. I cried for all the years I spent feeling stupid. I cried for all the years I spent alone. I cried for the sweetness Paul and Alan showed me. And I knew it wasn’t just the baby. They’d always been good to me. With the baby it was just more so. I fell asleep tucked between them, the luckiest woman on earth.

The next day I barfed, as usual, then we were off to City Hall. Paul had arranged for us to get our license and get married on the same day. I had my divorce papers with me and all my IDs. I had discussed what to wear with the boys. Paul thought he’d wear a business suit. I had a tailored pant suit with a zip-up jacket I could wear, but it was black.

Black didn’t seem the right color to get married in. “So what?” said Paul, “My suit is gray.”

Alan said, “What color did you get married in last time?”

“White,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Alan, “and we know how well that worked.”

I could have smacked him, but I didn’t. I wore the black pant suit to my wedding. It was the last time I would wear it for a long time. Though I was only a couple months pregnant, the pants were so tight I had to leave the top unbuttoned.

The ceremony was simple and brief. It took place in a special room. We had a public-type marriage license, so Alan’s presence as witness was in order.

Paul kissed me, his spouse. Me, his spouse, kissed him back. Paul mugged and rubbed his spouse’s belly. Spouse laughed and pushed him away. Alan clicked his digital camera, and took video, too. He isn’t a great videographer. The pictures of the wedding were OK, but the brief video clip of Paul and me leaving City Hall is noisy and glaring.

The ‘reception’ took place at Paul and Alan’s favorite sushi restaurant in Cole Valley. I’d eaten there with them before, back when they lived together in the Hayes Street apartment. This time it was different. I was married. But it felt less like I’d gotten married and more like I’d joined a fraternity.

“So,” Paul turned to Alan, “why didn’t you throw rice?”

“Didn’t you read the regulations?” Alan said. “I did. ‘No form of litter is permitted to be thrown anywhere in the building, including outside steps.’”

“You’re so literal,” said Paul. “Since when is wedding bombardment litter?”

“When the regulations say it is,” Alan said.

“So,” I said, “if your name had been Schindler and you’d lived in Nazi Germany you would have done nothing unofficial, and more people would have gone to their deaths.”

Alan gave me a dismissive look. “Don’t be silly. Schindler had a list. A list always takes precedence.”

After the reception, Paul and Alan wanted to take me someplace special. “You’ll need walking shoes,” said Paul. “Should we go back to the hotel so you can change?”

“Paul, the only shoes I own are walking shoes.” I’d worn a pair of men’s suede Hush Puppies to the wedding.

“Let’s go, then.”

We three walked down Cole Street and caught a streetcar as it emerged from a tunnel next to a little park.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To the ocean,” said Paul, “then to Land’s End.” I’d thought Land’s End was a store – it seemed like a strange place to go.

I sat next to Paul, and Alan took the seat in front of us. He turned and snapped pictures. Paul winced. “You may think it’s corny now, Paulo,” Alan said, “but years from now you’ll enjoy the pictures. You’ll show them to the kid.” I liked that idea.

It was cool and windy at the beach. I was glad we weren’t going to live in San Francisco. The constant wind would drive me nuts.

I liked the ocean, though. It was neat to be at the end of the continent. As we hiked up the shore I enthused over kite flyers, dog walkers, sand dollars, surfers and fishermen. Alan found the remains of a jellyfish for me to see, and I suddenly remembered the beach we used to go to with our parents when we were kids.

“Hey, Alan,” I said, “remember the beach Mom and Dad used to take us to?”

Alan smiled. “You bet. Remember the games we used to play?”

I remembered. I remembered how succulent Alan’s body was to me even then. How I loved to tie him up, play-threaten him, play-kill him. He’d loved it, too.

After a while we walked away from the ocean and up some steps to a paved walkway. There was a restaurant ahead of us.

“Anybody need refreshments or a pit stop?” Paul asked. I ducked into the restaurant and used the washroom. When I came out, Alan said, “Let’s go to the Camera Obscura.”

He led us to a funny hut with a conical tower overlooking the ocean. He paid our way inside, and we clustered around a parabolic mirror that showed us the scene outside. Why not just stay outside, I wondered. Maybe the clustering was the big effect, maybe getting out of the wind for a bit. But our trek was far from done.

Once we emerged from the Camera Obscura, Paul led us to a point where we looked over a flooded ruin. “This used to be the Sutro Baths,” he said.

“What was that?” I had to grab a bunch of my hair to keep it from whipping my face. Paul started to explain, but I looked at Alan and he looked at me. I wanted to tie him up right then. Tie him up and play-torture his body. Paul soon realized he was talking into nothingness. He looked at us and smirked. “Shall we move on?” he said.

We walked up through a parking lot, then entered a trail. One thing I like about San Francisco is how you can be in the middle of civilization one minute and in the middle of nowhere the next. The place Paul led us to was definitely in the middle of nowhere. It was a hiking trail that climbed up and away from the ocean through greenery that seemed like a forest. But we weren’t that far from shore. After hiking a while we came to a point where we looked down on the ocean and across to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. Paul wanted to move on, but I said, “Let’s stay here a minute.” I slipped my hand into Paul’s. Alan took pictures.

We walked some more, but I started to get tired. The boys found a way to get off the trail, and we ended up in a residential neighborhood. Paul and Alan fussed a bit over whether we were better off going for a bus or trying to find a cab. I thought the bus would to win, but as we stood at the bus stop, a cab came along.

Back at the hotel, I threw myself onto a bed and fell asleep.

On my way back to Phoenix the next day I felt like an ant who’d had wings for a day, who’d had a wonderful nuptial flight, only to end up earthbound again. I no longer loved the life I was going back to. I couldn’t wait for the new life to come.