Rough Trade by edited by Todd Gregory

Author:edited by Todd Gregory [Gregory, Todd]
Format: epub
Tags: Gay & Lesbian
ISBN: 9781602820920
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
Published: 2009-07-29T08:00:00+00:00

Frisco

Greg Wharton

My name is Joshua Clark II, Josh to my friends and clients. I volunteer on Fridays at the Brighton Retirement Home, a low-income old-age residency on Nob Hill, donating my time and services to some of the old guys who will end their days living there.

My favorite Friday friend is Manny Freed, also known as Frisco. He’s always my first visit. He’s seventy years young. His body’s not too sound anymore, but his mind is sharp. No known family. Lonely. But quite a character. And an amusing past. I never really know whether I should believe the tales he tells or not, but they’re certainly colorful, and he gets so excited when he spins them he lights up.

I’m running late today, thanks to a lengthy call from my mom, and after checking in with my supervisor, Nurse Wretched, I find Frisco in the TV lounge, on the couch, his big feet on the coffee table in front of him, a can of Fresca in one gnarly hand and a More cigarette in the other. His attention is firmly focused on a rap video he is watching, and the More’s ash is way too long, just barely holding on, ready to fall into his lap at any moment.

“Frisco!” I scream, probably louder than I should. “I thought you were supposed to cut down on those.”

The ash breaks off, bouncing down the front of his robe, then falling between the spots and white hair of his bare legs to the tiled floor, still in one piece.

“Josh, my boy. Glad you came. You’re late. Verna here isn’t being very sociable today. I can use the company.” With that, he pokes his bony fingers and prissy cigarette at the little round lady with blue hair wearing pink chiffon seated in one of the other chairs, also watching the video. She doesn’t react to me being there, or to her name being mentioned. “Let’s go to my room.”

He puts his cigarette out in the ridiculously large and horrid ceramic horoscope ashtray, and I help him to stand up. We slowly walk down the hall, arm in arm, like best friends, or lovers, to his room, him carrying his Fresca, and me with my brown paper bag of gifts and windbreaker.

“Did you know I once knew Andy Warhol?” he asks once we get to his room and sit down in the two chairs at the foot of his bed.

“Why no, Frisco, I didn’t.”

“Do you know who he is? You might be too young.”

He’s a big butterball of flattery, that Frisco. I am too young! But should I be insulted that he thinks I don’t know my pop and art history?

“Yes, I do,” I respond.

“It was through him that I first met Joe Dallesandro. Ever seen any of his films?” He sounds so serious, and he has a very funny look on his face, like extreme gas, or maybe love. He smiles thinly, then takes a sip of his Fresca.

“I have. He’s a babe, Frisco. Very foxy.

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