Dancing on the rooftop

Leslie put on his Facebook t-shirt, his Berkeley sweatshirt, finally his Abercrombie windbreaker. It was July in San Francisco, after all. He needed all the layers he could add to get through the fog, wind, and drizzle. And then he headed over to Chet’s place to hang out for the afternoon. It’d be a nice surprise, and he’d even packed a stash of marijuana in his backpack. Chet was good for a pot pipe.

He trudged his 250 pounds of Golds Gym muscsle up the hill to Barbary Lane and hung a right. The house was totally run down, rotted out cedar siding, faded window panes, peeling paint. But Chet said it suited him just fine, that’s how he liked it. He was faux artistique, Leslie told others about his boyfriend – Chet fancied himself an artist of the world. In reality, Leslie thought he was merely a competent painter, destined to be an elementary school art teacher, but only if elementary schools still taught art.

He opened the door with his key and walked in. No sign of Chet. But Leslie saw his banana-seated bike resting against the wall, so Chet was definitely there. Maybe sleeping in the bedroom – but no one lying on the mattress on the floor, nor was he in the bathroom. Must be up on the balcony. Too cold to be up there, Leslie thought as he double-stepped his way up to the top and opened the door.

“Oh, my God!” Leslie shouted across the deck to the two partly naked bodies connected in the middle, doggy style, up against the raised ledge. He saw Chet’s pimply ass, his jeans down by his ankles. The other guy faced the other direction from Chet. He had a shape reminding Leslie of the grinch who stole Christmas, had a sickle tattoo on his shoulder and thinning hair down to his shoulders.

“Jesus, Leslie, this isn’t what it looks like!” Chet said. “I’m … I’m helping my friend here with his hemorrhoids.”

“Oh, really, Chet? Well, let’s see if I can help.” So he went over to them and tossed both of them off the balcony. The hemorrhoidal friend lay on the ground forty feet below, his head askew from the body. And Chet’s jeans got caught on a second-floor post. He hung upside down by his jeans, screaming for help like a hyena.

Leslie did a little mambo dance. That’ll teach Chet to cheat.