'Joe, I need you to give me a ride from the Mazda dealership.'
It was Sal. One of the funniest and sluttiest guys in San Francisco. We had one of those friendships that had grown out of casual fucking . No dating, no romance. Just a gentle friendly love that grew stronger, once the sex part had gone away.
'Why? Is your car broken down?'
Sal had a bright red Mazda Miata, with a vanity license plate that read 'SirYesSir'.
'No, I'm trading it in.'
That disappointed me. I loved riding in Sal's little red car. It was the perfect size for zipping around the labyrinthine hills and tiny streets of SF. I always thought it was hilarious that Sal's car was so small that he could park in his apartment building's alley, where the garbage cans were stored.
'Trading it in? No, no, no! I love your car!', I pleaded.
'I know, sorry Joe. But I've decided to get a motorcycle.'
'Oh, absolutely NOT! You are NOT getting a motorcycle! Not in THIS fucked up town! Cable cars, fog, hills, blind intersections, streetcars, dumb-ass lost tourists....you couldn't FIND a worse place to ride a motorcycle. I FORBID IT.'
I hoped I sounded like a stern father. Sal dug that kind of talk.
'Yeah, yeah...you can forbid all you want. I've already turned the car in. I need you to come get me and take me to the motorcycle place.'
'Take your OWN damn self. I refuse to have anything to do with this. Motorcycles are deathtraps.'
Just a few weeks earlier, we'd had a big scare when another friend, Leif, had been forced to lay his motorcycle on its side, as he approached the Bay Bridge toll booth. Some dumb bitch had decided at the last minute to jerk over to the lane reserved for motorcycles and multiple passenger vehicles. Leif slammed his brakes on, and skillfully ground his bike on its side, just stopping before he slammed into her.
Terrifying. Fucked his bike up, too.
Of course, the main reason that Sal wanted a motorcycle (which he would never admit to me) was that he thought he'd look 'hot' riding it up to the front doors of the bars. San Francisco gay bars had developed a deification system, in which 'bike' riders were allowed to park directly in front, have head of the line privileges on busy nights, and got free coat and helmet check.
All because guys that rode motorcycles were OUTLAWS, dude. They said 'FUCK YOU' to The Man, and risked their vital organs on trips to the grocery store because they were REAL MEN. And each bar wanted to be known as place where the REAL MEN went.
Sal totally bought into that false masculinity head trip. Sal had terrible self-esteem issues, despite being handsome and muscular. Sadly common, in our world.
After I convinced Sal that I really, REALLY wasn't going to come cart his self-loathing ass to the 'Motorcycle Death Outlet' (as I called it), he hung up on me and called a cab.
It wasn't too long before Sal started appearing in the bars wearing full motorcycle drag. Racing pants with big pads, busy rubber shirts with bright logos all over them. Darren teased him pretty unmercifully, asking him how many school buses he could jump, etc. I refused to acknowledge the motorcycle in any way, including by commenting on Sal's ridiculous outfits.
I did see him on the bike a few times. Like his Miata, it was bright red. And on both ends, a tiny little familiar license tag, 'SirYesSir.'
On October 10th of that year, the birthday that he and I shared, Sal was riding his motorcycle west on Market Street through the Castro. An eastbound SUV impatiently whipped around the F Train streetcar, and made a blind left turn across Market.
Sal was killed instantly.