Nine Days in Provincetown

Chapter 1 “DAMN!” shouted Dean, pounding his steering wheel. “I knew I should have left earlier!” The events in this part of the trip to Cape Cod were always predictable: three main highways, the 195, the 495, and Highway 3 from Boston all funneling down to cross the bridge over the Cape Cod Canal onto the one highway on the Cape. It always seemed like half the population of the Northeast was on vacation on the same weekend, all trying to get to the same place. He put down the window to try to see what was happening, already knowing the answer. All he could see for a quarter mile ahead was brake lights. Clearly, he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. If he wanted to make it all the way to the end of the Cape for even a late lunch, there was no chance of that now. For an hour and a half, the traffic inched along, until finally he was on the bridge. The view from here was always fantastic, and under the bridge he could see a tall sailboat passing through the canal. Then he was onto the Cape, the traffic moving a bit faster now, but still very heavy. One by one, the cars turned off to their various vacation destinations: Hyannis, Chatham, Orleans, Truro. He was almost there now. It was three o’clock, and he was missing some serious beach time. Driving down Commercial Street, he had to be extremely careful of all the tourists walking in the street. It was always a slow go here, the number of people in the street vastly outnumbering the cars. Six blocks down he found his bed and breakfast and stopped in front to check in and take in his bags. It was a large establishment, unattractive from the outside but pleasant enough on the inside. It was owned by two gay men who Dean thought to be quite young to be running a business like this on their own. But they seemed polite and professional, and the place seemed to be very clean and well run. After parking his car in the municipal lot, Dean returned to his room and began to unpack. The room was small—very small—and there was no air conditioning. It would be hot during the day and might not even cool off that much during the night. Well, that’s what you get for trying to take a bargain vacation, he thought to himself. He would just have to make the best of it. He wasn’t planning on spending much time in the room, anyway. He decided to take a walk to the beach and grabbed a few snacks from one of his bags to take along. Hopefully he could grab a slice of pizza or something on the way back. He headed down to the street and turned in the direction away from the center of town. The street was crowded with all kinds of tourists, but the ones Dean noticed were the guys. Often in groups of four or more, they were the party boys that he would probably see again later tonight, when most of the straight tourists had retired to their rooms. After about nine P.M., the streets of this town would take on an entirely different character. He walked for a mile, passing dozens of motels, but then he could see the large sand dune up ahead that hid the ocean from view. Climbing it, he had a marvelous view of the ocean in both directions. From here, if he wanted, he could watch the sunrise over the ocean in the morning, and from the same spot, turn in the other direction and watch the sunset over the ocean in the evening. There were not many places that he could do that. Such was the uniqueness of Provincetown. Though it was now early evening, the day was still very warm. He had worked up a pretty good sweat walking here from town, and he took off his shirt to catch the last few rays of the sun before it dropped below some clouds on the horizon. A fresh ocean breeze disheveled his hair. It always felt good to be here in the open, away from the traffic and commercialism of the northern New York City suburbs. There might be a lot of people vacationing here on the Cape, but the miles and miles of beaches always seemed to swallow them up. You could still find a spot on the beach all to yourself, at least for a while early in day. And tomorrow morning Dean was planning on doing just that. He started back toward town, but not before a swarm of black flies descended on him, making the walk miserable. Picking up his pace to a jog to escape them, he was soon back in his room. As expected, the room was muggy and uncomfortable. He decided to take a shower in the floor’s community bathroom, hoping that he might run into another visitor to the establishment for a little conversation. No such luck. The place was a morgue, all the residents probably out at restaurants for their evening meal, or even starting early at the bars. Dean tried to make himself look as presentable as possible in the warm room before he went out for the evening. As he headed out into the street, it was still quite warm, but it was better than the small room with only one window. He decided to have a sub, sitting outside while he ate, watching the people pass by on the street. And it was beginning: the nightly transformation. A number of straight tourists still gazed at the merchandise in the jewelry shops and art galleries. A few straggled back to their rooms from their way too big evening meals with too many cocktails. But they were outnumbered now by the groups of men—many of whom looked more like boys—populating the street. Dean finished his impromptu meal and decided to look in the last few open galleries before deciding which bar to visit first. Stepping into the first one, he immediately recognized the artist. He was Canadian, and Dean had one of his works hanging on his living room wall. “I know this artist,” he said to the owner. “I have one of his works at home. He’s from Toronto. Does he summer here in Provincetown?” “He was just here for an opening last week, before heading back to Canada,” the owner replied. “That’s too bad,” said Dean. “I love his work, and I would have liked to have met him.” So much for timing. He hoped he would meet some other artist, or sculptor, or writer, or whoever, before the night was out. Just, please, not some bs artist. The first bar had a drag queen entertaining the patrons, her acid tongue unmerciful in her take on several politicians and celebrities. The crowd loved her, but Dean scanned the room for interesting prospects for the evening. And he found nothing. The men, mostly very young, all seemed to be in groups, and no one seemed open to talking to anyone else. He moved on to another bar. This one was more crowded, perhaps because it was a little later in the evening. Dean looked around once more, and this time found several interesting prospects. There were several large groups once again, but there were also a lot of guys that seemed to be here alone and didn’t seem to be talking to anyone. He looked around and decided to start with a guy playing solitaire on a video game at the bar. He walked up to the guy, and opened his mouth to say something, but the guy didn’t even look up. It was almost as if he didn’t even know Dean was there. “Pretty good crowd in here tonight, huh?” said Dean, hoping to get the guy’s attention. Nothing. He cleared his throat, upping the volume a notch. “The place is pretty crowded, isn’t it?” he said. The guy looked up from his deep concentration on his game. “Oh, yeah,” he said, looking around the room quickly, “I guess it is.” And he went right back to his game. Dean thought of asking him if he had come to the bar to meet people or play that stupid game. But he already knew the answer. He looked around the room to see who else might be interested in talking. And it turned out that no one was. They were all into their games, their drinks, maybe they had a boyfriend, or maybe they were just into themselves. But none of them seemed to be interested in meeting anyone. Disgusted, Dean walked back to his room. Grabbing a slice of pizza at the parlor next to his B&B, he again found that the customers were mostly large groups of very young men. As Dean finished his pizza and prepared to return to his room, one of them broke off from the group he was with and sidled up to him. “You’re very attractive, very masculine,” he said, slurring his words slightly. Ignoring the obvious fact that he had been drinking, Dean looked him over for signs that he had even started shaving. He must be, what, twenty-two, twenty-three? And drunk. Maybe he wasn’t even of legal age. And Dean simply couldn’t imagine what the young man found attractive about him, unless he was looking for a sugar daddy. And that certainly wasn’t him on this bargain vacation. He wasn’t about to buy this guy beers, cigarettes, dinner, or anything else. Sure, he could take him back to his room and have his way with him, but he just wasn’t into guys this young. The guy was drunk, and he would probably just get sick somewhere halfway through the encounter. No, thanks. Not worth the trouble. “And you’ve had too much to drink,” Dean told him. He turned and walked away, leaving the young man staring after him as he walked back to his room. With the early closing time of one A.M. in this town, there was no sense in going to another bar now. He was tired anyway from his long drive that had taken two hours more than it should have. Tomorrow was another day.