Page 39 of The Frog Prince
“Not yet, but I’m going to this year.”
He says nothing. I picture him tapping a pencil on his desk. He wants off the phone. I don’t blame him. “I’ve got to drop some artwork by your building later today,” I lie.
“I was hoping you’d have ten minutes free for coffee.”
“I’m sorry…” He pauses, searches; he doesn’t remember my name. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. We’re hiring a new editor; I’m covering for someone else—”
“Five minutes.”
I hear his sigh. I feel his irritation. He doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t have the energy to waste, but Olivia’s right, he’s not quite rude enough just to hang up on me.
Poor guy. He’s a nice guy.
“I know what you want,” he says, “but I can’t give you the editorial space. And we already have something about the event in the Calendar section.”
“Why wouldn’t you go to the ball?”
“What?”
“You’ve lived here how long?”
“Ten years, give or take a few.”
“In ten years, why didn’t you ever go to the Leather and Lace Ball?”
“Not my thing.”
“You don’t like costumes?”
“Don’t like costumes, don’t like yuppies, don’t like forking out a couple hundred bucks to be with a bunch of people I don’t know and won’t like.” “You’ve made some good points.” “Good. And, um…” He’s searching for my name, again. “I wish there was more I could do, but the economy’s hurting, people are being selective in how they spend their money, and frankly, I couldn’t endorse the ball if I tried—” “Not even though it helps hundreds of people who are dying?.
He splutters. Laughs. He must have been drinking something. “It’s not about dying.”
“It is. The ball benefits the Hospice Foundation.”
“Very little goes to the foundation. We ran an article a couple years ago, and the majority of black-tie fundraisers spend a dollar for every dollar they earn.”
“Eighty-two percent of every ticket sold to the ball goes straight to the Hospice Foundation—”
“That’s impossible.”
“David Burkheimer underwrites the ball.” Brian Fadden isn’t saying anything, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I keep going. “I don’t think people know what the ball is for anymore. I think the event has been around long enough that people have lost sight of the need, of the suffering. AIDS isn’t gone. It’s still an epidemic, and it’s still taking the lives of young people—men, women; destroying families.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe the ball isn’t new and exciting, but it practically funds the foundation every year; and maybe the foundation will need to find alternative sources of funding, but they don’t have it yet, and they need the ball. San Francisco needs the ball. It’s not an event that should be dismissed.”
“Okay.”
“Nobody should have to be alone or in an institution at the end. People should be allowed to die with dignity—”
“Okay. Got it. Enough.” He’s finally silenced me. “Coffee. Ten minutes. But today’s no good. How about tomorrow?”
I’m grinning. I feel as if I had just won the Tour de France. I practically pump the air. He said coffee. And he said ten minutes. Not five. Ten. “Wonderful.”
“How’s three?”
“Great.”