All Friends Are Necessary

by Tomas Moniz

Genres: Friendship; Hispanic & Latino; LGBT Bisexual

Synopsis

In this joyous, big-hearted novel, Tomas Moniz—a finalist for the PEN/Hemingway and Lambda Literary awards—delivers a commanding new story about the power of friendship, community, and the families we create for ourselves.

Efren “Chino” Flores has just moved back to the Bay Area from Seattle, jumping from sublet to sublet. In Washington, he was a beloved middle school biology teacher with a loving wife, and a child on the way until a stunning loss changed his life. Now, he’s working temp jobs, terrified of commitment, and struggling to put himself back out into the world.

But there to nurture Chino is a coterie of new and old friends and lovers who form a protective web around him. Closest to him are Metal Matt, a red-haired metalhead with a soft spot for Courtney Love and a rangy dog named Sabbath, and Mike and Kay, a couple whose literary edge is matched only by the success of their secret OnlyFans account. As Chino begins to date more men and women—and to open himself up again to love—his bonds with other people grow both rich and profound. Like a fern blooming in the wake of a forest fire, new life comes after even the most devastating upheaval.

With gorgeous, heart-rending detail and a seemingly infinite catalogue of tender, unexpected interactions, Tomas Moniz has created a striking mosaic of desire and belonging that will appeal to fans of Garth Greenwell, Jaquira Díaz, and Patricia Lockwood. An anthem to both queer and platonic love, All Friends Are Necessary evinces the wonder of friendship and the joy of giving yourself up to the essential force of community.

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

EVERYONE LOVES THE Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park, understandably so, with its glorious and cocky tulips, its vibrant rhododendrons and azaleas, blooming all year despite the season. But I’ll take the earthy floor under a California redwood, especially today: a miserable ninety-five degrees in the city. I’m avoiding all my responsibilities by biking through the park, seeking shade under the redwoods, surrounded by their accompaniment of green ferns. Give me the obviously sexist-named lady fern, fronds all delicate and bendy, and sword fern, with fronds erect and plump. The moist smell of decomposition. The coolness. The occasional pile of trash: Takis bags, cigarette butts, a mini bottle of Don Julio tequila, the makings of a perfectly fine evening. Which reminds me—tonight I’ll be celebrating my thirty-seventh birthday.

It’s early afternoon on the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, unnaturally hot, and soon I’ll be meeting my best friend, Metal Matt, at Bender’s on Nineteenth and Van Ness to drink. Then we’re going to jump in the Pacific Ocean.

That’s the plan.

My beat-up Bianchi, which Metal Matt lent me, sprawls a few feet away, and I lean against the tree trunk. I enable my hot spot, hoping not to exceed my data this month, because I’m still on a shared plan with Luna, my ex-wife, who continues to pay the bill. I need to find a more permanent job and living situation. I secured two temp jobs for the summer: a library assistant at Cal, and a data entry position at MOMA, because though the pay is nothing special, you get free access to the museum.

Metal Matt keeps telling me to look for a place to live in Oakland. It’s cheaper, warmer, more bikeable. For now, I’ve found a sublet on Shotwell and Seventeenth in the Mission till September. Nearby: a BART stop, a spin studio, a grocery store, and a bar. I’ve decided to quit drinking for the summer—after tonight, of course—so I should just cut the bar, but it’s psychologically comforting to have so close.

I click open a new tab and decide to peruse the Craigslist Missed Connections. I chuckle at the ridiculousness of the postings. The earnest longing. The raunchiness of anonymity. But they arouse something in me, something romantic and hopeful, perhaps a little desperate as well: You, in line at El Farolito, wearing a Pink Floyd shirt, with a date who acted disinterested in you. We stared at each other for a long moment. Me, in shorts and shirt and gym bag and very interested in you.

I have this wish that I’ll read one about me: You, a healthy and young-looking 30-year-old, maybe 220, clean-shaven, with a dark and wildly curly head of hair, biking laboriously but joyfully around the city. Me, someone who thinks you are adorable.

But apparently no one misses me.

I scroll through a few ads for shared apartments in the city, but I can’t focus, overwhelmed by how quickly plans can change. I lived with Luna for over five years in Seattle. We’d purchased a set of Heath dinnerware for the kitchen, Ikea plant stands for hallways. I’d painted our unborn child’s bedroom a soft daffodil that we picked out after bickering for weeks over subtle variations of yellow paint swatches.

I know I’m not really ready for roommates or communal chores.

A cat sticks its head out from behind a lady fern. Long-haired, all whites and tans and blacks, slinking along the perimeter of the tree’s circle of shade as if I’ve taken its spot. It circles me like something feral and then stops and rudely stares. I never had a cat growing up, so I’m a little suspicious, but there is something wonderful about a warm furry thing curling up on you. I try to call it over, but it just sits there all regal-like, its tail twitching, continuing to stare. I stare back but then blink. The cat wins, looking at me like You’re pathetic, and immediately Luna pops into my head, which disturbs me.

Our breakup wasn’t for a lack of love or friendship or passion. We had fun. We dreamed and planned about the future. Even pregnant, we role-played. We confronted our fears about how our lives might change with a child: nanny and parent, needy neighbor and pervy neighbor, ignored mom at the park and dirty father sitting next to her.

I haven’t been with someone since Luna, since the day before she left for the doctor’s office. I not only miss sex with her, but all that came with it: the way I could lose myself, act ravenous or demure, find such direction, such purpose, in pleasing. Something in me loves the feeling of letting go—of Tell me what to do, of Anything you want, of service.

I tsk-tsk and say, Kitty, come here.

The cat doesn’t move. Typical.

I ignore it and begin to pack up, and the cat walks right up to me.

I’m a sucker for success and stroke its sides, rub its belly, and the cat meows, then rolls over and scratches me with its back legs and bolts away.

I watch blood pop up in little lines along the soft underside of my wrist. Three perfect rows. I reach down and lick them tentatively. Consider the taste of my blood on my tongue, the viscosity. It’s not as thick as cum but thicker than pre-cum. A bit sharp to the taste but definitely different than period blood. I lick again and it beads, and I lick again, and it continues to bead. The body is a wild, wild thing.

I gather my belongings together, reluctant to leave the shade under the trees, but I want to be among people and need to bike back to the Mission. The crowded sidewalks of the park on a busy summer day. The designated roller-skate area, a large asphalt rectangle, bumps with sweaty and shirtless men.

I straddle my bike and watch the synchronized routine of four women practicing circle eights together. The requisite aging San Francisco hippies, sporting dreadlocks and tie-dye shirts, taking up too much space. Normally, I’d shake my head, but something’s lovely about it all. The joy, the pleasure, the shared spaces and slick bodies and lack of any kind of pretension.

An old man, also watching the show, on what appears to be a stolen Citi-Bike with a milk crate affixed to its front with a series of bungee cords, suddenly tumbles to the asphalt, and people rush to help him. He gets up, refuses their concern, yelling that he’s fine, he’s on his birthday bike ride—he’s on his way to Ocean Beach.

I smile. I want to yell, That’s my birthday plan too!

A woman keeps asking him, Who’s the president? and he says, That asshole.

I hear someone shout, He’s fine.

I watch kids learning to ride bikes or scooting around on skateboards, elbows and knees covered with pads. Some parents hover over them, running beside them, shouting directions, voices full of fear or concern. Some parents stare at their phones like they are thankful for the break from paying attention to a child, not even reacting when they fall. The kids look awkward and ridiculous but alive, skating and falling and getting back up. And it hits me viscerally, like a punch. I can taste the bitterness in my mouth, feel the anger in my body, at the unfairness of loss, at expectations and hope and possibility taken away, just gone.

I drop the bike and pull out my phone. I text Metal Matt: I’m heading to the bar earlier.

He immediately texts back: You good?

I text the dancing emoji.

He texts the peach.

He knows me well.

I feel my shoulders drop, feel air fill my lungs.

After almost a decade together, Luna and I haven’t spoken in months. We text here and there. To check in. To perhaps remind ourselves of one another, of what we had together. The desire to connect still feels instinctual.

I decide to send her a preemptive birthday text: I hope you doing well. Letting you know I’m fine & w/ friends.

Luna texts: I know. I’m glad. And the lit candle emoji.

I gave her so much shit for her candles and altars and brocade runners, her rituals around solstices and anniversaries, special votives accompanying intentions and manifestations. I teased her that my hippie white mom had altars. She never bit.

Luna would reply, Good for her. People need more spirituality in their lives. But hippies don’t own the practice. They never have. I’m simply reappropriating.

Then I realize she knows my plans. That she and Metal Matt probably still talk to each other. That he updates her about me.

My phone buzzes. It’s Luna, so I decline it.

She texts: Be well, Chino. Then a heart emoji and then a peach emoji.

I notice she avoids the word birthday.

I understand why, of course.

The heat hangs on everything as I leave the park and head down the Wiggle toward the Mission, always grateful for this bike-friendly path flowing through the heart of San Francisco. I cruise slowly but determinedly, taking up the whole green bike lane as other cyclists squeeze by, ding-dinging their little bells at me to make space.

I refuse to budge.

So that’s why I’m irritated as I wait patiently at a light astride my borrowed bike, helmet on, earbuds in, at Sixteenth and Van Ness, when this ’70s red Bronco decides to make a right turn and beeps at me. I looked at him like Fuck you. He waves through the windshield for me to get out of the way. I pull my earbuds out and roll my bike back, eyeballing him like Don’t beep at me. I realize he’s an elder: black Ray-Bans, white tank top, dangling gold chain, and one of those mid-’90s Mossimo red flannels, unbuttoned. He looks like my father or my tios back in New Mexico. He rolls slowly beside me, window down, raising his hand, calming me, and says, Bro. It’s okay. It’s okay.

I feel frazzled and foolish. A bad combination.

That’s the mood I’m in as I lock my bike up and enter Bender’s, hearing the familiar melodic sound of Black Sabbath, a kind of divinity, a beautiful darkness, the familiarity of home, all dirty and smelly but yours. I decide to splurge on Pliny the Elder, which is in its own way something divine: flowery and citrusy and malty-sweet. I grin and ask for a Pliny and slap down seven bucks. The bartender smiles and tells me, It’s eight.

I only have eight: seven for the beer, one for the tip.

Metal Matt promised to spot me drinks for the rest of the night. To cheer me up. To kick off my summer of sobriety in the right way. Now I’m an asshole again, the guy who’s not going to leave a tip.

I say, I thought it was seven.

The bartender’s like, That was months ago. Things change, my friend.

I say, Here’s eight. When my friend comes, I’ll tip you.

Right, they say. And walk away.

I hurry to the outdoor patio to get out of sight. I place my beer down on a stunningly nasty glass tabletop that hasn’t been wiped down in weeks and keep my phone in my lap. The ashtray, however, looks like it gets cleaned regularly. A single big table made of an old wooden door takes up most of the patio. The group of people sitting around it appear familiar with each other and they’re all dressed in shades of black. I’m sporting my only pair of swim trunks, horizontal pastel stripes hanging to my knees, and a plain black T-shirt. So I’m only slightly out of place. No one looks my way. I watch them pass a pack of smokes around. Everyone grabs one. They pass around a lighter between the three women and two men. The men all sport leather vests and tight black denim shorts, fringe dangling down, tickling thighs that appear taut and tan. The women lean back in their chairs, wearing T-shirts with the sides cut out. I try not to stare at their unshaved armpits and the lovely way their whole bodies move as they laugh. They blow smoke directly into each other’s smiling faces like it’s an act of love.

I sip my beer and notice these other two dudes sitting at the only other little circular table, in the corner sharing a bowl. And by dude I mean the complete opposite of the old man in the car or the black-clad people at the big table. One’s wearing a Hardly Strictly Bluegrass shirt with gray sweatpants and what appear to be house slippers. The other wears khaki pants, socks with sandals, and what might be the matching top to the gray sweatpants. The dude with the shirt sees me looking and says to me, Got to love Pliny.

I’m speechless. I look at the beer: brown, a bit reddish, with a small head of foam.

I want to ask how he knows it’s Pliny and not one of the other thirty beers Bender’s has on tap, but instead I say, You like Pliny too?

He says, Man, I got a story for you. He leans forward and offers me the pipe. My first instinct is to say no. But it’s my birthday. I lean in, and he leans in with the pipe and lights it with his blue plastic lighter. I inhale.

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass points the pipe at my beer and says, The brewery is up north. It’s this packed sports bar. Like you’d never want to go in there. Like they have fifteen-dollar hamburgers, and fries are like five extra dollars. But here’s the secret. If you ask them Is the Child around? they’ll give you a mini pint of Pliny the Younger if they have some. It’s never advertised. You just have to know what to say. You have to have faith. Have you ever had the Younger?

I’ve never tasted the Child, I say, trying to be clever. But the word triggers me: child. My body surges with a rush of sadness, my skin flushes, my belly turns.

He says, It’s just like heaven.

One of the women at the larger table stands to leave, and Hardly Strictly Bluegrass sees her and says, Sorry ’bout that, milady. Like he’s in eighteenth-century England. He watches her leave—not in a douchey way, but still. I look to the sky, dull now with night coming. I breathe out slowly, audibly, but I don’t care. I sip and savor my beer. I sense my body unclenching, my heart calming. I’m ready to go to Ocean Beach, which I expressed must be the final destination of the evening.

Metal Matt used the word kismet when I bragged to him about my plan on the phone the day before.

I asked, What the fuck is kismet?

He said, It means like fate or destiny. It means everything led you to be in this place with this opportunity.

I said, A birthday is hardly an opportunity.

He laughed loudly, like I was ridiculous.

I asked, And what language is that?

He said, Yiddish or Hebrew, I think. I don’t know. I’m not Jewish, but I’m one spiritual motherfucker. All true metalheads are. Remember that.

AND LIKE A miracle, Metal Matt enters the patio holding two PBR tall boys and a huge white hibiscus flower. He makes eye contact with me and states loudly, Drink up, and let’s get nude and jump in the ocean. A woman from the larger table behind us yells, Metal Matt! Where you been?

He says, Being a good boy and living in Oakland. Then Metal Matt says hello to everyone at the table, and I hear one of them say, The beach sounds like a good idea on a night like this.

Metal Matt says, It’s a special night. It’s summer solstice, it’s hella hot, and it’s Chino’s birthday.

They all look at me—the men, the women, Metal Matt, the two dudes in the corner. They all wish me a happy birthday, their voices a jangle of sound. Metal Matt makes his way to me and hands me the beer and the hibiscus.

I say, Thanks for the flower. A hairy-fruited hibiscus.

I tuck it behind my ear.

He says, Hairy fruit, are you serious? I love it.

Metal Matt strokes his red beard, bushy, a bit unkempt, beginning to gray right down the middle. He has long reddish-brown hair perfectly parted in the center. He takes care of it. We were roommates for years, and the amount of money he spent on hair products was impressive: shampoos, hair conditioners, oils, rehydrating creams.

We crack open the cans and cheers each other as white foam flicks onto my sleeve. He shows me a fifth of Maker’s from his back pocket and says, I’m saving on beer so we can take a Lyft to the beach.

I say, A sentence I never imagined coming out of your mouth.

He says, Yeah, well, I never thought Slayer would say some reactionary conservative drivel, but whatever, right?

I say, Who knew Ozzy would star in a reality TV show?

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass joins in: Or that Metallica would play the Super Bowl?

And he’s so pleased with himself I have to chuckle.

Not Metal Matt. . .