He stood in awe. The enormity of the plaza was overwhelming, especially to someone who had spent the morning joyfully lost in the complicated network of narrow streets and grand canals that comprised Venice. He was the jolly pirate Mark Philips, a Marco Polo of the nineties, who had navigated through an unknown sea to find a priceless booty. Now it stretched before him but he was unprepared for its splendor.

The piazza San Marco was walled in by three once white multi story buildings with colonnaded facades. They looked time tested, mindful of their purpose to distinguish this square from the surrounding area, the frame around the masterpiece. The ground floor of these buildings now sported a multitude of bright colored awnings, each a name tag for a cafe that catered to the ever increasing horde of summer tourists, but on this cool autumn morning the rows of empty yellow chairs and tables that lined the front walks inspired only a sense of seclusion. In fact, except for the muffled cries of a few children playing ball Mark felt isolated in the piazza. Not even the hundreds of silver pigeons who gathered in the square could intrude upon his solitude. They sped through the air in a chaotic frenzy, finally spiraling upwards to become part of the hazy sky, but their flight was a small unnoticed miracle.

Mark breathed in deeply to clear his mind before focusing on the magnificent alabaster church that presided over the far end of the piazza. The front of the basilica was a series of wide arches, a foundation as solid as the Roman Catholic church itself. Finely crafted figurines of stone and gold adorned the top of each vault, an eternal fusion of strength and beauty. Above it all floated a cluster of pale green Byzantine domes, translucent crowns that appeared only half real.

Suddenly, Mark was keenly aware that someone was close by. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a small barefoot boy approaching. He wore a pair of dirty khakis that were now only a shade lighter than his curly brown hair, and a small red sweater that clung to his gaunt body. His outstretched arms carried a newspaper as if it were some sort of offering.

"Please some coins," the boy mumbled in a monotone. A wave of sympathy flushed Mark's face, but it quickly turned into a feeling of panic. 'Beware of beggar children,' he had read in the tourist guide. 'They are viscous criminals.' As the boy drew tentatively closer the bells began pealing from the red brick clock tower that stood so erect next to the old basilica.

"Is it noon," Mark thought. He tried to distract himself by counting each strike of the bell. " Two...three...four..."

"Please some coins," the boy repeated, close enough now that Mark could smell a sour mixture of sweat and soiled clothes.

"Six...seven...eight..." Mark continued to count with his eyes tightly shut.

"I'm hungry," the boy persisted in a whisper. Mark felt as if he were sinking through a pool of still water as a disembodied voice continued to count.

"Ten...eleven...beep...beep...beep...beep." Mark awoke, unable to move, unsure of his surroundings. The room was dark, illuminated only by the last few beams of the moon glinting through the window as it drifted beyond the horizon. Mark quickly looked around; A maple wood desk, an ornate dresser with a misty looking mirror on top, a large poster of a bare chested man holding a baby on the wall. He was in his bedroom, although it didn't really look familiar. "Beep...beep...beep..." the clock continued. Mark rolled out of bed, wrapping a fuzzy yellow blanket around his shoulders while silencing the alarm.

In a rush it all came back to him. Three months of grueling work in Milan followed by a rushed two week tour of major Italian cities. The fourteen hour flight, the awful movie about a talking dog, the surprisingly good chicken catcitore, and, finally, the Bay Bridge and City lights reflected in the water as he arrived in Oakland at 9:25 p.m., twenty minutes early. The clock now read 8:32 a.m. He'd been back in San Francisco for eleven hours, and he only had an hour and a half to shower and ride the BART train out to Walnut Creek so he could report to his father's house for brunch.

"It won't be anything extravagant," his dad's voice had crackled through the AirFone, "just some eggs, coffee and catching up. Okay?"

"Sure Dad, it will be great to see you," Mark had replied without enthusiasm." "Oh God, why didn't I say no, claim jet lag or something," Mark said aloud. Knowing how his father felt about punctuality he hurried towards the bathroom.

***

Mark always imagined BART as a sort of freedom train. While it served as a glorified subway for the countless commuters that lived in the East Bay, it had been Mark's means of escape into the decadence of The City. As he watched the sleek, silver train streak towards the station from the horizon he always felt jolts of excitement surge through his body. He began to smell the musk of fevered men and experience the total freedom of giving in to his desires. Nearly every Saturday night for the two years following his high school graduation it had carried him forward on a path of discovery and self acceptance, until it finally brought him home. On occasion Mark still felt the panic and fear that enveloped him that windy summer day when he fled from Walnut Creek, and his father, with only a duffel bag and a destination. Although he had quickly landed a good job with an insurance agency, made new friends and found a comfortable studio in The City's sunny Mission district, he could never quite escape his father's last pronouncement that day. "This so called gay lifestyle might seem fun and easy now but if you chose this course it will destroy you."

Mark's dad liked to consider himself a liberal, and, for the most part, he was. Brad Phillip's social consciousness had developed at college in the late sixties and he still favored the legalization of marijuana. He graduated third in his class from Stanford Law School, but he was not a typical high priced lawyer. He bought his suits at thrift stores and maintained a small private practice. He never charged more than his clients could afford, occasionally even accepting such items as canned fruit and baked goods as payment. He was an active member of the Berkeley Peace and Freedom party and for the last ten years had been a volunteer Big Brother. In fact, when Mark's mother disappeared three years earlier, leaving behind only a short note and a lot of questions, Brad became a champion for the alternative family. Of course, his definition of alternative was a single parent household, but it was a beginning.

"Next stop Walnut Creek," the driver's tin-like voice announced to the passengers. As if on cue Mark's eyelid twitched as a wave of uneasiness invaded his body. He wondered if today would be the usual fare, more going unspoken than said, his dad's silence withering his pride and allowing uncertainty to take over.

"Not this time," Mark said aloud. His eyes were steely as he disembarked the train. Ten minutes later he found himself facing the blue-gray door of his father's new condo. His father had bought it during the summer while Mark was In Italy helping to establish his company's first overseas office in Milan. His Dad's letter said something about a new outlook on life. The association grounds certainly weren't what Mark expected. Lush landscaping, a man made pond with real ducks, two pools, four tennis courts, even a putting green. It was in marked contrast to the austere white stucco apartment building his father had chosen when his mother left. The only amenities there were covered parking and a laundry room. Feeling somewhat curious Mark tapped on his father's door.

The door opened almost immediately to reveal a tan, bikini clad Brad Phillips grinning at the door. Mark was shocked to see that he was clean shaven. His dad had always worn a thin, meticulously trimmed mustache. Mark never liked it because one side of it had prematurely grayed making his father's face look uneven. The man before him now looked like a future incarnation of himself, curly blonde hair cut short, piercing blue eyes surrounding a thin, prominent nose and a compact, well-freckled body.

"It's good to see you son," Brad offered. "I just came in from the pool. Make yourself comfortable while I change." He fled up a flight of narrow, carpeted stairs while Mark entered and shut the door. He found himself in a large, open room with high ceilings. It was painted a pale orange color and sparsely furnished with a television and love seat to the left, and a small dinette in a breakfast nook next to the kitchen on the right. The smells of exotic coffee and cinnamon rolls drifted out of the kitchen and mingled in the room reminding Mark that he was quite hungry.

"I'll be right down," Brad yelled from above. "Pour yourself some coffee." Mark was still standing about two feet from the door, but his Dad's words provided the impetus he needed to move on into the kitchen. Mark poured some coffee into one of the two large, red mugs that were already on the counter and had a seat at the dining room table. Moments later Brad sprinted into the room, still barefoot but wearing a faded pair of Levi's and a plain white T-shirt. "So, how do you like the place," he panted.

"It's nice," Mark said, "I like the color."

"It's just peachy," his father replied.

"Huh?"

"The color is called just peachy," Brad explained, "I had it mixed at one of those custom paint stores." The conversation trailed off into generalities about the surrounding community and a discussion of Italian transit systems while they ate pastries and became comfortable. After an hour the chit-chat lulled and a sleepy calm took over the room. Abruptly, Brad breathed in deeply and exclaimed,"Alice got married in June."

"Oh yeah," Mark replied. He dated Alice during his senior year in high school and they shared their first sexual encounter together on prom night. While it happened he closed his eyes and imagined her older brother Ben was his partner, that it was his husky voice groaning encouragement in the night. Mark hoped a short reply would show his lack of interest because when his Dad brought up the subject of Alice it always meant one thing. Guilt.

"I ran into Ben during a premiere at the new Center for the Arts," Brad continued. "He said she married her yoga instructor, a real new age kind of guy. They had the ceremony outdoors under a full moon, and, get this, everyone was naked!"

"Hmm, I've always wondered what Ben looked like underneath his clothes." Mark hoped to irritate his father into silence. Brad chuckled nervously.

"They went to Hawaii for their honeymoon, but not for the usual romantic reasons. They wanted to meditate next to a volcano and get in tune with the Earth's rebirth."

"Isn't Hawaii where you and mom went," Mark tried to change the subject. Brad fell silent and lowered his head for a moment before continuing.

"I called your mother recently," he said quietly.

"Oh," Mark replied cautiously. "Did you work anything out." Mark had talked to his mother only a handful of times in the three years since she hastily moved back to her small hometown in southern Illinois. His parents break-up was still a mystery. While they were never overly affectionate towards each other they had seem settled and content. There weren't any big fights and Mark was sure his Dad hadn't been seeing another woman. In fact, to Mark's knowledge his Dad still wasn't dating. The note his mother left behind was short and cryptic. It said she failed as a wife and needed to go back to her roots and start again. Mark had been confused and angry but his father had been stoically silent and his mother remained distant. Not long afterwards Brad had returned from court early and caught Mark in the shower with a "date" from the night before, prompting Mark to come clean before fleeing to The City to begin a new life of his own.

"I think the phone call was good for both of us," Brad continued. "In a sense it brought us full circle."

"Full circle?" Mark was puzzled.

"Our marriage ended over a phone call," Brad confided. A thousand thoughts and questions raced through Mark's mind, but he remained quiet hoping his father would continue. "It happened the night before she left," Brad went on. "I couldn't sleep so I was working late in the den. I felt really tense and I wasn't getting much done so I called one of those 976-sex lines." Brad's face was turning red and his voice was beginning to shake but he persisted. "It wasn't a recording. It was live one on one sex talk. Those people are professionals and they really know how to turn you on. I guess I was getting excited and talking too loud because it woke your mother up. She is a worrier by nature and she thought something must be wrong so she picked up the extension in the bedroom. I imagine it was worse than she thought."

Brad paused to see how Mark was reacting. He was sitting very still with his hands folded in his lap. Mark thought his father wanted him to say something.

"I can see how that would be an uncomfortable situation," Mark began, "but it doesn't seem bad enough to destroy a marriage."

"I'm not done," Brad took a deep breath, "I was talking to a man." The word man rang in Mark's ears and his heart began to beat quickly. He felt faint. "I was describing how I would, uh, give him pleasure and just as I began to climax I heard it."

"Heard what," Mark managed to stutter.

"Your mother scream 'Oh God.' Actually we said it together, obviously for different reasons. When I think back on it now it seems representative of our entire marriage. Outwardly we seemed in sync, but on the inside our feelings were very different." Brad lapsed off into silence, not sure whether he had said too much or not enough. He could hear the clock on the wall evenly ticking off the seconds, each a moment in a new reality that he hoped he could share with his son.

"There is so much I don't understand," Mark finally said hesitantly. "Why were you so angry when you found out I was gay?"

"I was still confused about my own feelings," Brad explained. "My homosexuality was a dirty secret I kept hidden away for years, and when it finally was revealed I thought it would destroy my life."

"Did it?" Mark asked. Before Brad could speak they heard keys jingling by the front door. A moment later a tall dark haired man entered the room. He was wearing a short blue bathing suit that did little to hide his well-conditioned body. Sweat was running down his familiar face and collecting in the small tuft of delicate hair between his nipples. He smiled and looked hopeful.

"It was an ending and a beginning," Brad replied.

***

The BART train was nearly empty as it sped under The Bay towards San Francisco. Mark stretched across two seats and tried to relax. He closed his eyes and watched scenes from his childhood flash across his eyelids like bad home movies. He was trying to find some clue to connect his father with the stranger he talked with today, but it was exhausting and futile so he finally gave up. How could so much change in three months he thought. Brad's homosexuality was a big shock but he would learn to adapt to having a gay father. In time he might even appreciate it. However, seeing Ben standing nearly naked in his father's kitchen was somewhat distressing. Brad had explained that they went out for drinks after that show a few months back and he woke up wrapped around Ben and feeling very alive the next morning. Ben wasn't an anonymous voice over the phone or a quick encounter in a dirty book store. He was a friend and he made Brad grow inside. Since he couldn't think of Ben as a dirty secret he was forced to reevaluate his life and move on. They were monogamous now and seriously considering living together. "My fantasy man is my father's lover," Mark said aloud. Mark pondered this strange thought and decided it was just another step on the road he began walking when he started searching for the truth about himself. He wondered where else this path would lead him.

"Sixteenth and Mission," the driver announced. Mark gathered his thoughts and placed them safely in the depths of his mind. He quickly exited the train and got on the escalator letting it carry him steadily towards the sunlight above. As he approached the top his Dad's parting words from this afternoon rang in his ears.

"It takes a lot of courage to stay true to yourself, especially when everyone else is telling you that you're making a mistake. I'm proud of you son." Mark stepped off the escalator into the red brick plaza. Puffs of fog floated by and Mark watched with wonder as a group of pigeons sped though the plaza, dancing up through the air into the clouds.

"Can you spare some change for food," a youthful voice said urgently from behind. Mark turned around slowly. A boy in his late teens was leaning against the wall close to the exit. He was wearing a pair of Levi's cut off below the knees and an Erasure T-shirt. Locks of unruly blond hair stuck out from beneath a tight wool cap. "I'm really hungry," he said almost pleadingly.

Mark eyed the boy. He was unkempt but clean, and cute in that earnest, youthful kind of way. My Dad got lucky with a younger guy, Mark thought. It's worth a try. "I'm hungry too," he replied. "Wanna split an olive and pineapple pizza? I know a great place up the street."

"Awesome dude," the boy replied. Mark smiled and took another step along the road.