But, I had always struggled with Rachmaninoff's 3rd concerto, and I surrendered to the fact I would never become a real pianist. I stood up from the bench and inexplicably cried. "Oh, no," he said in the most comforting tone possible. Mr. Ponce opened his arms and held me in a tight and warm bear hug. It must've looked strange to see a 20 year old cry in the arms of a husky middle-aged man. Mr. Ponce was about my height, 6'0. He weighed at least 100 pounds more than I did, and his grizzly goatee was definitly more developed than my clean-shaven face. I always knew Mr. Ponce was gay. It was impossible for him to hide it. This doesn't mean that Mr. Ponce was in any way a femme. He was actually quite maculine. . Maybe it was that his living room was painted turqoise. Or, maybe it was the way he walked me to my car after every piano lesson. I couldn't be sure. But, I had known that Mr. Ponce was gay for years even though it was something neither of us had ever discussed.He knew all about. She laughed again, grabbed my hand and pulled me over to one of the open metal chests. She was in the middle of telling me what we needed to do next, when she held up her hand to shush me and cupped the other hand to the thing on her ear. She listened intently for a few seconds, then said, "I copy, Sonja, and I have the camera's recording."Coleen stopped talking and grabbed me in another tight hug. She sure was excited and she quickly told me why."They've already found some Hawkingium. Helena says it's lying all over the place, instead of being buried as she thought it would be. Hurry up and help get this suit out so we can watch them on the monitor."I helped Coleen lay out another set of the shiny union suit, then sat beside her on one of the camp chairs and watched the incredible moving pictures on the small black rectangle. As I watched the picture in utter fascination, I noticed that Helena was talking the entire time. She was using that nearly indecipherable California dialect.
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