A bow-tie and a jacket from Brooks Brothers, of course.
(And some very fun underwear that will remain my little secret.)
19
August
2011
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August
2011
17
August
2011
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August
2011
Bond in Boston
At the bar, I ask if they have Boodles gin. Boodles at Bond in Boston appeals to the alliteration whore I am, but no such luck. I settle for a Hendrick’s martini instead, very dry, with olives. A word on cocktail olives: they should always be firm, they should always be Queens, and they should always be served in threes. This one has all of the above, and if I am here for nothing more than this martini, then the journey has been worth it.
I don’t know why I had to be here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to find. I don’t know if there’s anything here for me to discover. I only know that I am. In this cavernous room, I observe the surroundings.
There is money here – literally – on the walls. Huge, blown-up prints of our US currency, such as it’s worth these days. So that’s the Bond of the namesake, not some British guy named James. Four large chandeliers dangle over the corners of the immense room, while an enormous one hangs directly in the center. Dripping with countless crystals, they sparkle against the dark ceiling like a starry night. A table of four is in the corner – they are the only other customers at this early hour. Meanwhile, five or six black-clad staff members seem designed to be a distraction, some trick of the Matrix.
The Hendrick’s was a good choice, and my cologne for the evening – Jean-Claude Ellena’s ‘Angeliques Sous La Pluie’ – with its subtle hints of pepper, coriander and juniper – is the unintentionally-perfect partner for the martini in hand. For once I did not plan it that way.
Certain evenings demand a special fragrance, and it is my usual practice to ensure a good match. This one snuck up on me, yet it all worked out. When the universe conspires, we should go with the flow.
One of the bartenders sets a small bowl of crisps in front of me. I eye them warily, and don’t partake right away. I am enjoying the cocktail and the atmosphere, content to take it all in – a pause in the daily drudgery.
I notice the ‘Federal Reserve Bank of Boston’ medallion embedded in the floor in the very center of the room, beneath the glittering chandelier. There was once a vault here – somewhere. We are encased by stone walls, the former fortitude of a bank lending cold security and sinister elegance.
A pair of tourists in shorts and sneakers enters and settles into a couch in the lounge section. The dress code clearly is not in effect just yet. They order a Bloody Mary and a beer, but are too far away for me to catch any snippet of conversation.
A second martini materializes, made by a different bartender, but just as good. Tiny shards of ice float on its surface, bits of the chandelier’s light reflecting on tiny shimmering waves. Yet it feels like I am here for more than a martini. Never have I felt such a strong push to be somewhere. I’ve had places and circumstances that have been memorable and important – spots of sacredness – to which I return time and again to honor, to remember, to reveal. This is my first time here. It doesn’t make sense why there was such a striking force drawing me to this place. What am I meant to see?
Another couple enters and bellies up to the bar, ordering a Taj Mahal beer and a “Pinot Grigio or something light and white.”
What am I doing here? The bartender who set the chips down, Cameron, has returned with a squeeze bottle of something that looks like milk or cream. He offers me another martini, and says they have blue cheese olives if I’m interested, but I stay true to the traditional. He also asks if I’d like a glass of water, which I always assume to be the bartender’s friendly admonition, a nice way of saying, ‘Don’t get too fucked up, pal.’ But there’s no worry of that. Three is my limit.
I feel that my time is running out, and the reason for my being here has yet to be explained. I was so sure something would come out of it, some clue to finally figure out the man I’ve become – a man on the verge of thirty-six and still so unsure of so many things.
The bartenders share some small talk and tell me I should come back later in the evening when the DJ arrives – that the place picks up then – but that is not what I am after. I have enjoyed the quiet, I have waited for what was never going to come, and I have no interest in dancing to a DJ tonight. One of them mentions Ogunquit and I recommend that he visits immediately, that it’s one of my favorite places in the world. A little more chatting and then it is time – to settle up and walk home.
There is nothing for me here.
There never was.
17
August
2011
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August
2011
Hollow Sidewalks
After a shower and a change of clothing, I make my way back from whence I came. A woman in the Southwest Corridor Park wearing a vibrant floral blouse and a straw hat is walking a black poodle. She smiles at me.
“It’s a beautiful night,” she remarks. “Not so humid.”
“Gorgeous,” I say, returning her smile. I am exactly where I am supposed to be, I think, heading to where I will find answers and resolutions.
At the Back Bay T-station a man stands at the foot of the stairs playing a guitar. He finishes the last bars of ‘Life Goes On’ and then it is briefly, eerily quiet before be begins a plaintive folk song. It is hot on the platform, and the T stations will hold this heat until October.
I get off at State Street and retrace my steps. The way to Bond is shorter than I remember, but a few lonely stretches of sidewalk still separate us, and the ghostly litter seems sad and poignant.
A stray feather and what looks like the remnants of an office lunch. Someone’s cut-up credit card and a crumpled sticky-note. The day-to-day debris of people going about their lives – the people I wanted to be – the normal ones, the simple ones, the ones who do what they’re supposed to do. There is a nobility to those lives that I’ll never achieve, a certain grace and dignity to be able to do it all without falling apart. Even at their sneaker-clad power-walking messiest, they have it more together than my impeccably-attired ass ever will.
I skirt the park again. Beneath a vine-covered arbor, a newly-married couple poses for their wedding photos. Another sign, another totem. The reception is taking place in the hotel, changing the previously-quiet atmosphere into a buzz-filled zone of static. Luckily, the celebration is not at Bond.
The stairs rise before me…. The hostess says hello… The evening is about to begin… I ascend.
17
August
2011
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August
2011
Faces of Pain
Like a signpost, this sculpture stands at the intersection of several streets. This is one of the only times I can recall seeing it in the daytime. It came to me in a dream, where I keep searching but never find. Down dark streets, criss-crossing paths, and winding circles, I’ve been here before.
The faces lead me onward, steering my course and whispering the way. Are they warning or welcoming?
I am not there yet, but I am close. The surrounding buildings rise higher, making it difficult to discern location and direction. I find my way to the park where I once sat reading ‘The House of Mirth’ by Edith Wharton, waiting for him to finish work at the hotel across the street. It is the Langham Hotel now, and the Cafe Fleuri, where he waited tables, is still there. I have never set foot in this hotel. Even back then, I only ever waited outside, watching from afar.
He is not what I am seeking. He is, as far as I know, not in Boston anymore. I don’t know where he is, and I stopped looking for him years ago. My search is for something else.
I step into the lobby from the side entrance. No one is around. I sit down on a velvet couch and examine the room. Elegantly appointed, it is draped with sumptuous curtains lined with thick fringe. Behind me an escalator and a staircase rise to the Cafe Fleuri, already closed for the afternoon. The escalator is still, and a velvet rope cordons off access.
I sit there for a moment, trying to recall what was going through my mind in 1994, back when he was the first man I fell for. This is where he worked. This is the place from which he once called me on a late summer afternoon. I still remember the dying orange light of a sunset creeping along the cement walls of my castle room at Brandeis as we spoke. We seemed so far apart – Boston was but a miniature capsule in the distance from the vantage point of Waltham – and yet so close.
Somehow he is not the reason I am here today. Inadvertently, perhaps, and technically, maybe, but there is something greater at work, something about that whole time period that has drawn me back to this location. Walking through the lobby, I take a turn into a side hallway that leads to an open door and a grand flight of stairs. It is dim here, but above the stairs I can just make out the top of a bar, and a couple of chandeliers suspended grandly. It is a great room, with a ceiling that disappears skyward. I am overcome with the sense that I have found it – the place where all will be revealed.
The hostess returns and welcomes me to Bond. I ask if there is a dress code later tonight. In my shorts, half-buttoned shirt, and flip-flops I am nowhere near ready to step into the room. She says only after nine o’clock is it enforced. I thank her and say I’ll be back for an early cocktail.
Back outside, in the afternoon sunlight, I am relieved. This is where I will find it, whatever it is. I couldn’t even tell you why, but I just have this feeling that Bond is the place to be tonight. There’s something in that space that might unlock secrets that go all the way back to 1994. I’m strangely certain about this…
17
August
2011
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August
2011
Books Among Bricks
Following a cobblestone path downtown, I am drawn into a religious store, where I inquire about a rosary bracelet. I found an antique one in Sheridan’s many moons ago, back when it was in Downtown Crossing. Now, a pair of nuns mulls around a hot store trying in vain to find a similar model. We don’t have any luck and I leave empty-handed.
I do not notice until I am almost past it, but between the tall buildings a space has opened up and rows of books stand to my left. It’s like a bookstore has risen out of the cement, splitting a brick building in two, raw red clay piled high on each side of the new space.
This is the sort of magic that can happen in Boston. It is a miracle of Dickensian proportion and style, recalling some lost Curiosity Shop or run-down library. The faded perfume of Miss Havisham rots in these corners, and the dusty pages of musty books refuse to yield their own secrets.
I will save this space in my head for later. Something else is driving me on, impelling me deeper into the city. What I am looking for is not here, but it might be someday. I will come back. I will return. I will seek this out again…
17
August
2011
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August
2011
Remembering the First Man in My Life, Circa 1994
Sitting on the bank of the Charles River, I am watching the runners and bicyclists go by. It is a sunny summer Saturday – and my journey in Boston continues. The morning was spent strolling through the Public Garden and lazily perusing the shops along Charles Street – and though it’s a tax-free weekend I have not yet made any purchases. I ended up here again, after crossing the walkway to the Charles River – a stop I seem to make once a year.
When I lived in Boston full-time I didn’t frequent this area as much as I should have. Partly because it was off the beaten-path, partly because I never thought to visit, and partly because of its connotations to the first man I ever kissed. Yet invariably, I find myself back here, always at this time of the year, always as the summer days wane. It is the path that we took after our eyes first met in Copley Square – the walk back to his place in Beacon Hill. Today it is the portal to my past, to that fateful day seventeen years ago, when my nineteen-year-old self met a thirty-six-year old man, and everything changed.
Now, all these years later, I am about to turn thirty-six. The same age of that first man in my life, the one who set me on a trajectory that has repercussions to this day. And while we are in such very different positions, I wonder what my life would be like if I weren’t married, if I didn’t have a home, if I lived in a tiny apartment in Beacon Hill and picked up a boy half my age. Would I be able to do what he did to me?
Shirtless men run along the path before me, sweaty and sunburned, their eyes fixed in the distance. Pony-tailed women pass swiftly by. A bi-racial couple and their two sons walk as a chattering group, simply seeming to enjoy one another’s company. The father puts his hand on the older son’s back, and the gesture is easy and natural. I wonder if I ever brought that kind of joy to my parents, or if I was too different.
We are so needlessly tormented.
A man walks by and he has no arms. The empty shirtsleeves hang limply at his sides like folded wings. A jogger passes him, arms swinging strongly, giving him weight and balance, and, it seems cruel to say, purpose.
It is time to leave this place. Whatever I was looking for cannot be found here… it is somewhere else. The trail continues…
15
August
2011
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August
2011
Afternoon Cocktail at the Mandarin
I hadn’t been in the Mandarin Oriental in Boston since we scoped out possible suites for our wedding weekend. It was definitely one of my favorite spaces – the suites were amazing – some of the finest in the city. I should have returned much sooner, as one of their watering holes M Bar is just as fantastically elegant as you would expect. (They have also added a bit of sidewalk dining space – which is perfect for watching the world go by on Boylston Street.) I went in through the backdoor, as is my wont.
Through the unassuming back entrance from one of the Prudential walkways, I enter an oasis in the midst of the city. There is a bit of hushed finery at work here – an atmosphere that promises the best of the best – a hint of pampered refinement around every corner. Descending to the lobby, I make my way to the bar area and sit down before a very pretty, very blonde, and very pregnant bartender. She is all smiles and engaging conversation, and she makes me a Monsieur, setting a small bowl of sweetly-dusted almonds beside it.
Made up of Grey Goose la poire vodka, St. Germain, and prosecco, the Monsieur is a refreshing pear-tinted cocktail garnished with a lychee – a seasonal treat to restore and revive the weariest shopper. There would be just one for this time – as it was a pre-cocktails cocktail before I met up with friends later on.
For me, heaven will always be a hotel bar. There’s just no place where I feel more at home. With the flow of visitors and vacationers, business folks and pleasure seekers, a hotel bar is more interesting than anything on television. You can choose to take part in the goings-on, or simply watch from a safe distance. On this day, I prefer to observe, unobtrusively taking in the scene around me while sipping the remainder of my drink. A lovely way of spending the early part of a lazy afternoon in my favorite city.
05
August
2011
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August
2011
Camp Crush
I only went to summer camp once (not counting Bible school – and that’s an entirely different story). The camp I attended was a CYO thing (I didn’t even know what ‘CYO’ stood for… actually, I still don’t…) Suzie used to go for all four weeks of the program and loved it. She knew everyone and was social and friendly, and I knew no one and wanted nothing to do with it. My brother was there though, so we hung out together and by the end of the week I had made a few friends – and developed a crush on a counselor.
He must have been a teenager, but to my childhood eyes he was the older man – apparently I’ve always liked them older. I distinctly remember watching him play softball inside the gym on a rainy day. A line of dark sweat ran down the blue shirt on his back as he ran around the bases. He lifted the shirt to wipe the moisture from his face, offering a tantalizing peek of his belly. His curly brown hair was damp at the ends. And every once in a while he caught me staring. Mostly, though, my attention was not detected. I watched from afar.
He seemed so at ease in his masculinity. He moved casually and comfortably through the hall, slightly cocky, but always at ease. It was a style I wanted to emulate and capture. I wanted both to be him, and to be with him.
He had blue eyes that smiled when his mouth did, and around them a crinkling of fine lines that I took as kindness. Some of the counselors were mean – drunk on their little bit of authority – but he never seemed to be. I almost wished he was, I so badly wanted to hate him. It was the only thing I could think to do with my confused feelings.
In those early days, I exhibited my like of someone in extreme outward dislike. I only hurt the ones I loved. I tried explaining him to my Mom. I went into a deep discussion of how much I hated him because he was so sweaty and gross, but that I was trying to like him because it was wrong to judge people based on appearance. (The mind of a child.)
In reality, I just wanted to talk about him, to anyone who would listen. I wanted to bring him into my life in whatever small way I could. It eased the ache of being ignored. Far too young to understand or access true desire, I only felt the very first stirrings of attraction. It was very real though, and important enough to have stayed with me all these years later.
Whenever anyone questions whether or not people are born gay, I think back to those first crushes. I wasn’t old enough to know what sex was, but I knew who I was attracted to – and it was always the men.
04
August
2011
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August
2011
The Lavender Martini
By all accounts, I was not expecting to enjoy this cocktail, and I only made a batch because we were holding a Lavender-themed party. However, it was a revelation, and I would definitely make it again for its own merits as a cocktail.
Aiding in my enjoyment is its base of Bombay Sapphire gin, and accompanying bit of dry vermouth. Already the elements of a traditional martini are intact, and hold their own, but the addition of a lavender simple syrup and a few dashes of orange bitters transform it into something floral and effervescent, yet still manage to defy any notion of a turn to sweetness.
The recipe is as follows:
– 2 oz. Bombay Sapphire gin
– 1/2 oz. dry vermouth
– 1/2 oz lavender simple syrup (See * below)
– 2 dashes orange bitters
– Sprig of lavender for garnish
* To make the lavender simple syrup:
– 1/4 cup lavender flowers (stripped from stalk)
– 1 cup sugar
– 1 cup water
Add ingredients to pot. Heat while stirring with a spoon until the sugar dissolves. Bring to a boil, turn off heat, cover the pot, and let sit for two hours. Strain into a bottle or other container, and store in the refrigerator. (Unopened purple flower buds are optimal since they have the most flavor, although opened flowers and dried lavender can be used.)
30
July
2011
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July
2011
The Last Word Cocktail
Our annual summer gathering, this year christened The Last Word Lavender Party, takes place tonight. While many of our friends are lucky enough to be out of town and soaking up the sun on a Provincetown beach, we’ll be hosting a poolside escape right in our backyard, weather-permitting. We are notorious for having it rain on our party parade, so after over a decade of rain-outs, we just count on the wet stuff, and if the sun deigns to peek out, it’ll be a bonus. Bring a bathing suit just in case. Someone usually ends up in the pool, rain or not.
{For this event, I will be wearing my treasured sample of Tom Ford’s ‘Lavender Palm’ cologne.}
The Last Word Cocktail
3/4 oz. gin
3/4 oz. chartreuse
3/4 oz. fresh lime juice
3/4 oz. maraschino liqeurÂ
28
July
2011
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July
2011
Harry Potter, Totally Starkers
These are a couple of promotional stills from Daniel Radcliffe’s first Broadway treading a few years back, in Equus. Someone recently asked to see them again, and who am I to deny a glimpse of Mr. Radcliffe’s butt in this final summer of Harry Potter glory?
26
July
2011
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July
2011
The Sun Cocktail
A few years ago I found the recipe for this – called a Sun cocktail – in the Style Section of the New York Times. Since then, it has become a summer staple – for its refreshing seasonal charm and ease of assembly. It’s a grapefruit-based concoction that gets some of its sparkle from the addition of a dry sparkling white wine.
The original recipe is buried somewhere in my files, but I usually just wing it because with the ingredients involved it’s tough to wreck it irreparably. Here’s a rough estimate of what goes into it:
Sun Cocktail
3 parts pink grapefruit juice
1 part citrus vodka
1/2 part blackberry Schnapps
1 part dry sparkling white wine
You can adjust the proportions to suit your own taste. Combine all ingredients in a large pitcher, add a decent helping of ice, and stir. Garnish the drink with fresh blackberries or grapefruit slices.
11suncocktail2
25
July
2011
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July
2011
Summer Stalker: Part of Your World
Look at this stuff
Isn’t it neat?
Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete?
Wouldn’t you think I’m the girl
The girl who has everything?
Let me preface this post by acknowledging that I don’t come off very well in it. Some might even call me a little scary, and see echoes of ‘Fatal Attraction’ in my behavior. But screw it, I think it’s hilarious, and I’m big enough to poke fun at my past now and then. This is the tale of the summer that I stalked a guy in my Abnormal Psychology class. The jokes write themselves.
It must have been 1995 or 1996. I was home for the summer and taking a course at the local college in order to graduate early. It was Abnormal Psychology and I could have written the damn textbook. Our teacher was a big, brawny bearded guy with a motorcycle and chaps, a somewhat gruff voice, a mane of hair that was slowly moving backward, but a generally sweet countenance ~ a veritable bear’s wet-dream. But I was not hunting bears; my gaze rested squarely on the cute guy in the front row, with the goatee and a bit of a slight frame – the dorky type of guy I often fell for. He wore a baseball cap and long basketball shorts. Yup, I knew how to pick them. Hey, in the corn-field stretches of upstate New York in summer, the pickings were slim.
The class was dreadfully dull, and I’m always wary of teachers who use Hollywood films to illustrate real-life conditions. (In this case ‘Ordinary People’ with Mary Tyler Moore.) Anyway, my focus was on the kid in the front row, whose name, oddly enough and yet fittingly, escapes me. He was, looking back, far from anything special. Most of the guys I’ve had crushes on have proven remarkably unremarkable. There was just something about each one of them that endeared them to me. Sometimes it was a simple act of random kindness, usually not directed at me for any specific reason, to which I attached unreasonable significance. Sometimes it was more direct – a knowing glance and smile, a subtle but definite arm around a shoulder. In this case, it was a poster of ‘The Little Mermaid’ in his bedroom.
Look at this trove
Treasures untold
How many wonders can one cavern hold?
Looking around here you think
Sure, she’s got everything…
How I came to see his bedroom is where the embarrassing part comes in… well, a few of the embarrassing parts, because there are many. In class I listened intently to discover his name, peering over his shoulder to see it, to no avail. I think I finally obtained it by returning early from a break and rifling through his bag. Yeah, that was me. And that was just the beginning. If you think that is the least bit intrusive and wrong, stop reading now because you’re not going to like anything that follows.
Having procured his name by whatever means necessary, I began some old-school investigation. This was the mid-90’s and we didn’t even have an internet connection at home, nor was there FaceBook or Twitter or extensive electronic trails to follow. I used a phone book. An actual yellow-paged phone book. I found him in Mayfield. Prior to this, I didn’t know there was a Mayfield, or how close, or far, it might be to Amsterdam. But there he was, or at least his family was, so I had my friend Ann come over to do a little *67 action and give him a call. The first step was finding out whether he was gay, and these things had to be done delicately.
Ann has always been a hoot. She took to the task with drill-like precision and dedication. I crack up to this day when I picture her dialing the number and putting on a serious face as she began her spiel, “Hi, this is a reporter from ‘US News and World Report’ and we’re doing a little survey. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”
I was on the floor in hysterics. Where the hell did ‘US News and World Report’ come from, and so quickly and easily?! Was that even a real thing? She then went on to ask three general questions before getting to the heart of the matter:
What is your age?
Where are you located?
What is your occupation?
Would you consider yourself gay or straight?
And then she finished, “Thank you for participating in this survey. Good-bye!”
I don’t know what we were thinking. And I can’t believe the guy stayed on the phone and answered. Oh, the answer was straight. Not that it mattered. I reasoned that if he was gay he probably wouldn’t say it over to the phone to a random reporter from ‘US News and World Report’. (Which begs the question of why we even called, but that would make too much sense for my frame of mind.)
The next step was checking out his home. Don’t ask me why. I got a map of Amsterdam and the outlying areas from the local gas station. Is that as ridiculous as it sounds? I think so. (Again, we were pre-internet, and part of the fun in these things was the act of having to work for an outcome- the journey was just as important as the destination.) There was a summer mission now, and I threw myself into it with crazed determination.
I suppose I could have followed him home from class one night to see where he went, but that seemed a bit extreme. (I’d save it for later…) Instead, I followed the map, plotted a course, and prepared for an evening of surveillance. Donning an outfit of black, and a hooded cloak that flowed about me (What? You don’t keep a hooded cloak on hand?) I got into my parents’ Blazer and headed off into the country.
On the dusty road where he lived there were no street lamps. This boded well for the task at hand. With the cloak of darkness, from the night and on my back, I could slip in and out of the shadows unseen. The house was on the left, and I drove a good length past it and parked on the side of the road. After the long drive, over which I grew immune to the roar of the engine and the blaring Madonna music, the silence was striking. I sat there for a moment, adjusting to the darkness and the quiet, and then I made my move. There were one or two other houses around, but no one seemed aware of my presence.
I was quick and deft, like a cat – no, a panther – with prey in sight. I ducked below the first windows in front of the house and went around to the side. I peered into the bedroom – his bedroom. An unmade bed with childhood sports sheets was pushed against the wall. A few trophies stood on a chest. And a hand-painted poster from a local production of ‘The Little Mermaid’ hung on the wall.
What would I give
To live where you are?
What would I pay
To stay here beside you?
What would I do to see you
Smiling at me?
That’s all it took. My mind raced wondering who he might have played – Sebastian? Eric? Flounder? And how in the hell do I even know these characters? The words and the melody of ‘Part of Your World’ came into my head. It was a phantasmagoric Disney moment, as visions of fairy tale wonder paraded before me. I felt like a princess about to be swept into the arms of my goateed prince. He’d take me in his arms and set me down on his basketball sheets and… well, I was getting ahead of myself. And I was still outside of a strange house in the middle of the night, somewhere in Mayfield.
I made my way around to the back. The fluttering light of a television was coming out of a pair of sliding glass doors. I edged up to the side of the door and peered in, pulling my hood back a little. The object of my sudden desire was lying on a couch, languidly watching the TV. The screen threw wavering bands of light across his face. I was enraptured.
Where would we walk?
Where would we run?
If we could stay all day in the sun?
Just you and me
And I could be
Part of your world.
Lost in my revelry, I forgot the surroundings for a moment. I backed away from the glass to remind myself of where I was and looked around in the darkness. It was still warm out. There was no breeze. A light scent of freshly-mowed grass hung in the air. In some small way, I was sharing a summer night with him. Our first. I peered in on him again. It was enough just to look. A low rumbling sounded from below. Was this the stirring of my heart, the wild beating of a passion in full bloom? The thunderous sound grew and I looked down to see an enormous black dog resting against the inside of the glass door. It leapt to its feet and began barking and clawing at the glass. Oh shit.
I reeled back and started to run, the cloak streaming wildly behind me. He must have jumped off the couch and ran to the door, because he was suddenly looking out into the darkness and trying vainly to see me, but he did not give chase, nor did he make me out as far as I could tell. (See, the cloak worked.)
Back in the car I regained my bearings. I stripped out of the cloak and long-sleeved black shirt in the heat, turned the AC on and slowly drove away as if nothing had happened. It was time to set the next phase of the mission into motion.
I thought if I could just get him to notice me, if I could jump-start some sort of interaction, he’d seen what a ball of fun I was and be unable to resist my charms. I thought a tight T-shirt and linen pants would do the trick. I thought suspenders might catch his eye. I thought brown highlights… well, you get the picture. And I thought wrong. It would take something more overt, like seeing me in his rear view mirror following him home after class one night.
Don’t judge me. I only followed him down the road until he pulled over into a gas station. I chickened out, turned around, and headed home, but I was hopeful he had seen me – that he knew I had followed. That week I set about to doing what I do when I like someone – friend or paramour: I made a tape mix. I’m a loser, baby, so why don’t you kill me…
Along with the tape, a short note:
Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice,
Him or her I shall followâ. ~ Walt Whitman, by way of Madonna.
It’s your turn… Follow.
Such was what I had written on the track-listing of the mix that I made for him and left on his car the next time we had class. Take a moment to digest all of that and judge all you want – it’s deserved now. I watched him – glimmers of Glenn Close wielding a knife danced through my head – as he found the tape and looked around. I pulled in front of him so he had to follow me out of the parking lot. I turned to go in the direction of my house, and he turned… the other way. Did the dummy even know what was going on? Did he even realize the note was meant for him? Did I really put Samantha Fox on a mix tape? I could not answer these questions – not then, and not now.
There were only a few more classes left. Time was running out and we hadn’t even spoken a single word to one another. I was getting – or rather, I continued to be – extremely desperate. Like super-short cut-off jeans and a tank-top, it wasn’t a good look for me, but I was helpless over it. After the next class, I decided I couldn’t wait another moment longer. I was going to ask him out.
Now, the wise thing to do would have been to hold off one more week until class was over, in the event that he was uninterested, right? I mean, that’s the sensible schedule to follow, the logical, reasonable course of action, and it would guarantee that I wouldn’t have to see him again should his reaction prove less than positive. Such a simple idea, and it makes so much sense. So of course I didn’t follow it.
That night, after a quick shot or two of whiskey, I dialed up his number. No *67, no faux news survey, just the honest truth of what I wanted. A guy asking another guy out. He answered and I introduced myself, explaining that I sat behind him in class. Amazingly, he knew who I was, and asked how I was doing. For whatever reason, I am slightly taken aback when someone I don’t think has noticed me has, in fact, noticed me. It will always be that way.
I don’t know when
I don’t know how
But I know something’s starting right now
Watch and you’ll see
Some day I’ll be
Part of your world…
I then said something like, “I don’t know if you’re into guys or anything, but I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime?” Awkward beginning notwithstanding, it was simple and direct and to the point – and it was the hardest thing to say to someone. The worst thing that can happen when you open yourself up like that is a polite declination – but that’s the whole point – it is the absolute worst thing that can happen. And it is the exact thing that did happen.
He said he was flattered, but that he was straight. I thanked him for being so nice, because his tone was one of understanding and gentleness. He said it again, that he really was flattered and sorry, but that’s the way it was. I will say this: I’ve been rejected a few times – and no one was ever unkind or cruel about it. For that I am grateful. For that I held onto the tiny light of hope that people – often strangers – lit in me just when I was giving up on the world.
[Side-note: this does not break my history of never having crushed on a straight guy, as I honestly believed him to be gay. Hello, he was in ‘The Little Fucking Mermaid’ for Christ’s sake, or at least designed the damn poster – both equally damning in the eyes of outing. I’m being mostly facetious, but come ON.]
It made no matter – whether straight or not, he did not want me. That he chalked it up to being heterosexual was a sweet, and probably truthful, reason for it. There was nothing left to say or do. After two more awkward classes with him, where I avoided and pretended, and he gratefully accepted the act, it was done. I never saw him again.
A few more weeks of summer laid ahead before I had to return to Brandeis. In the ennui of those stultifying nights, I thought of him, and slowly, I got over it. My dreams of a summer fling would have to wait.
{PS – After some of the Madonna Timelines and this entry, the perception of my romantic past must be sketchy at best. One day I’ll write a sweet post about a decent relationship I’ve had, because there were a few, and maybe an anecdote or two about some of the nice guys I’ve met over the years. They do exist. It did get better.}
21
July
2011
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July
2011
Karma Chameleon
About half-way through my last babysitting excursion with my niece and nephew, I looked down at Noah and recognized a glint of mischief in his eyes. For a quick moment I thought of my Uncle Roberto looking back at me. Noah looked up, gave a slight smile, and I saw the end of a stone he had put into his mouth. After wrestling that away from him (and recovering from a mini-heart-attack), I thought back to my Uncle, and whether this was karmic retribution. I always assumed it was my brother who would now be paying for a wild childhood of incessantly-active and occasionally-crazy behavior – it never dawned on me that I had my own karma to overcome. And as an Uncle – with the same sometimes-ornery disposition as my own Uncle Roberto – I have a niece and nephew who may prove to be his last act of vengeance upon me.
I was a hellacious nephew. At times I was awful. My brother and I wreaked so much havoc with our Uncle that it’s amazing he even spoke to us. We couldn’t help it. We were kids, and all we wanted was his undivided attention. Sometimes you have to resort to bad behavior to get it. Above all of that though, we loved him – dearly and obsessively, perhaps because he was always so elusive, and lived so far away. For the first ten years of my life, my Uncle was separated from us by oceans – first the Pacific, then the Atlantic – as he moved from the Philippines to Israel before coming to the United States.
The twins have known me from birth. There will be no mystery, no distance of years or many miles, and for that it will prove different in ways both good and bad. Meeting my Uncle for the first time, on that snowy day at the Albany Airport – the first time he had ever seen snow in his life – was an event. It was magical for all those reasons, but now that he is gone, I wish we’d had more time together. I wish he had lived closer, that we could have visited him on our own, that he was there for the simple uneventful days instead of just holidays or weddings.
That’s what I have with Emi and Noah. Yes, I’ve been there for the big events – birthdays and holidays – but it’s the in-between moments that matter more and make up a childhood. Like a mid-morning summer stroll or a ride in their Radio Flyer. There will be time for magic too, and I’m pretty good at creating an event out of nothing, so these twins will have their own special moments with their Uncle Al. I’ve already had a few with them – it’s not every day I meet a little man with a stone in his mouth and a twinkle in his eye, or a little lady with as much interest in shoes and jewelry as me.
Somewhere my Uncle is smiling, I’m sure of it. Maybe he knows what’s in store for me, maybe he doesn’t – but he’s definitely getting as much of a kick out of his great niece and nephew as I am.
13
July
2011
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July
2011
Spiritual Skinny Dipping
In Tibetan meditations on the sound of water, the adept unites the fluidity within his or her own body-mind with the waters of the external environment. The same process applies to qualities of earth, fire, air, and space. If brought to completion, this form of meditation is believed to lead to a state in which the boundaries of the individual ego are replaced by a deep, transparent empathy with the phenomenal world.
~ Ian Baker
From The Heart of the World: A Journey to Tibet’s Lost Paradise
