The following four posts are the seeds of a much larger work currently in progress. They are based on true events and, some minor editing aside, appeared in an almost identical form on my former Myspace blog.
Instead of changing names, I opted to omit specific details surrounding the less flattering aspects of the event. In this, I focus much more on the emotion of the events than on the specifics. At any rate, I submit them for your approval and hope you enjoy them.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t do it unless I could afford it. Then, it began to look like I couldn’t afford NOT to do it. They were almost all going and I couldn’t stand the thought of being on the absentee list.
The trip had been in development since March and while the initial invite had been extended to a good dozen people, the count had dwindled month after month down to seven. I made eight. Provided, that is, that I could either find affordable airfare, invent a teleporter or grow wings. I tried the last two first and was stuck with nothing left to do but look for a flight.
You see, good old Uncle Sam not a month ago had written me a letter telling me that he trusted me so much he was gonna let me help decide a court dispute for him. He called it jury duty, but I’m sure he meant coffee and a bagel. Either way, it was happening the same week as the proposed vacation. I called Uncle Sam up and told him I’d love to give him my advice, but could I do it next week and Uncle Sam said, “Fine.” Uncle Sam don’t say much these days.
Airline tickets were a minimum of 600 bucks and more than a few were over a grand. I was still counting on finding one for 250, but pigs can’t fly yet and Hell’s still hot. I kept looking and a week went by. Still looking when another week went by. Then, it got to the weekend just before the trip and I was still looking. At that point it looked like I stood a better chance building a teleporter, but they were all out of magic at Radio Shack.
Then, the Monday before the trip — bottom of the ninth for this ball game — I spent all day on the phone trying to find a ticket. But don’t tell my boss cause she thinks I was calling vendors that whole time. I was so panicked and downtrodden by the time I got home from work that I finally decided to pay whatever it took to get there. Through the course of the day, I’d allowed myself from 250 to about 300. I said I’d do it for that. Then, a few friends began to volunteer to help me out and a pool was reached that got me able to go up to about 400.
Well, at 7:30 monday evening, good old Delta came through and provided me with a 415 dollar ticket (after taxes) complete with a perfect schedule — fly out Thursday overnight and fly back home Sunday evening in time to report for jury duty Monday morning. My friends would be happy, Uncle Sam would be happy, and I’d be happy. It worked out beautifully. Sure, the money was gonna be super-outrageously-tight for the next couple of months, but banks are easier to break into these days if worse came to worse.
I worry a lot. Unintentionally, of course, but I do. How’s this gonna work out? Where’s the money gonna come from? Does she like me? Am I gonna get stupid someday? etc. You know the questions. Now, worry never did anything for me, but hope has done everything for me and its just as much a part of reality that sometimes things all work out. Sometimes ships come in and sometimes we actually make it to the other side.
So everything was in line. I would get to see my old college friends; I could finally visit Florida (a state I’d never seen); I could catch up with my college professor (read my profile to find out how much THAT meant to me); and not the least of all, I could relax for a fun-filled weekend of games and conversation, leaving all the stresses of recent months behind me. So, with a big smile on my face, I poured myself a glass of wine and enjoyed providence.
I just wish I’d checked the weather, though. Perhaps if I’d thought to check some extended weekend forecast I would have heard about the storms that were heading inward from the center of the Atlantic. Storms that would be mirrored in the lives of my friends throughout the weekend; storms that would severely transform my trip home; and storms that would wind up teaching me a few tough lessons about life and myself. I would be more than I was ready for.
But at that moment, only one thought careened through my mind: Sometimes everything works out just right.
Sunday, August 14th — approximately 7:50 pm
I had just hung up the phone with Ang, regretting about three-fourths of what I’d just said when he hugged me from behind. Naturally, I was quite startled when I turned to find, not the host of Candid Camera, but a well-groomed late-twenties black man leaning over me. It had been quite the draining experience and I was in no mood for weirdness, so I just got to the point.
“Can I help you?” I said. He replied in an I’ve-just-had-ten-shots swagger, “You want to come with me?”
“What? Where?” I said, probably with more bite than I intended. He indicated the room behind us where the words, Crown Royal Club were in shiny display above the door.
“Why would I go in there?” I asked and he replied with a solid look of why-not and said, “Because you can drink for free.” Having been born too kind-hearted – or too stupid – to shut anybody down completely, but lacking even the slightest desire to go into a bar with this stranger, I politely stated, “Well, my plane leaves in about a half hour.” To which he countered, “Well, I’m flying out too.”
Here’s my mistake. I chose to engage in conversation with the wino. Don’t worry, I’ll learn eventually.
I turned and asked him, “So what’s your final destination?” And he said, “You’re my final destination.”
. . . . uhh
I said, “What?” and he said, “You’re my final destination.” I said, “What do you mean by that?” and he said, “Huh?” and I said, “What do you mean by that?” and he said, “What?” and I said, “Say what you just said, but in different words.” So, he whispers, “I wanna eaa oo aaahz” I said, “What?” And he said, “I waaan oo eeee uurrr aaass.” So I got louder and said, “WHAT?”
This time I heard him. “I want to eat your ass.”
I threw manners to the wind and said, “No, no, no, no, no. Sorry, man, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Have a nice flight.” and then I turned my back and left for the gates at the opposite end of the airport. That was the last thing I needed after the time I’d had. An honest-to-God, wasted-to-the-marrow gay man wanting to toss my salad right there in Ft. Lauderdale Intl. Airport. I was too pissed to even be flattered.
As I turned back to make sure he wasn’t following me, I caught a last glimpse of him retreating back to the safety of alcohol and the Crown Royal Club. He had, as he turned, the saddest and most pained expression I’d seen in weeks. And for a split-split-split second, I felt sorry for him and wished there was something I could do. But then I realized that the only way I’d make him feel better would be to compromise my sexuality and that’s by God the last thing I needed at that point. Of course, Lily did find out that I’m 23 percent gay.
Oh, I should probably explain –
Thursday, August 11th — about 6:05 pm
So, Lily came over to give me a ride to the airport and I was so thankful that she did, because I didn’t have the money for a cab after I’d spent so much on the plane ticket. While she was waiting for me to finish packing, she looked online and found this test to determine how gay you are. “Not funny ha-ha, funny queer.”* She asked me the questions and I answered them honestly.
Turns out I’m 23 percent gay. I mean, barely gay at all. I’m not even metro as Cee would later point out. (She made this really funny joke but it requires hands to tell it, so I’ll refrain) I won’t say how gay Lily turned out to be, but let’s just say that her percentage score gave us both quite a pause. It explained a lot.
I really liked Lily and I enjoyed being around her. But it was weird because when we were starting to be really good friends we would talk about serious stuff just as much as we would joke around. Then we had that one conversation that didn’t go so well and ever since then, we didn’t really dive into any more serious conversations. I really craved to talk about more serious things with her (cause I’m kind of a serious person), but I think I was too afraid of getting hurt and I think she was too afraid of getting seen (at least by me) so we both stayed guarded for our own reasons. As a result, most of our conversations consisted of teasing each other or telling dirty jokes. That eventually changed and before we stopped talking to each other entirely there was one more serious conversation. It didn’t go very well either.
But in the car ride to the airport that day, we mostly picked on each other and told dirty jokes. I remember it was fun.
She dropped me off at the airport and I reached my gate almost two hours early. So, being that it was a red eye flight, I decided that I wanted some hot food and a nice glass of wine. Both of which I found, both of which were affordable, and both of which turned out to be among the highlights of the coming vacation. Take that for what it’s worth.
On the plane ride to Florida, all the seats had these personal television sets and an MP3 library where you could build a tracklist and I did just that and went to sleep and slept very well and when I woke up I thought to myself, “Man, if the rest of the trip is like this, I’m gonna be in Heaven.”
Three friends all picked me up at the airport (with this fantastic poster of a character I’d played on TV) and we all laughed and hugged and were thankful just to be there. But in the car ride to Kay’s house, while we were all just laughing and cracking jokes — I cracked a couple jokes about gay people.
I had lived with two homosexuals for over a year and a half and I somehow figured that gave me the freedom to joke about the matter. Granted, I don’t really understand homosexual preferences, but I guess they don’t really understand mine, so my roommates and I worked out just fine. Mutual confusion. All I said in the car that day was that “Gay people like to get naked a lot.” Which is true. It’s not a put-down. You look at a lot of photographs and gay advertising and you’ll see a lot of muscular men wearing next to nothing. I don’t find it offensive, but it is amusing and when I pointed it out, somebody in the car began to get a wee bit upset.
Naturally, I didn’t realize they were getting upset until later, but that makes no difference now. Or maybe it wasn’t that comment that upset her. Maybe it was when I told the story about always opening the refrigerator in my old apartment and seeing the penis-shaped lollipop right next to the butter. Boy, those were the days. Mom and Dad had been . . . less than thrilled.
If I’d have known she was offended by my comment, I would have told her, “It’s OK, I’m 23 percent gay myself.” Maybe that wouldn’t have helped, but I would have laughed.
So, maybe its just karma that a few days later I’d wind up back at the airport being invited to have my ass eaten. Or maybe that’s nothing more than the wonders of alcohol. Numbers have never made much sense to me and neither has raw, drunk lust. But I learned that with some people, you can do nothing but joke around. With others, you have to be very careful what you joke around about.
Shutting up every so often can be quite wise, as well.
Sunday, August 14th — right at 7:38 pm
I had to call Ang because her husband was supposed to pick me up that night. I had been standing in airport lines for over two and a half hours at that point and I had just been given the word that I would not reach LA until the next morning.
My quote to her was, “I want to go missing. Im so sick. I’m tired. I want to be kidnapped and found dead in New Jersey in three days.” I wasn’t taking things well.
And at that point, I hadn’t even spent the night on the airport floor, thrown up in the airport toilet, or caused a scene at the ticket counter in rage at everything (all of which was part of my destined experience). No, when I called Ang I was upset for only one reason — I had choked on the reality that I couldn’t escape Drama.
A good friend had once told me I take Drama personally and I couldn’t argue with her. I don’t like for things to not be all right with the people I love, but worst of all — ready for some ego? — I don’t like it when I can’t do anything to make things right for the people I love. I step into situations where people blow up at each other or where there isn’t harmony and my every impulse is to say or do something (anything!) to make it better.
But you can’t always make things better and in fact, most times, it wouldn’t even be your business to try. I know this, but I hate it. And I take it personally.
Friday, August 12th — roughly 7:15 am
That having been said, when we arrived at our planned residence, I was entirely unprepared for what I found there. I had expected open-armed welcome, eager and joyous excitement for the days ahead, and instant cascades of affection flowing in all directions. But it turns out things were a little smaller than we’d thought.
The facts (from what I understand, because I was the last to arrive) were that we had been invited to stay in a home. Our host had eagerly prepared their residence in anxious anticipation for our arrival but had not expected that we would take up as much space as we did. When the space was taken, there was concern and dread expressed about the overall comfort of the situation – which then prompted two members of the group to go search for a hotel – which led to a mass exodus from the home we were formerly residing in – which led to great offense on the part of the host – which led to a three hour tense conversation and more than fifty small conversations throughout the duration of the weekend. (exhale now)
I’m severely summarizing, and trying to be as impartial as possible. I can’t speak for everyone. But the ordeal left me– what’s the word?
“Disappointment” is too weak. “Disenchantment” seems too sensitive. “Disgusted” is too harsh.
Dismayed. That’s it. I felt dismayed. “The feeling of despair in the face of obstacles.”
That was me for most of Friday afternoon. It was me for quite a bit of late Friday night. It was me for much of Saturday morning and Saturday evening. And it was me for all of Sunday.
I love to talk, ask anybody who knows me. Nate tells me I’m usually pretty good with my words and with defining how I feel in given situations. Not everybody is so fortunate and as a result, most people don’t talk through their problems. They say communication is a key element to any relationship and if that whole chain of events on Friday had been given a healthier dose of communication, perhaps none of it would have been as hard as it was. But to talk takes one. To communicate takes two. And certain people in that group were only willing to cooperate so far.
Peacemaking is not a compromise: it is a surrender. And as such, it is often difficult after you’ve made the peace too many times not to feel like nothing more than a loser.
I had stared into the face of the people I cared so much for. These are they who had defined my college experiences, and a few of them deeply affected my future as a person. And in every face, I saw a turmoil. I saw each of them reaching out to each other in hopes that they could find some kind of sign that they weren’t facing the whole damn thing alone. And in that, I saw a mirror of my own turmoil.
So I spent the weekend wanting so badly to be a constant part of each of their lives and grieving that even if I lived next door, it would only bring me so close and perhaps not close enough.
When I finally got to the airport, wanting only to go home where I could try to feel normal again, and found my flight was delayed and I would be waiting for the duration, my response was pure self-pity. And I told Ang I wanted to be found dead in Jersey.
Of course, as soon as I hung up the phone, I would encounter someone who seemed to want nothing less than to take me to Jersey or Toronto or wherever the crap and do some pretty crazy things to me that I’m sure wouldn’t have left me very lively. (see The Twenty-Three Percent Joke) But that aside, I have to realize that I can’t make things perfect for all my friends and I have to realize that I’m as helpless when it comes to making things perfect for myself.
I guess the best I can do is the best I can do. From there, it’s in different hands.
Saturday, August 13th — about 4:30 pm
It was the end of the main reason most of us were there.
We had gone to see Keith’s show, loved his performance in it, spent most of the time stifling our giggles and wondering if he’d seen us or not. then had followed the giddiness in the lobby that I swear lasted an eternity (but the videotape would prove was only 3.2 seconds) when he saw us all, one by one, for the first time.
That had been Friday night but now we were at his lovely home. We had spent time chatting with him over dinner the night before and now we had finished watching clips from most of the shows we’d all been involved in with him through our college years. We’d shared more than a hundred laughs and more than a hundred thousand memories. We had come to honor him, but as that purpose came to a close, he honored each of us.
He leaned against his couch, with all of us quietly standing and none of us really knowing what to say. He said, “You’ve made my year. I’m a better man for having known all of you.”
Keith was many things, but he was certainly not a patronizer and to my knowledge he had never lied. You’d have to know him to know why this comment meant so much, but let me try to break it down for you…
Let’s say you finally meet your idol, the person you admire more than almost anyone else in the world. Then, when you speak with them, they tell you that not only do they admire you but that you’ve helped inspire them. Can you imagine what a gift it is to know that you’ve inspired the person who inspires you? I can’t speak for everyone else, but I know that in that moment, everything I’ve ever loved about my friends shot right to the front of my mind.
I thought of Wendy — this constant burst of creative energy, not being one to encounter anything ordinarily. She spent most of the trip taking pictures for everyone and of everything and I don’t think I got the chance to tell her that I noticed she smiled a little bit every time she took one.
Donovan — who is everything a first impression would make you think he would be, and quite a bit more than you would think was possible. When you meet him, you automatically assume certain things (probably plays football, probably loves movies starring The Rock, probably could eat three whole chickens without breathing, etc.) but you may not realize that he’s got this way of making you feel safe, physically and emotionally. He’s got an encourager’s heart and dreams that dwarf even him. He’ll accomplish every one of them.
Kay had brought us all together. I never really knew her very well (still don’t), but when she first sent out that email invitation to Florida, my heart lept. I’m still in awe of how thoughtful she was to try to reunite a group of friends from all over the country just to show each other and our professor how much everything has meant.
Picture, if you will, a rippling lake. It appears shallow and calm, but it is in fact quite deep and able to be very still at times. This is Denise. I have more fun joking around with Denise than with almost anybody else in my life, but the real joy is in those occasions when she and I are given the chance to talk, honestly and intimately. It’s a side I don’t think too many other people see but its their eyes that miss it, not she who hides it.
I don’t know if Carrie’s ever been able to see how special she is. She’s always assumed the role of the matron in our motley crew, which usually causes her more Drama than I think anyone would ever want. She always tries to make the peace when there is strife (not always successfully, but you know how that goes). Despite the occasional misfortune, she brings with her a grace and charm that never ceases to endear her to whomever she’s around, no matter how much she denies it.
Nathan can no longer be called my friend because the term is simply too limited. He taught me how to laugh. I’m serious about that. And he showed me that its OK to laugh, especially at yourself. He brings out not just the best of me, but the most of me. I was allowed to truly grow into my own self because he took the time to be my friend and if you’ve never had someone do that for you, then you know what it means to despair.
Keith can’t be described with words. I don’t even think he can be summarized. But I can give you this — take Muhammed Ali, make him a comic book enthusiast, give him Oscar-worthy acting chops, and set it to the music of Peter, Paul, & Mary — stir it all up, bake it for thirty odd years and Keith might just pop out. And if he didn’t, whatever did pop out would be his friend.
Nathan’s lovely wife Tracey was with us on this trip and I can only imagine what her impression of everyone was, me being the only other person she’d had extended contact with before meeting them this weekend. She saw some incredibly interesting sides to all of us and I’m sure not all of it was pleasing.
But there was this one moment. Keith leaning back on his couch and setting the record straight once and for all. “I’m a better man for having known all of you.” At the end of the day, past all of the squabbles and bickers, past our discomforts and our drama, past every idiosyncrasy you can find — we were good friends. Not perfect people, and certainly not perfect friends. But enough to make it worth the edges and the rough spots.
It was worth it all. It was good.
