The Gay Marriage Slippery Slope

Politicians warn of dire consequences, but what will happen when marriage equality is legalized? Read about it here in my new Huffington Post piece.

Beware of the Gay Marriage Slippery Slope

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Acceptance

I tap on the imaginary brake pedal.

“Honey, it still doesn’t work,” Paul sighs, staring straight ahead.  The eye roll implied in his tone is hidden behind his sunglasses.

“Well, we need to get it fixed!” I say with mock alarm and then add “When my book is published you won’t have to drive me to work anymore,” nodding as I survey the dirt encrusted snow mounds passing by the car window.  The snow is brown this time of year, with splotches of yellow, like frozen lemonade; the byproduct of zealous dogs marking temporary territory. I wince at the thought of urine soaked sidewalks, the snow like a black- light highlighting the DNA no one wants to see. 

 “Will I have to cook your meals, clean the house and wash your nasty little underwear anymore?” He asks.

“You are the man behind the man,” I say magnanimously, not fully appreciating the subtext until I say it.  This time Paul uses a finger to lower his sunglasses on his nose so that I can see that he has decided to focus on the innuendo.  My one raised eyebrow tells him to get his mind out of the gutter, but he knows that is where I like it.

Smiling, I return to my thoughts.  Having just completed a memoir writing class my focus lately has been looking at my life through the dual lenses of memory and meaning. My goal: to write a short memoir piece that would be accepted for publication in a literary magazine, which has been accomplished and will be published in the fall.

What else can I achieve?  There is only one way to find out.  Less time to write blog posts, I’m afraid, but more time to write chapters.

“Who will play you in the movie?”  Paul asks. 

I consider his question as I look through the car window.  The snow melts and the sun paints the topical waters orange.  Palm trees whisper in the wind.  I dip my toes into the pool and breathe in the heady jasmine scented air.

If you are going to dream, dream big and dream in color.

 

 

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Touchstone

The short winter days of New England are drained of all color and replaced with its absence, white, black and gray.  The naked branches, gnarled and arthritic bend under the weight of the sunless sky and the lakes and ponds become frozen.  I moved into a one bedroom apartment, optimistically called a garden level but more realistically described as a subterranean hovel the first time my wife left me in the winter of 2005.

There were three small rooms with no space for color; the walls, the cheap wooden kitchen cabinets, the appliances, the linoleum floors, the metal folding closet doors and the popcorn ceilings where all devoid of pigment. For all of its whiteness, the light was scarce; limited by the sun’s winter struggle and the small rectangular windows perched just above the soil line.  The furnishings, a mattress on the floor, a cardboard box for a night stand, a tattered upholstered loveseat and an old tube TV screamed early American squatter.  The complex was made up of cinder block buildings too far from Boston and not far enough away on the edge of Interstate 495 in a town called Marlborough.  In my mind the name of the town conjured up the image of  a nicotine stained, leathery old cowboy hacking and sputtering in his final days, an apt description of the town.

Brazilian immigrants made up the largest population of the complex.  Any rare interaction with adjacent neighbors was limited to two or three words of mangled English. Foreign food smells seeped into the halls and Portuguese television stations shouted through the walls.

On New Year’s Eve, I found myself alone, sitting in the car outside of Longfellow’s Wayside Inn located in an affluent bordering town watching the glow of the red inn’s windows become brighter in the encroaching darkness. A festive couple parked their car, kissed and quickly made their way through the cold into the Inn.  I imagined the orange glow of the fire, the red table cloths, the green pine boughs and the laughter that fell like broken glass. A light snow began to fall as I made my way back to my apartment.

I fell asleep that night looking at a smooth polished stone sitting on my cardboard night stand.  I had collected it from a Maine beach on a sunny summer day, fascinated by its perfect roundness and glittering bits of quartz.  Who knows where its journey began or where it would end, tossed and tumbled by the tides its true beauty at last revealed. 

Under the crushing weight of white I dreamt in color that night.

 

 

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My Story, His Story, Their Story

My Story

It was our first date.

During dinner I played with the thought of introducing him to my family.  He was the epitome of the boy next door; button down shirt, khakis, big toothy grin, salt and pepper hair with an Ivy League cut and a face as open and honest as the Milky Way circling above us. When I asked him about his children he pulled three perfectly crisp photographs out of his compact wallet and neatly arranged them side by side on the table in order of age:  Monique 9, Nicholas 12 and Evelyn 14. I searched their dark eyes for meaning.  Was he a good father? Did they love him? Were they happy?  The same questions I asked myself when I looked at my children’s pictures.

When we stood up to leave, he placed his hand near the small of my back to guide me; an imperceptible gesture that was inconceivably stirring.   The first time I looked at him, I mean really looked at him was at the end of the date, next to my car underneath the expanding sky.  Of course they loved him.  Of course he was a good father. In his face I could see infinite happiness.
 

I reached up to kiss his cheek just as he turned his head and our lips met. 

His Story

I was early, but I’m always early.

When you’ve been on fifty dates looking for Mr. Right you take charge by getting there early and grabbing a glass of “Char-done-ay” to relax. I gave the hostess my name and waited. And waited.  I forgave him as soon as he showed up, great smile, although he looked nothing like his profile picture, which is par for the course. But, the shaved head and goatee thing was working for him, and for me. 

He pulled out his wallet to show me his kid’s pictures and I thought Oh dear God, this one is such a straight boy. His wallet was a mess. He had to peel the pictures apart.  They were cute kids though and he could form a sentence, which was promising.

When we got up from the table I followed behind him, intentionally.  He had gone to the restroom earlier and I had the pleasure of watching him walk away. I wanted one more view.  He drove a green Jeep Grand Cherokee with a V-6, impressive.

I was going to give him a hug, but then he kissed me; good conversation, good looking, good start. 

Their Story

They were colleagues meetin’ for dinner I told Tommy, or a coupla’ guys whose wives were having one of them “girl’s night” or whatever the hell they call ‘em.  So they decided to make the best of it, leave the kids with Grammy and Gramps and grab a beer. But Tommy says “Look closer, Bobby, I gotta’ ten-spot that says there’s something more.  Most guys don’t look each other in the eyes for that long,” and then Bobby stahts making googly eyes at me, the fucker. It might have been a first date.  It’s Boston, for Chrisake!  The place is wicked full of em’, but my money says they’re not.

So I tell Bobby I’m in and we watch ‘em walk to their car. So I say, “See, he’s driving a fuckin’ Jeep, pay up ya’ re-tahd!” And then, and then, right on the kissah! 

I handed the ten over to Bobby.  The kiss was so fuckin’ fast it wasn’t worth ten cents. 

 

 

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Flash Fiction: The Weight of Words

 

“Mom, I want to tell you something,” I said to the back of her neck.  She was sitting at the kitchen table busying herself with something in her hands.  I don’t remember what it was, sewing perhaps.  She did not turn her head when I spoke to her, but continued to look down absorbed in her busyness, removed from the weight of my words.

I sat down at the table with her and took a deep breath.

“I think the love that Susan has for her girlfriend is natural,” I said as I let out my breath. 

She took her glasses off and placed them on the table.  Her face screwed up with disgust and her lips were pulled tight over her teeth.  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me.

“It is not natural.  It’s disgusting!”  She spit out and waited for the words to sink in and detonate searching my face for signs of wreckage, but the damage was internal. My face remained stoic.

“It’s not disgusting,” I said, my voice wavering. It sounded too defensive and high pitched to me. This enraged her, but instead of arguing the point she altered her strategy.

“Do you have those feelings?” She asked accusingly, raising her eyebrows.

“I don’t know, maybe.  I mean, I can understand how she feels,” I replied, the sound of my heart thumping in my ears drowning out the drone of the refrigerator.

“I knew it the minute you walked in the door.  Susan and her girlfriend dressed you up in those clothes,” she said looking down at my shirt and then continued in a high pitched mocking tone imitating my cousin Susan, but sounding nothing like her, “It’s OK, just go ahead and be gay!”

I felt shame, shame for how I dressed and for how my voice sounded and for having those feelings.  Mother had never accused me of being gay, preferring to use another scare word, effeminate.

Don’t put your hands on your hips like that, it looks effeminate.

Those flip-flops make you look effeminate.

Which friend are you talking about, the overweight effeminate one?

I did believe that my cousin’s feelings were natural, but I was not defending them, I was testing the waters and now I was drowning.  Mother could sense it as she circled with wide dark eyes, baring her teeth.

She opened her mouth to take another bite out of me. “I suppose you want to be a woman now.”

I watched my body sink as my soul drifted away. The feeding frenzy had begun and would not end until there was nothing left of me.
 
  

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Maine: A Sense of Place

We ride our bikes, Paul and I in the evening down Mile Road.  Past Billy’s Chowder House, a weathered gray cedar sided building content in its solitude on the edge of the salt marsh overlooking the Webhannet River. The smell of fried haddock mixing with the salty air fills our noses and teases our appetite.  We turn and follow the road hugging the coastline.

The air feels as if it has travelled a great many miles to reach this point, born on the open prairies where it meanders in slow waves over meadow grasses pushing larks into flight. It soars upward and over the Appalachian Mountains before tumbling down into the tiny cone of New England where it becomes cool and compressed and shoots out over rocky Wells beach on this margin of Maine, running loose and free like school children sprinting into the school yard as the end of day bell rings. There it mingles with the frigid Atlantic ocean and pushes up great emerald plumes of water against the rocks frosted with the seltzer air, fizzing and releasing the briny, saline sea.

The light too plays with the air.  It starts out small; silver and hushed in the morning clinging to the fog like a quivering newborn all wet and cold. The Webhannet River is metallic as it snakes through the salt marsh. The light brightens and becomes bolder during the day bouncing off of the water droplets and salt particles in the air; a prism like effect intensifying the greens of the rushes and cord grass, blues of the sky and sea and reds of the beach roses to their primary and truest selves.   In the evening it lingers, blushing orange, pink and coral in the turquoise sky reflecting itself like giant blobs of paint in the tidal pools. For a single instant when day and night balance themselves the thin strip of beach houses separating the marsh from the sea are washed aglow.

The sounds are layered, the constant pull and release of the waves alternating between whoosh and silence.  In summer the laughter of adults and children’s delighted squeals wrapped in the waves, release and repeat themselves as the waves crash and fizz. Tiny piping plovers move as a single organism back and forth chased by the cresting tide. The gulls, some stoically regarding the sea and others painted full winged against the sky release staccato laughs. In the distance the sound of a bell buoy clangs softly, tossed by the swelling sea.

At Crescent Beach we park our bikes and walk along the shore, littered with blue and grey egg shaped stones. We breathe the ocean air in and it becomes a part of us. The oxygen and minerals themselves nutrients.  In this way Maine is forever with us, a part of our blood.

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The Not So Friendly Skies

The flight from Chicago to Singapore is much like running a marathon; no one really wants to do it, but they brag about completing it and prepare for it by lying.  “My back has been acting up and I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” they tell their doctors hoping to score muscle relaxers and sleeping pills. “I think little Johnny might have a touch of ADHD,” they say with great concern to cash in on a prescription for Ritalin.  And the final lie they tell themselves?  “This will be fun!” But make no mistake about it; the flight to Singapore is not fun.  Men grow beards and women complete menstrual cycles on the 9,357 mile 22 plus hour flight that takes them over the North Pole to a country where every flight departing or arriving is international.

On my third trip to Singapore my penniless company booked a flight for me on United Airlines.  Singapore Airlines, my previous mode of travel, was deemed too expensive.  Gone were the sumptuous seats, exotic meals and beautiful, meticulous flight attendants with shellacked hair and Zen like faces known as the “Singapore girl.”  They were replaced with knee eating chairs made of wood, a gray meat like substance and Tyrell.  This was Tyrell’s first international trip as a flight attendant and he was “pumped.”

“Singapore! Can you believe that?  I’m gonna’ take care of you.  You want liquor, just say the word! Singapore!” Tyrell exclaimed as he practically galloped down the aisle.  I raised one eyebrow and looked sideways at my seat mate, who was busy implanting ear plugs. “Rookie,” he sighed as he began to inflate his neck pillow.  The pity I felt for Tyrell, who was sprinting out of the gate, was trumped by annoyance. “He’ll learn,” I said as I choked down an Ambien.

“Scotch or gin?” Tyrell asked me just as I was dozing off.

“It’s 11:00 AM,” I replied, not wanting to experience a hangover during the flight.

“Tomato juice and vodka?” He asked enthusiastically.

By hour six Tyrell was beginning to lose steam, the sweat beading on his brow.  He and his fellow flight attendant, a rotund Asian woman, were carrying two pots of steaming liquid each. “You want some, man?” he asked in a less than enthusiastic voice.  “What is it?” I asked back.  He flipped the lid open and stuck his nose deep inside.  Whatever it was, I wanted none of it.  He screwed up his face as if the pitcher contained boiling piss. “Some oriental shit,” he replied as the other attendant cut daggers with her eyes.  “Asian,” I whispered attempting to point out his politically incorrect statement. “Asian Oriental shit,” he corrected himself.

When the captain announced that we were over the North Pole, I saw Tyrell briefly re-energized, bend and look quickly left and right out of the window.  I swear he was looking for a red and white striped pole.

By the time we departed Narita, Japan for the second leg, Tyrell was done, but there were seven hours left.  I found him propped up against the lavatory door rubbing his head.  “I’ll have that drink now,” I said cheerfully.  Tyrell slowly looked up and said “I’m just about ready to join you.”

When we finally landed in Singapore the wrinkled passengers rubbed their eyes, stretched and felt the stubble on their faces.  As we slowly filtered out of the plane I passed by Tyrell, who was sitting in a seat, wrapped in a blanket, his glasses slightly askew and his eyes red rimmed. “Long flight,” I said trying to commiserate with him.  “Man, you have no idea.  I’m just glad I have a couple of days here in between my return flight. Just enough time to experience some oriental delights,” he replied with a wink and a nod, implying that I might enjoy the same type of debauchery.  It’s a mistake that many long haul rookies make, but one that I have never taken such delight in pointing out. “You know you lose a day when you travel to Singapore, you might want to check your schedule,” I said smiling as I jogged off of the plane for the win.

It’s all about setting a pace and keeping up with your time.

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