Missed Connections

by Brian Francis

  A little more about myself. I’m not sure how big of a deal age is to you. You said “same.” Well, I’m 34, black hair, green eyes, 5’10”, 195 pounds.

  I’m interested in cooking, dogs, plants, hanging out with friends and spending quiet nights at home with someone special. I smoke and drink but only on weekends.

  I’m not sure what else to write. Hopefully, you’re interested. Take a chance. You never know. Even if we become friends or who knows.

  Take care,

  Liam

  Dear Liam,

  Your age was a definite deal-breaker. Thirty-four, to my twenty-one-year-old eyes, was ancient. In my mind, you would have carried a staff and had a long, flowing beard and your balls would have smelled like piss.

  Am I exaggerating? Maybe a tad. But you were completely out of the range of acceptable ages. Thirty-four was old. Way older than it seems now. In fact, as I write this, I’m fifty, sixteen years older than you were when you wrote your letter. I don’t imagine most twenty-one-year-olds would even consider replying to me. I’d be perceived as a lecherous senior. A writeoff. Something that lives under a bridge.

  When did this happen? When did I paddle across to the other side of Lake Aged?

  Looking back, I think of my early twenties as my blender years—everything was swirling chaos. Between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five, I lived in nine different places in four cities. I couldn’t remember my own postal code at any given time. I had worked as a waiter, a server at two private clubs, an ad salesperson for a coupon clipper, a barista (although it was just called coffee shop server back then), a not-very-busy freelance copywriter, and even a travelling salesman. I had also traded in Mr. Feces for a sporty car that I couldn’t afford. It had a CD player that would only work when the heater was cranked full blast for at least thirty minutes. Imagine the agony I went through in July just to listen to Ace of Base! The car payments were $240 a month and I could barely scrape that together, let alone insurance, rent, groceries, and other necessities like cigarettes.

  But I had youth on my side. And that counted for something, right?

  What do you think your best years were, Liam? It’s easy for me to assume mine were my early twenties, in spite of the disruption and uncertainty, in spite of all those postal codes and financial struggles. After all, I had youth, my dreams, determination, and stamina. But in retrospect, youth was never an accomplishment. It was a given. In fact, it wasn’t until I hit my forties that I felt I was in my prime. I was stable in my career, I was in a solid relationship, and I had my confidence. Plus, I’d learned to say goodbye to drama and bad decisions.

  I distinctly recall a moment in my early forties. I was getting ready to go to a birthday party and I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror and thought, “This is the best you’ve looked and it’s the best you’re ever going to look.”

  I don’t know how true that statement was. Was it really the best I’ve ever looked? Even better than the time I wore my burgundy blazer to the bar that one Saturday night? I’m sure there were lots of other times I looked better than I did at that moment. But maybe not. Some of us are late bloomers. We’re the people who didn’t peak in high school but instead bided our time and then blossomed when we least expected it. I certainly couldn’t have predicted that bathroom revelation twenty years earlier. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible I could look my best in my forties. I mean, that was old. But I did. Or at least, I thought I did. And I’m glad I had that moment in the mirror because there was a second half to that realization, which turned out to be true as well.

  I’ve never looked better since.

  I’m not complaining. It’s just that, as I age, it’s becoming harder to deny the inevitable. When the crow’s feet started to appear in my mid-thirties, I remember thinking, “It’s all over now. Time is creeping across my face.” Not that I was serious. The lines weren’t that deep, so it was still something to joke about, like your first grey pube. But at some point the crow’s feet stopped being a joke. Because they deepened and were now accompanied by a waddle under my chin. Creases across my forehead. A neck that reminded me of raw chicken skin. These days, if I don’t keep my hands moisturized, they look like jerky. I buy stupidly expensive creams and exfoliants, not because I’m certain they work, but because I’m too afraid not to use them.

  When my last novel came out, I had a launch party. A couple of the people who came asked if they could take a selfie with me, and my first thought was, “Hell, no.” But of course I said yes, because I’d make things worse by saying no. And then I saw the photos posted on social media. Why is it that the person taking the selfie always looks so much better than the person they’re taking the selfie with?

  It’s not that I miss my youth so much as I don’t enjoy getting older. I don’t like the doubts it creates, the worry about selfies. I thought I’d be more carefree by now, but I’m not. I’m too concerned about how my age defines me in the eyes of others, especially in the gay community, where beauty and youth can be king—or, as it were, queen.

  I find myself asking, When am I too old for something? When am I too old to go to the bars? Too old to get drunk on a Saturday night? Too old to wear a certain article of clothing? (Not that I ever looked good in daisy dukes.) The other day, I stopped in front of the mirror before leaving the house and took inventory of what I had on: a faded pair of jeans, a Club Monaco sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers. Was there really anything different about what I was wearing compared with what I wore thirty years ago? Even the knapsack I slipped over my shoulders as I made my way out the door was similar to the one I carried around in high school, only now, instead of textbooks, it was packed with work documents, my laptop, a Tupperware container filled with cut-up vegetables. At least my diet has improved. I haven’t eaten a large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos for dinner in I don’t know how long.

  But as I waited for the bus, I started to question how I might appear to others. A teenager could be wearing the exact same outfit as me. Would someone think I wasn’t dressing appropriately for my age?

  I wasn’t trying to dress young, I reminded myself. I didn’t choose clothing based on what I assumed a seventeen- year-old would wear. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. And, if we’re really going to break it down, what today’s youth are wearing isn’t much different than what I wore at their age. The same ripped jeans, the same windbreakers and Converse sneakers. So who really has the rightful claim to these clothes?

  Of course all these arguments reside in my head. I’ve never been stopped by a teenager on the street and accused of wearing something age-inappropriate. I’ve never been laughed at for my clothing choices. (That I know of, anyway.) In fact, I’m not even in their field of vision. I’m completely invisible to them. They couldn’t care less what I have on.

  That’s the part that bothers me—I’ll never be able to see myself as others see me, or size myself up in the same way. We all like to place one another in neat, tidy packages. That’s more for our comfort than for anyone else’s. Seeing someone in a different light implies our assessments might have been wrong. And people don’t like being wrong. Especially, I’d venture to say, the younger gay generations. And especially when it comes to their opinions about us old fogeys.

  * * *

  —

  There were two gay bars in the city where we lived in 1992, Liam. One, located downtown, was a dark shoebox with a DJ booth and a mirrored wall. It was the popular choice on Thursday and Friday nights. On Saturday nights, the other bar, which was located in an older residential area, was more popular. There was a pool table and couches and the beer was cheap. I suppose, technically, there was a third bar, located on the upper floor of the Saturday night bar. Not that my friends and I ever went to it, but we had to pass through on our way to the coat check. It was known as the bar where the seniors hung out. It was quieter. There were tables and chairs and lattice walls. A friend o
f mine from back in the day and I like to joke that if we were still living in that city, where would we be hanging out on Saturday nights—downstairs on the dance floor, or upstairs checking out all the young ’uns on their way to the coat check? Maybe we wouldn’t be at the bar at all. We might be home, watching Lawrence Welk reruns in our pyjamas. It’s hard to say.

  Living in a mid-sized city, with an even smaller-sized gay community, it didn’t take long for the bar scene to get boring or for faces to become familiar. Regardless of my boredom, I still felt compelled to go out to the same bars every weekend. It felt, at times, like an obsession. Miss one night and I’d risk the chance of not meeting that special someone. I wouldn’t yet know his name or what he looked like, but I’d know it was magic the moment I laid eyes on him. And if I wasn’t out at the bar, how could that moment happen?

  Someone I’ll call Tom was an older guy I’d see around at the bar. He owned a moving company, I think. He always made a point of coming over to my friends and me and chatting us up. We tolerated him because he’d often buy us beer. None of us were interested in Tom. We might have joked about him at the end of the night, as we sat in the parking lot eating late-night drive-through. I’m not kidding—I once had the capacity to eat a Whopper Jr. with cheese at two o’clock in the morning. These days, if I have a couple of Crispy Minis rice cakes at ten I wake up in the middle of the night with heartburn.

  Once a month, the bar would host student nights, and it was such a relief to be with people our own age. To not have to put up with the Toms and their small talk or their hopes that, one of these nights, you’d mention that you often fantasized about doing it in the back of a cube van. But Tom would always be at the bar, even at the student nights. I came to think of him as an intruder. A stain.

  Lately, I’ve been thinking about how old Tom would have been back then. I’m guessing mid-thirties, but the canyon between us seemed much wider to my early-twenties eyes. Sometimes I see young men on the subway, or in the grocery store, and I hope for a glance back, an acknowledgement of attraction. I just want to know that I’m still on the radar.

  It takes only a few seconds of me looking at a younger man to think about how I might appear to him. I forget how much older I am. I forget about the canyon. But then the subway passes through a tunnel and my reflection suddenly appears in the window and I see myself as he must see me.

  Off the radar.

  Maybe I was too hard on Tom. Maybe he was lonely and only wanted to talk. Maybe Tom forgot he was that much older than us. Or he simply didn’t see himself the way that we saw him.

  Maybe the Toms come back to bite us in the ass.

  I hope you quit smoking, Liam. Take it from someone who’s been around the block—that shit will kill you.

  Sincerely,

  September 28

  Hi!

  Good news. I don’t wear a tiara or carry a gun holster. So hopefully that puts your mind at ease about the kind of letter this will be.

  Although I have self-confidence, I’m not like Narcissus, either. (That Greek god who fell in love with his own reflection.) I’m confident. But I’m not annoying about it or anything.

  So, university? Must be cool. After I graduate Grade 13, I’m planning to go to university, too. But not here, though. Unless you can change my mind.

  Yes, I’m still in high school. I just turned 19. So what if you’re 21? I don’t care. That probably means you have more experience than me. Doesn’t bother me in the least.

  In terms of what I value, friendship comes first. I have to get to know someone really, really well before things go any further. There’s nothing I like more than to just sit down and talk and talk and talk. And while I’m a lot of things, boring is NOT one of them. When you talk to people you find out their goals and dreams and ambitions, which says a lot about who they are and the things you can enjoy together in a relationship. For me anyway.

  I’d really like to talk and get to know you more. I don’t think you’d be dissapointed in getting to know me, too.

  One thing: is your discription in the ad (before the “not”) even close to the real you? Not that it’s important. I’m just curious if you did that to get attention. You got mine, at least.

  As to my physical discription, which I’m sure you’re not the least bit interested in…NOT! Ha ha. Okay, so I’ve modelled in the past and hope to pursue a career in it. In fact, I’m heading to L.A. next month to see if I can get some work.

  The compliments I receive, mainly from friends, photographers or strangers passing by, mostly they’re about my hair, bone structure, my mouth and let’s not forget the almighty butt!! Not that I’m bragging or anything. Also, I’m “straight” acting. Are you?

  I live at home with my parents so giving out my personal info is not an option. If you’re interested in meeting up, and I hope you are, I made up a code so you can leave your phone number in the paper. I hope it doesn’t cost a fortune.

  The code will be:

  That means if you’re number is 458-3349 (I just made that up), the code would be LPV-HHLM.

  Amazing, right? I have a copy of the code, so I’ll know the deal. As soon as I see your code, I’ll call you right away.

  I should let you get back to your studying. Please do the code thing. I’ll be waiting.

  It’s been great writing you and I hope we can get together sometime. Even if it’s just talking. The possibilities are endless! Take care of yourself.

  Your friend:

  Dear Indecipherable,

  Just listen to the personality, confidence, and sass oozing from your letter. You were exactly the type of person I was hoping to meet. True, you were a little on the young side. And the reference to your almighty butt and potential L.A. modelling career was a bit cheesy. But your point was made. You got me.

  Your method for responding, though. What was up with that code? Sure, I was desperate, but just how desperate did you think? You expected me to shell out more money, just to meet a nineteen-year-old with good bone structure?

  I mean, really?

  Okay, I did. Annoyed as I was, I couldn’t resist the possibility of meeting you. There was so much promise in your letter. Yours, by far, was the best response I had received. Was my personal ad—and my sixty-five-dollar investment—about to pay off? Could it be possible? Had I found love through the classifieds? There was only one way to find out: I needed to place a second ad.

  I did have some doubts. I worried that this was a scam, that you weren’t real but were part of an organized crime operation that duped people into giving out their telephone numbers. What evil would I unleash as soon as I published my phone number in code? Or maybe you were a classified sales rep and this was part of a scheme to ensure lonely suckers like me kept pumping money into the newspaper.

  Or maybe you were the Zodiac Killer. I mean, that code…

  But to not do anything would have meant passing up on the chance of meeting you, passing up on a shot at love. And that was a chance I simply wasn’t willing to take.

  I couldn’t remember, Indecipherable, what I’d said in my response ad to you, but I knew I had placed it. And so, as I did for my original ad, I went on the hunt twenty-nine years later to track down this piece of my past, too. Your letter was dated September 28, so I began looking for my ad in the papers published the week after, starting with the October 5 issue.

  In case you’re wondering how you go about finding a decades-old classified ad, it’s not very glamorous. I spent hours facing a microfiche reader and scrolling through rolls of reproductions of newspapers, page by page. It was a painful, tedious process. Speed the microfiche up too quickly and I might whiz past a day’s classified section—and my response—altogether. Go too slowly and I risked falling asleep in front of the machine and then waking up in a darkened, empty library basement at three a.m. with no hope of escape.

  Once I scrolle
d through to the classified section of that day’s newspaper, I needed to be on high alert. After all, I was looking for a single line in a sea of text, the tiniest string of words representing the hopes and fears of a twenty-one-year-old who, after years of hiding, had finally reached out. I wondered what he would have thought had he been told that his middle-aged self would one day be searching for his ad. If he would have understood the importance of it, what that time in his life would come to represent, and why it was so critical for his older self to find the ad.

  It didn’t take long for me to become familiar with the other classified ads published within the date range I was searching. This might sound strange, but I began to wonder about the people behind them. Did the person with the Bruce Springsteen tickets ever sell them? Did the unappreciated married man ever get laid?

  These classifieds, long since forgotten in the dark isolation of their drawers, were now, miraculously, breathing again, brought to life against the glowing backdrop of the reader. Each of these ads had been in search of something, each had had a specific purpose, an end goal. Every now and then, I’d glance up and take inventory of the other people around me at their own readers. What were they looking for? I wondered. And were they having any luck?

  What made my experience frustrating is that I couldn’t find my ad. I checked the Companions column for October 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, and 31. Then I checked November 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, and 30.

  But there was nothing. Had I missed it? Did I need to start all over again? I considered walking away. Why did I need to find this stupid ad I was certain I had placed almost thirty years ago? What did it matter?

  But if I couldn’t find the ad, how could I be sure I had placed it? Maybe I’d been wrong and I hadn’t responded to the letter at all. And if I’d misremembered that, what about all the other bits of my past—the pieces and swatches that I’d threaded together to make up who I was and what I believed? What if all the things I had assumed to be facts were simply not true? And what evidence did I have to prove otherwise? What if I couldn’t prove my own life to myself?