The guy came back with our drinks, then whipped out his pad to take our orders, that Rio Grande smile still shining. I wanted to slap it off his face, but maybe that was because it shone on my dad and acted like I didn’t exist.
Dad asked for garlic bread to start.
“You’ll like it, guys.” The waiter said “guys,” but his eyes were trained only on my father. “Hard on the outside, squishy on the inside.” He winked. My stomach lurched. What a joke to tell to a father and his son—in a restaurant, no less.
My jaw dropped. Dad should have complained to the manager, but he just laughed and winked back.
He cut this guy too much slack. You can be gay without flaunting it. Without being so obvious. He finished giving his order—spaghetti and meatballs—and I got the lasagna.
With a flick of his limp wrist, the guy took our menus and sashayed off. With him gone, my stomach settled down a bit, and the hunger was back. I was glad that guy was gone. But I realized something that horrified and confused me. I was a little hard. That pissed me off. I wasn’t even a little bit attracted to the guy. So I hung on to the thought.
“Okay, now that was totally over the top. Doesn’t it bother you, Dad?”
“What?” Like he didn’t know what I was talking about. Maybe he didn’t, I thought, but how could he not?
“That guy putting the moves on you.”
“Moves? Lighten up. He was just being friendly. No harm, no foul. Let’s just enjoy our lunch.” He can be so naïve.
I definitely didn’t agree with his take, but I let it lie. I realized I’d made an attitude adjustment without first thinking of what Mal would say. I was making progress. Dad was right. It wasn’t worth spoiling lunch over.
Another server brought our meals, and we ate in silence because, I think, we were both so happy to be eating again. It seemed like ages since we’d had breakfast. I was glad I was able to put the waiter thing past me and just enjoy a good meal there with my dad.
We hummed over the best tiramisu ever. “Is this not the most—” I was startled at a sudden uproar of whistles and drumbeats.
“Look, Jake! It’s starting!” He pointed out the window.
And, sure enough, up the street came the first of the parade.
I’ve been to the Rodeo parade in Houston—all cowboys on horses and stuff—and I’ve been to circus parades with clowns and elephants, but I’d never been to the Houston Gay Pride Parade. I’d seen TV coverage, but that’s just thirty-second bites on the news. I never, ever experienced anything quite like what I saw that sunny Halifax day.
Ahead of the first float was a marching band all decked out in hot-pink uniforms. How gay is that? The baton twirlers who accompanied the band in short skirts and blazing-pink boots all had beards! There wasn’t a breast among them, unless you counted the majorette, who was just a wee too plump to be wearing that miniskirt over his gorilla-hairy legs. It was a hoot. I forgot that I hated being gay, and I decided to enjoy this crazy parade.
The first float featured a dozen guys in G-strings, tossing beads to the crowd. G-strings. That’s all. And those guys were ripped. My dick instantly got hard, really stiff this time, and a knot of fear settled in my too full stomach. Thank God the offender was concealed under the table. How could I explain that to Dad? I had made a commitment to myself. My gay self would never be known. Things might happen involuntarily but never by choice.
Embarrassed and fearful, I looked over at Dad. He was smiling. Smiling, so he hadn’t caught wind of what was happening beneath the table. Good.
“What are you smiling at?” I asked, trying to regain the joy I conjured at the beginning of the parade.
“The twirlers,” he said, his eyes glued to that spectacle of debauchery outside the window. I suppose debauchery was the right word because there was nothing sedate and controlled about the goings-on.
“They could use about a gallon of Nair each.” That just popped into my head and out my mouth. I was proud of myself, being able to joke in the face of impending exposure. My brain told me I was enjoying this, and that stiffy under the table confirmed it. He thought my joke was hilarious.
Next up, there were bikers, all decked out in leather chaps and very little else. Although, to their credit, I must say the dykes among them did have on jackets. Thank God for small favors. And yes, I knew at the thought that Dad would not have liked me calling them dykes.
Then there was a float full of older, ordinary-looking people carrying a banner that read “PFAG.”
“PFAG? What’s that, Dad?”
“Hmm?” He didn’t look at me.
I couldn’t believe how enthralled my father was with this display. I’d never seen anything like it before, and surely Dad hadn’t either.
“What’s PFAG?” I asked again, this time louder.
He burst into laughter. “Not PFAG, Jake-O. PFLAG.” He laughed again. “It means Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. It’s a support organization.”
“You mean to tell me that those people have gay children, and they are proud of it?” My mind rattled. I felt a tinge of sadness. I knew Mom would never be out there on that float. Now if they had one with a banner proclaiming “Conversion therapy—it’s the way,” she’d be all for it.
“Absolutely! Why shouldn’t they be proud?” Did he really feel that way? Could I come out to him, and he’d be okay with it? Nah. Again, this was my dad. He might be okay with other parents and their gay children, but I was his basketball-playing, girlfriend-loving, almost-grown-man son. Never.
“Well, I wouldn’t think it would be something they’d want to broadcast, is all.” I said that to feel him out. I could not believe he’d be okay with my being gay.
“It’s not like their kids are murderers or rapists. They’re like everybody else. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Yeah.” I wanted to expound on that, but I was without words. I guess I truly did feel like something was wrong with me, being gay and all.
“Quit quoting Stillmore, and think for yourself, son,” he said, his voice stern. “Statistics show that pedophiles are almost overwhelmingly heterosexual. And if you follow the news, you know the majority of rapes and murders and a lot of other crimes are committed by straight people. Gay people lead normal, productive lives like most people in society.”
Where was he getting all this stuff? This was some sort of leftover sensitivity training that the Grayson chain had put their employees through. It had to be. My dad would never have felt this way on his own. No, it was the almighty Grayson empire speaking. Bad for business if you hated gays.
Our waiter brought us two more drinks. He lingered at our table, peering out the window. “My friends are on the next float… Halifax Gay Wrestlers.”
I almost choked on my Coke, but Dad gave me the eye… you know, the parent thing that means “keep your mouth shut.” How in the world was this guy friends with wrestlers? How could a gay man be a wrestler anyway? The sport kind, not the sex kind.
Sure enough, the gay wrestlers floated by, and to my surprise, any one of those guys could have played defense on a pro football team. Those guys impressed me. They impressed Mr. Stiffy under the table too. I had a fleeting thought of what they do in the bedroom, and I was curious and aroused big-time. Yes, Pastor, I’m going to hell. Right here. Right now.
There I was, a big ol’ fuckin’ homo myself but feeling alone and confused and sad and horny. All because I was so closeted I refused to let anyone help me, let anyone even know me—except for Mal. And how could she, a hetero girl my own age, truly help me?
Seeing all that in front of me, I wanted to break down the closet door, come out to my dad, and let the cards lie where they may. But I couldn’t. The parade was endless, two hours or more. Just when I thought it would come to an end, another float would appear. I shifted in my chair constantly, surreptitiously, just to relieve my enormous hard-on. I tried to just turn off, tune out. Think of other things. I looked around at all the people not eating, just wa
tching. The restaurant was definitely losing money because no one was leaving. But I guess with a giant parade outside to distract the crowd, no one wanted to come in to eat anyway.
After so many displays of gay businesses, gay organizations, and gay performance groups, I was beyond bored. I was totally over it. It had put me in gay overload. But the boredom did cure my physical problem.
Then suddenly a float made me sit up and lean toward the window. Safe Harbour Metropolitan Community Church.
I turned to Dad. “You mean there are churches for just gay people?” My boredom was momentarily suspended by this mind-boggling notion. Could there be a church that actually approved of gay people? And could I get Mom to join it?
“Why not? I told you, most gays are just ordinary people.”
“Can you picture Mom at one of those churches?” I smiled wickedly as I asked that question.
His eyes widened, and then he burst out with a laugh so big that people in the restaurant turned.
I joined him, and we didn’t stop for what seemed at least five or six minutes. Just as one of us would get under control, we’d look at each other and start all over again. It got so bad that the waiter, who was next to our table, turned and joined in. And I don’t know about Dad, but I was laughing even harder knowing that this bozo was in tears, laughing so hard, and he didn’t even know why. Finally, we settled down.
The last float was one full of children. The banner read Gay Adoption… It’s a privilege. On the float, about ten same-sex couples smiled and held babies.
I sat there, stunned, my laughter vanquished. Without warning, warm tears slid down my cheeks. I slipped my napkin up as I faked a cough while wiping the tears. How would it feel to have gay parents? The kids looked happy. Mal is always talking about how she planned to adopt when she was older. That there were far too many kids out there who needed parents. And the kids on this float had parents. They appeared to be loving, caring parents. I was moved. Maybe Dad was right. Live and let live.
That didn’t mean I had to live my own gay life—I simply wasn’t ready for that yet—but I could let others live theirs.
And I actually felt some shame about my earlier thoughts. I didn’t like the waiter, but the way he walked and talked was part of him, and I had no right to condemn him for that. And those women on the motorcycles? So—they liked to ride hogs. That didn’t necessarily make them dykes, with a capital D, even if they were lesbian.
Then I thought of Mom’s reaction to all this. She would be in overload, not allowing all this to compute in her Bible-addled brain. Being accepting is one thing—love the sinner, not the sin, you know—but men in skirts? Gay athletes? Gay churches? Gay adoption?
And before I thought, I spoke aloud what Mom would have said. “That’s just wrong.” Shit. When you live with a nut long enough, you say things without even believing it yourself.
“What’s wrong?”
I tried to make it right. “You know what Mom would say about all this. Especially the gay-adoption thing.”
“That’s your mom. She has a long way to go to acceptance. She’s getting there, but it’s a slow journey.”
She’s getting there? They talked about this? Why?
“But do you really think it’s wrong for a child to have two loving parents, even if they are of the same sex?” His voice was even, measured.
Time stood still, for only a millisecond but long enough for me to go insane. The Philly march, the lobby kiss, the touchy-feely waiter, the pride parade, the insufferable message of tolerance Dad had been pushing all began to close in on me. I’d been sitting there, watching this thing, enjoying this thing, and getting hard over this thing. This was not me. I wanted someone to rescue me from being gay. Maybe if I had a gay parent to guide me, but all I had were two fanatics, one in love with the Bible, one in love with Le-ho and Red. Grief, disgust, fear, self-hate engulfed me. I felt hemmed in, amongst all this frivolity, these people cheering a parade celebrating what I didn’t want to be. I can’t imagine what propelled me to think I needed to plunge into all that madness outside, but I had an urge to get away, to run away—from myself.
My chair scraped the floor as I rose. I wasn’t thinking clearly, but you don’t realize that when it’s happening. I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted this parade over. I wanted Dad to quit pushing gay freedom down my throat. I wanted to be straight. I couldn’t control any of that. So I wanted to be out of there.
Dad put his arm on mine, pulling me back down, firmly. I sat, fighting to get away. But he was holding on to me for dear life. His? Mine? I didn’t know and didn’t care. I just wanted to bolt.
“Son, what’s going on? Let’s talk about this.” He kept his voice low and measured. I had made a scene in a public place, and Brian Hardy, the professional, didn’t approve. Brian Hardy, the dad, however, was concerned. His eyes begged me for explanation. He kept me firmly in his grip, like he was afraid to let go of me, like if he did, I would leave and never return. Which was exactly what I wanted to do.
I couldn’t tell him what really bothered me. I was terrified to say the words. Dad, I’m gay. This ordeal would not be over until I said something. I latched on to the last thing he’d said before I tried to run.
“You’re not disgusted?” I felt my heart rate rise. I was certain you could see it pound in my chest. I knew I didn’t care about the gay adoption issue. I was just trying to change the subject—away from me. I felt like I was shouting. I knew neither of my parents would want me doing that. But I was having a hard time controlling myself. “You’re not worried about them?”
“About who?”
“Those kids! Someone has to stop those perverts from hurting them!” God help me, I was channeling Pastor Stillmore, and somehow I convinced myself I believed what spewed from my mouth. My deflection did a number on me. I was one of those kids.
“Perverts? Jacob, what has gotten into you?”
I couldn’t stop. I was determined to obliterate any good gay feelings I had right then and there. I knew it was born in you, but I hated myself for being gay, and I was more than willing to convince myself that I was turned that way somehow. And this issue—gay adoption—didn’t even apply to me, but it was handy and I needed to vent. I continued to rant and rave, unbridled hate spewing forth. “Kids don’t need to be subjected to that sort of thing. A gay man can’t possibly be a parent.”
“Why not? Can’t gay men show love?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. They’d show it too much. A kid needs protection from that sort of thing.” I was beyond thinking straight. I just wanted to pound the gay down deep inside me.
“What sort of thing?”
I plowed on. “They don’t need to be watching that day after day. Even if they weren’t molested or anything, they’d still have to be around homosexuals all the time.” If I’d known then what I know now.
“And that would be a bad thing?”
“Dad, why are you taking their side?” I was beyond worked up. I was irrational and didn’t care. And the next thing I said I regretted the moment it left my lips. “Kids need two parents around, a man and a woman.” If my head had been on straight, I’d never have said such a thing. I didn’t mean it, not in regards to him and Mom anyway. I was trying to talk my way out of my misery. And misery loves company, they say. I guess those words escaped me to make him as miserable as I felt. God, why did I say that to such a good man?
“Jacob Hardy! I cannot believe those words came out of your mouth. Haven’t your mom and I always tried to take care of you? Haven’t we always shown you more love than you could ever imagine? Haven’t we always had your best interests at heart?”
The look on his face cut me. There was tremendous hurt mixed with disappointment at me. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? Was I so insensitive that I would wound my dad so readily? I tried to make amends.
“Dad, I didn’t mean it that way. You and Mom are good parents. Really.” I should have stopped right there.
But I didn’t. “I just meant that no kid should have to grow up with a gay mother or father.” Damn. If I’d stopped. If I’d kept my fucking mouth shut. But no.
“Did growing up with a gay father hurt you, Jake?”
Time stopped. I replayed what he’d said. I hoped my mind would change it somehow. That he couldn’t have said what he said. But I was stunned because there was no way to twist what he said into something different.
Chapter 10
I RAN from the restaurant. I didn’t know where I was going or why I was running. I just knew I had to get out of there—away from him. The lying bastard. He’d kept a whole huge secret for my entire life. I had inherited this pain inside me from him. From my homo father. My queer father who could have warned me. Could have stopped me from turning gay.
It’s amazing what crap goes through your mind when you’re going crazy, fleeing from something you didn’t ever, ever want to hear.
The crowd engulfed me. How could they be so happy when I was so miserable? The momentum pushed me, following the end of the parade as it kept lumbering to its destination. I dodged beads being thrown from floats; I dodged men and women shouting, “Me. Here. Throw me some.” I felt hot breaths from the mass of happiness. My ears were assaulted by their laughter, their joy. They grabbed me, pulled me, tried to get me to join in their happiness. But once again, a giant iceberg had ripped a hole in my heart.
My father was not the man I thought I knew. He was gay. The thought reverbed. Dad is gay; Dad is gay; Dad is gay. I was almost knocked down by the mass of partiers as I stopped moving, stood stock-still. And that’s why I’m gay. The answer to why I was the way I was. I’d spent a year of hell wondering why I was gay. No book, no internet search had satisfied me on that topic. They’re quick to point out that it’s born in you, but there’s not much out there about why. And now I knew. My dad and I were two peas in a pod. But the realization didn’t comfort me as I’d hoped. I could have killed him, right then and there, for making me the way I was.
Titanic Summer Page 9
