I was embarrassed with his praise. But I didn’t think it would be proper to deflect it with humor, so I just tried to smile without letting my embarrassment show. “I’ve enjoyed your class, too. You still keeping a journal?”
He said he was. “In fact, you inspired me to stick with it. Did you know that?”
I shook my head looking around at all the students and letting the noise of the union wash over me. I groaned silently at his continued praise. So I tried to change the subject.
“You going to watch the parade, then?”
“Is it really going to be a parade with bands and floats—or kind of a protest march?”
The GPA had talked around exactly the same questions, over and over. I shrugged. “It’s supposed to be positive. A celebration. But there’ll be signs, though I don’t think it’ll be like the civil rights marches on Washington or anything. I wouldn’t be interested if it was. I don’t need to ask people to accept me.”
Troy laughed. I noted that he looked so much better when he laughed, and I wondered about his personal life. I didn’t think he was gay or anything, but I wondered if he had a love life at all. I hoped he did. “I didn’t think you would, Will,” he said. “But you need to realize that you’re a good role model for other homosexual students. Did you know that a few students have come out to me since you read your theme in class?”
I was struck speechless, and kind of thrilled. “Really?”
He nodded. “You helped them. So if you do march in the parade, you carry a sign that says you’re proud. Okay?”
“Hey. I will, then,” I said. And so we talked a little while longer then said good-bye.
* * *
So, the parade. The pride march—whatever it was—took place in late June, and it was hotter than hell and as humid as a steam bath. It was melt-your-shoes-into-the-pavement hot as we marched up Congress Avenue to the state Capitol building. You could see it off in the distance, up the hill, kind of hazy in a heat mist. We looked like a small knot of people on that large, long, wide street, though we were the most colorful event in the area and so we drew attention to ourselves, and some of the guys positively shimmered in their costumes, while others were studiously somber in their long, dull hair, their uninspired denim, and the drab shirts of the nouveaux Bohemian costumes that some of the more ‘political’ gays insisted on wearing—the same ones who insisted in our planning meetings that this was a protest march.
In fact, with the gathering, I was again struck with the notion that gays (and lesbians) were as different from one another as people in any other group. One guy, a friend of Tim’s (the drag queen) was wearing what he called ‘gender-fuck’ and it made me laugh and feel nervous at the same time. He had a large, unkempt mustache, a hideously wild wig, and a stained and torn wedding dress he must’ve got at some second-hand clothing store. He was wearing black combat boots to complete the ensemble. There were guys wearing black leather boots that came up to their knees, and black leather vests over shirtless chests, a whole contingent of them, as a matter of fact, but just as many guys, Tim included, who were dripping with makeup and puffy wigs, in high heels and miniskirts. Don’t ask me how they were going to hold up for the march.
Charlie had dug out some hippie beads and tie-dyed T-shirt and bell-bottom pants, which I highly suspected he must’ve had when he was in high school or something. I did as Charlie had suggested and wore my real clothes, which I used to consider dressed up back in New Mexico. This time, rather than trashing my shoes, I polished my boots and pressed my Wranglers, and wore a leather belt that I’d made in high school with Barnett tooled into it, with a silver rodeo buckle, and I even dug out a western hat that had been a Christmas present from Daddy several years before. He was real proud of the black Stetson, though I had rarely worn it, so it looked brand new. And the wildest colored shirt I had was red with black pearl buttons.
There were lots of signs, some just declaring “gay pride” and “Gay People of Austin.” I had used a big black marker on a white poster board and had written “Gay and Proud!” But others had made banners that they carried on poles, reading “Stonewall 1969” or the name of some small gay or lesbian group in Austin, and there was one really dolled up sign for a gay bar called “Freddie’s” which I’d heard about from Uncle Sean, which was more of an advertisement for the bar than a sign about being gay.
And so we marched up Congress Avenue with a lot of hooting and hollering, and some group of guys kept chanting “Two, four, six, eight, gay is just as good as straight!” To answer Troy’s question about music, one guy had strapped on a drum and he kept up a spirited beat as we walked along. Another guy, dressed up like a forest sprite in green tights and a garland of flowers on his head, played a flute and pranced around. But most of the people just wore regular clothing.
I was surprised, to tell the truth, that there was quite a turn-out on the sidewalks, or people came out of the businesses as we passed by. Some people just crossed their arms and glared and some called out names or insults, but some others clapped and smiled as we passed by.
“Told you, didn’t I?” Charlie said grinning from ear-to-ear when people whistled.
“Told me what?”
“You look good as a cowboy.”
I was nearly the tallest person in the parade and I guess I did stand out. It was so hot, though, that I finally just stripped off my shirt, and some guys in the parade wolf whistled. Then a woman, who looked like a waitress stepping out of a restaurant for a smoke break, came right up to me with a weird smile. I felt like backing away, but I just kept walking, feeling awkward. “Howdy ma’am,” I said, smiling as big as I could. “You want something?”
She walked along with us, and I felt Charlie nudge me in the ribs, but I couldn’t think what he wanted, so I tried to keep smiling.
Then the waitress kind of laughed, though it sounded nervous. “I watched you people pass by, but then I saw you,” she said.
“Yeah? So?”
“You can not tell my you’re one of them. You can’t be that way!”
My ears burned at her comment, though I wasn’t insulted, exactly. I moved my sign a little higher, though my arm was getting tired and I wanted to rest it on my shoulder. I smiled at her again. “Well, I am gay, ma’am. Always have been.”
“Then it’s a real shame,” she said and patted my cheek. “It’s just such a waste!” And with that, she stopped walking and just stood there, till she was lost to my sight.
By then I was dripping sweat, but I dragged my shirt back on and left it unbuttoned, too embarrassed to get any more attention like that.
“Wow!” Charlie said beside me. “I thought she was going to jump your bones right here.”
I grinned at him, though I felt like telling him to shut up. I’d kind of felt sorry for the woman, in a way I can’t describe. And of course, I had been instantly reminded of Margie Collins back home.
After that, I just waved my sign and kept my eyes more or less straight ahead, though I kept scanning the gawkers on the sidewalk on my side and tried not to make eye contact.
In all I think the entire march only lasted an hour, but I was relieved when we got to the capitol building and people scattered onto the grassy area by the steps.
Most of the marchers stayed on to listen to each other give speeches, but I told Charlie I needed to get home. I hadn’t known what to expect of this gay pride march and I hadn’t even told Uncle Sean, and certainly not Mama or anybody, that I was going to attend it. It had been written about in the Daily Texan, but in all, compared to the size of Austin, I don’t think it really got that much attention.
Still, for a guy like me from a town barely big enough to fill a good sized restaurant in Austin, I was a long way from that small-town kid. The march was fun, embarrassing, exhilarating in another way, and ultimately kind of meaningless. I don’t mean to knock it, but carrying that sign and having people read it didn’t mean that much to me. Maybe it was just too far from the kid I was. All
I want, I think, is just to be me and have Lance and be happy. Besides, I couldn’t see how these parades would last much longer. I doubted that the Stonewall Inn riots would stay in people’s memories more than a few years.
Chapter Six:
Uncle Sean
So in writing to catch up to the present, I come full circle back to Uncle Sean. It’s a hot July day and muggy here at Lake Travis. I’m taking summer session courses, which meet every day, but I arranged for evening classes so I’d have my days free. I study for two hours after classes let out while the material from class is still fresh in my mind. I don’t get to visit much with Uncle Sean, except the weekends and shortly before I go to bed around midnight during the week. I work at the geology department in the mornings from seven to ten. So I’ve got long, languid afternoons to spend naked out here. When I get hot, I jump into the lake and swim for about twenty minutes. In a way, maybe it’s selfish of me. I could be spending my days at Mama’s, now that school’s out for Trinket. She always enjoys it when Uncle Sean and I come to visit.
But there’s so much I want to understand, and Hippie Hollow is a peaceful place where I can let my mind soar. Being nude while I write or think is…hmmm. Definitely different than anything I’ve ever experienced. It puts me in a different place. Is that what people say here in Austin? I feel like “my head is in a different place.” I’m more “in tune with nature,” as they like to say. Sounds like a cliché. It is, like the costumes I see everywhere. They’re not hippies, because they’ve mostly faded out. Their dress is nouveau Bohemian, which probably grew out of the hippie movement and the ‘radical sixties’ and other accouterments of the times. Because I come from such a backward place like the boot heel of New Mexico where the ranching way of life is frozen in time, I’m like a perfect observer of the denizens of this habitat. I’m not “caught up in the play,” because I don’t take seriously the costumes and the conceits of sophistication.
And neither does Uncle Sean. In a way, he’s trapped in a time warp, too, in a place called Vietnam where his one true love was murdered. Vietnam quickly fell off the radar scope of people’s consciousness when Nixon pulled us out. The country has moved on. And Uncle Sean is still mourning the loss of Theodore Seabrook. He went through the motions of getting over him, and he might have made it if his last boyfriend hadn’t disillusioned him by cheating on him. So as soon as he graduated from UC Berkeley, Uncle Sean took the first job that came along that got him away from San Francisco.
I followed him out here. It has struck me several times to wonder why I didn’t just apply out there when I found out that Lance had to take his scholarship at the Academy of Art College or lose it. We would be together right now if I had tried to get into UC. Yet I followed Uncle Sean and want Lance to give up SF to come here. Why?
Part of the reason is that living with Uncle Sean was my dream for many years, and Lance even shared the dream with me. Part of the reason is that I love Uncle Sean, and I’m kind of searching for a way to move him back into the world. The love I’m talking about took root deep inside when I was just fourteen. It has changed, however, from the crush of a teen to a more mature love. I know and agree with Uncle Sean that we can’t be lovers. He tried to tell me that when I wanted him to be my boyfriend. I fully understand that it violates something intrinsic in the fact that he and I are blood relatives. Even though we’re both men and we could not therefore spawn inbred offspring, the violation is still there. The most important reason I have followed Uncle Sean here, and why I might have put my marriage to Lance at risk, is that Uncle Sean is dying. He is withering away, even as he appears to be full of life and seems to be getting on with his life. In fact, he needs me now, more than I need him.
He would never ask, of course, that I give up Lance for two years just to be here to help him. He was just as surprised and dismayed that Lance and I were separating for a while as everyone else in my family. Even though Uncle Sean and I have not talked about this, I think he’s glad that I am here. After all, he did stop at the farm on the way out here back in 1972 to stay with us for a few days. He did say that he needed to talk to me the way we used to.
So here I am. Lance and I are living apart, though we stay in touch almost daily. He plans to come out here by the end of 1975, and he and I will share a bed again, and we will both live with Uncle Sean. Something nags at me about that plan. It’s fraught with threats. Lance might not want to give up his new life in San Francisco by then; two years apart might be too much for him to bear; he might meet someone and slowly turn his loving, violet eyes toward that other person. Although I don’t think the same thing about myself, I would be dishonest to say it isn’t possible.
There’s Charlie Greenwood, after all. I’ve really grown to like him. And it wouldn’t take much from me for him to give up his virginity to me. Sometimes I ache for sexual release other than masturbation, and Charlie is always there. He’s working on campus this summer as I am, so we still see each other around.
But I’ve gotten off track.
Uncle Sean is dying, slowly, inexorably sinking into hopelessness. His cheeks are still rosy, his eyes still sparkle, his skin is still young and taut, his muscles strong. Yet…
He’s haunted by a love as brilliant as the noonday sun, by a vision of love that was so strong between him and another man, they were madly in love with each other and could not be separated. And when his love was murdered, it left only a madness of such magnitude that he ended up in a mental ward. He’s been bandaged and ‘fixed’ and sent on his way.
But inside, he’s still in mourning, still injured and bleeding.
Only I don’t know what to do.
* * *
I look around at the other men out here. Some of them come to socialize and bring all sorts of things like food, radios, even cards, and they sit around their makeshift camps, naked and sweating, and oil each other up, cackling like geese in a wetlands. Others come alone to sun themselves and rarely go into the water, seeking full-body tans, I guess, so they’ll look healthy and fit when they go to the gay clubs. Some guys just like to walk all over the area, enjoying being naked, like I do. I sometimes get up and hike along the trails with a bag slung over my shoulder with my clothes and books and a jug of water stuffed inside. It’s not really a sexual thing, this being naked in full view of dozens of men, but I think everybody does like to look at each other. I have noticed that a few guys conceal themselves in the shadows of the oaks and surreptitiously whack off. But there aren’t many of those.
Now that it’s summer, the lake is full of water skiers and boats whose passengers like to drive by Hippie Hollow to get a look at the naked people. I don’t know how it is in the family section, but here, we get a lot of women who catcall in good fun, and guys up on the rocks who yell “Eat your heart out, girls! Cause you ain’t gettin’ any!” We also get occasional nasty remarks from guys in passing boats who scream out “Faggots!” but it just doesn’t spoil it for me. I’ve gotten a full tan, and swimming in the nude is just plain silky. Swimming is also a good way for me to stay fit, since I no longer play football or go through calisthenics as I did in high school.
On the weekends, I’ve gotten Uncle Sean to come with me and, during those few hours, I make him swim and hike with me. He sits behind a desk all day at work, and besides being less vigorous than he used to be, he knows he needs to stay fit. I secretly want him to be in good shape so when the right man comes along, he will be at his peak beauty. I’ve seen too many professors and full-time college students who look sickly and pale, and in a place like Austin with all this beautiful country and lakes like this, there’s no excuse to let your muscles atrophy.
I think the best time I had with Uncle Sean, though, was when we got Charlie to come with us. We had a nice day and a nice evening, which I’ll get to in a moment. But it was later that evening that Uncle Sean finally let loose and told me things.
So back to Charlie and that day at the lake. He knew about Hippie Hollow, but tried to back
out, using the excuse that he was too modest. Once he got out here, it took a while for us to get him to take his clothes off. Uncle Sean was laughing and so was I, and to encourage him, I stripped down right away and let him look me up and down, which he did, greedily.
“Now I can’t, Will!” he protested.
“You’ll lose it,” I said. “I promise. And if you don’t, you’ll just give everybody a little thrill!”
When Charlie did finally strip, he ran as quickly as he could to the water and dived in, coming up several yards out, his face tiny in the distance, but I could tell he was grinning. I glanced at Uncle Sean and he was grinning too.
“Did I ever tell you, Will,” he said, still smiling, though his eyes had gone a little serious, “that the first time you and I went skinny dipping at the farm I saw you had to make a run for the water, too?”
I remembered it, though it seemed ages ago. We exchanged looks, smiling—him wanly, but with a hint of amusement; me with an ear-to-ear grin. “That was during my incestuous period when I thought I couldn’t live unless you were my boyfriend.”
“But you did live, didn’t you?” he said, smiling more lightly, raising an eyebrow.
Now it’s your turn to live, I thought, as he and I both turned our attention back to Charlie who was coming back from his swim, now decently flaccid.
He plopped down on one of the towels we had spread out. “Hey! This is great!” he said, his skin beaded with water and goose bumps. I glanced over at Uncle Sean and saw that he was looking rather pleased as he ran his eyes up and down Charlie’s body. Come to think of it, Charlie has a nice body, even though he’s a little on the thin side.
All Over Him Page 6
