by Mark Segal
When Jeffrey arrived, we gave him twenty dollars and told him to walk around the city and enjoy himself. A few hours later he called in tears. Seems he felt he needed a more contemporary haircut than his Florida crew cut, and went into a fancier-than-he-realized spa. He thought the massage and shampoo were part of the haircut, but panicked when he was handed the bill for eighty dollars. No problem.
He had heard about my many trips to jail. By this time I thought that this part of my life was over. But along came Chris Bartlett, who had put together a demonstration against the local CBS affiliate after their news broadcast did an exposé of “gay men having sex in public restrooms.” The real story was that in almost all cases they were married men. Chris explained something to the effect that it was my duty as an elder to show the younger generation the significance of the issue. In other words, he guilt-tripped me.
His plan was to toilet-paper the entire building. Jeffrey went along and wanted to be a part of the demonstration, but in my first parental protective gesture I told him to stay in the car and watch. The police were called, and he got to witness his uncle and new guardian being arrested, handcuffed, and hauled off to jail. (Perhaps it was a good civics lesson?)
* * *
Jeffrey and I had a chat one day about family boundaries. He still quotes to me my words: “Jeffrey, there will be times that you’ll try to get something over on me, but believe me, I’ve pulled every stunt that has ever been pulled, and I’ll catch you, so don’t even try.” That was my first mistake as a parent, since Jeffrey took it as a challenge. His first try came very quickly. He noted that we had numerous parties at the house and that it was a great way to get to know people. He got comfortable chatting with the mayor and other notable individuals. At sixteen he was living the life, but it was his uncle’s life—and he would imitate it. One weekend, as we were about to leave for our shore house, Jeffrey asked if he could stay home. My partner and I agreed, since we thought he was doing well, adjusting to city life. We didn’t really give it a second thought. Until we arrived home. When we got upstairs, the house was oddly clean. Not clean, immaculate. Something was wrong. While taking a walk, I noticed items that used to be in our house in public trash cans. On my way back into the house a neighbor saw me and said, “Quite a wild party you had last night.” According to other neighbors, people were hanging off the balconies. Hey, at least we taught him how to socialize.
It was obviously time to have a sit-down with Jeffery. I must admit that I was almost proud of him, but he lost points since I had caught him. I told him he was grounded, and instead of an allowance, which I never understood anyway, he had to get a job. He found one and kept it, all the while dealing with the unforgiving Northeast winter. He was just happy to be out of Florida and with role models for the first time in his life. He had earned his GED, so we investigated getting him into a community college.
Jeffrey hadn’t seen his father since he was a young child. He couldn’t even remember him. One thing I suggested was that since his father lived in the same region, it might be good to meet him sometime, so at the very least he’d be able to form his own opinion. I handed him his father’s phone number and reminded him that the only things he knew about his father were what he’d heard from his mother and me. It was important that he meet him and make his own judgment, then decide whether to continue the relationship. His attitude toward a father who he felt had abandoned him was quite negative. He snapped at me, saying that he didn’t want to see him, but I insisted he take the number and call his father when he felt ready.
Having a child about to enter college was a shock for someone who had never paid for school supplies before. Jeffrey made a list of all the things he needed, and I’d supply the cash or credit card. What I didn’t know is that Jeffrey had indeed gotten in touch with his father and was asking him to pay for the same items. He was double-dipping. My brother’s girlfriend called me out of the blue for the first time in years and asked a question about Jeffrey’s school supplies, and I suddenly put two and two together. When Jeffrey came home, I called out to him in a stern voice. He came over to where I was sitting with a smile on his face. “Guess who I was just on the phone with.” He knew I knew. “Jeffrey, I’ve got to hand it to you, that was a good one, but the gravy train just stopped.” This was also the end of his new relationship with his father. Jeffrey does not like to talk about my brother, and neither do I, so we just don’t. But I’ve always believed that it’s good to know where you come from.
To my great pleasure, Jeffrey became a first-rate IT headhunter, now living and working in New York. It will not surprise me when he opens his own firm. He’s talented, sociable, and smart. His success and our relationship come with an added bonus for me. Whenever we chat on the phone, I get to say to him, in my best Jewish accent: “Jeffrey, when are you going to find a girl, settle down, and give me some grandkids to spoil?”
* * *
After Jeffrey moved to New York, I began to appreciate the empty-nest syndrome. I also began to ponder what it felt like to be really single. The emotional damage from my twenty-year relationship had filled me with 100 percent self-loathing and 0 percent self-esteem. As I detailed earlier, this breakup, aside from the deaths in my family, was the lowest point of my life. I survived with the help of prescription drugs, my physician Dr. Mounzer, a psychologist, and a pharmacologist. It took them and a team of friends to get me to the point where I’d even consider seeing someone again. And the first two dips into the water didn’t work out so well. The first candidate and I weren’t quite hitting it off, and on our third date one evening at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, I told him we should stop seeing each other. He stood up and started waving his steak knife at me, yelling, “You’re breaking up with me?” It took the staff to get him away and out of the restaurant. Then the second guy kept disappearing on various evenings. I later found out that he was picking up drugs from an unsavory guy. Maybe it was best to remain a bachelor.
But life wasn’t all down at that time. My friends the Mezzaroba family and their matriarch Rita adopted me. At first, when I wouldn’t leave the house, they brought over care packages, which were as delicious as any restaurant. They insisted that I spend the holidays with them. Christmas Eve, feast of the seven fishes, in their Italian home, was my particular favorite. Rita grew up in the heart of Italian South Philadelphia. Her husband owned a construction company and did very well. They still lived in a row home and shopped at the Italian market on a stretch of 9th Street where each grocery has stalls out front; it resembles New York’s Lower East Side circa 1900. They had their favorite cheese shop, butcher, and pasta maker. Her husband even made his own wine. I’d joke with Rita about being a Mafia princess, and occasionally she’d almost make me believe it. She was elegant and a damn smart woman. I adored her. The warmth between her, her daughter Charlene, her son-in-law Jack, and their children allowed me to believe that decency, kindness, and love were possible for me.
Rita’s favorite restaurant was an elegant wood-paneled downtown joint, stocked with antiques. A photo of Marlon Brando as the Godfather sat discreetly next to a tin slide photograph of Abraham Lincoln. It was reputed to be a mob hangout, but the food was incredible. One wintry night with an icy wind blowing, Rita was waiting for me at the bar when I walked in. She had a glass of wine in her hand, and as I dragged a heavy stool across the black-and-white-tiled floor to sit next to her, she shook her head sadly and said: “Things just don’t fall off the truck the way they used to.” She was serious. “There were fur coats and designer jeans, and the shoes! Now all we have is going to the shops.” She sighed and finished, “I miss that kind of living.”
* * *
Around this time Dad began a slow drift into loneliness. Mom was his world and he had lost her. My attempts at making him feel important were sometimes totally out of place. For his seventieth birthday I used my brand-new video camera to make a This Is Your Life, Marty Segal highlights film. Mayor Wilson Goode: “Marty, I have some news fo
r you, hospital records have been found that prove that we are brothers.” A hooker played by Philadelphia Daily News columnist Stu Bykofsky’s former wife Maria Merlino (yes, of that Merlino family) telling Dad he’s “one of her best customers.” Then Philadelphia District Attorney Ron Castille, who went on to become a Supreme Court justice of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, explaining that he had just sworn out a warrant for Dad’s arrest for using too many prostitutes. Then we took him to dinner where at the restaurant he was surprised to find the complete family waiting for him and applauding as he walked in.
At that time Dad only wore jeans and short-sleeve shirts. I wanted him to come to one of my political fundraising dinners, explaining that it required a suit and tie. He objected, but finally gave in and allowed me to have someone take him shopping to get the proper outfit. He not only picked out the suit, he sat for it to be tailored. He chose the shirt and tie and was very particular about the matching shoes. When he showed up at the fundraiser, he was in jeans, a short-sleeve buttoned shirt, and his old brown shoes. He saw my smile and shrugged. He never wore that suit and when he died it was not among his possessions. I have no idea what happened to it.
During the last couple of years of his life, until he succumbed to myasthenia gravis at age seventy-three in 1996, Dad lived with Aunt Rose, his sister. Her daughter Ilene remains to this day my favorite cousin. Rose’s children grew up seeing their cousin Mark on the news being carted off to jail or interviewed on TV. Ilene knew of the various pressures on my time but she attempted to get me to attend as many family functions as possible. Her children went through puberty during the early years of HIV/AIDS. Through my work with doctors, she learned how to explain safe sex to her children as they came of age. And to the embarrassment of her children, when their friends visited them, Ilene occasionally felt compelled to offer safe-sex lessons. Sometimes the other parents did not appreciate this.
One time at her daughter Stacie’s school, when they did show-and-tell, Stacie brought me in and told them about the fight for gay rights. But more than anything else, their home became a refuge for many of their young friends who were coming out of the closet. Ilene and family opened their home, and at times Ilene lectured parents who wouldn’t accept their children. In a way she was able to show me how my work was used in real time . . . and she never let me feel left out. She has raised three incredible children. That closeness continues; one night her son Michael and his wife called and asked if they could name their first child after me.
* * *
When my twenty-year relationship ended my family was there for me. So was my friend Rob Metzger. He told me of an e-mail he’d received from a young man, a journalism student at NYU. Rob had found the perfect man for me, or so he thought. The e-mail began with something like: Your friend Rob Metzger suggested I write you since we have so much in common.
This started a yearlong e-mail correspondence with Jason. No chat rooms and no phone calls, just e-mails. Somehow, after a while, I lost sight of the fact that he was a student. Our messages were intense, full of discussions on current events. He even began to offer advice on some my projects, and eventually the exchanges became emotional, though never sexual. Twice he invited me to New York, and twice I backed out at the last minute.
Then Mayor John Street won reelection and allowed me to create an official LGBT inaugural gala to benefit our LGBT community center. It was on Saturday, January 3, 2004.
At ten p.m. we did the check ceremony, announcing to the crowd that we had raised $110,000, and Patti LaBelle sang “Over the Rainbow” to me and I swooned. The party was jumping and we still had a couple hours to go. But something hit me: I wanted to go home and send an e-mail to Jason. He had worked with me on this project the entire time. Why hadn’t I invited him? He should have been standing next to me in the glory of that evening.
By eleven p.m. we were e-mailing away. This lasted till the very late hours of the morning. It was decided that the following weekend he would come to Philadelphia so that we could finally meet in person. We decided on Philly so that I could not back out.
All week I prepared for that first date. I hadn’t been on a real date in decades, so I thought it should be special. There was no way to contain my excitement, and this somehow took on the shape of a city project. After I mentioned the date to a friend in City Hall, word seemed to get around. Friends started calling with suggestions. What I didn’t grasp was that everyone was working to get me back to my old self.
Jason arrived by train. At the station, I met him with yellow roses and I sang a Bette Midler song. He should have run then, or I should have, but instead we got in my car. The first stop was showing him the Philly skyline, which he’d never seen before. We drove to the top of the Philadelphia Museum of Art with its famous Rocky steps. The police had cleared out all cars and people for me, so we’d have that romantic view of the city all to ourselves. There I gave him a treasure trove of Philadelphia tchotchkes, donated to me by various city tourism organizations. Moving along, we went to RiverRink by the Delaware River to go ice-skating. The Delaware River Waterfront Corporation had a guard at the gate awaiting our arrival at Penn’s Landing, and he escorted us to our parking spot next to a tent erected specifically for our use. Inside the warm tent were carpet, chairs, and a sofa. Candles flickered all around a bottle of champagne, fruit, and a chocolate fountain. It was a scene out of the Arabian Nights. My favorite part was a framed message on a little wooden table, Enjoy Your Night, Mark and Jason. —Your friends at Penn’s Landing. We looked at each other, hugged, and yes, we had our first kiss. We chatted for a while, held each other, and finally we tried on the skates that were laid out for us in the tent.
When we emerged there were two escorts waiting to take us to the rink. Someone asked over the speaker system that everyone leave the rink temporarily, and we were brought onto the ice. They changed the music to Bette Midler and Jason and I began to skate. On our second lap around the rink, he took my hand and the crowd, who had been forced off the rink, actually applauded. I knew then that this was something special.
After skating, it was time for dinner. We had a reservation at Buddakan, a Stephen Starr restaurant with an Asian twist. Inside the restaurant, a long string of tables usually sits in front of a two-story golden Buddha statue. But not that night. Stephen had rearranged the tables so we had Buddha practically to ourselves. When dinner was done, a giant dessert arrived at the table. I didn’t know it at the time, but Jason loved sweets and was delighted. And on top of all that, there was no bill.
Then and only then did we go home, and he saw the house for the first time. That was over a decade ago, and I thank God (a term I rarely use) for each and every day with him. Aside from my parents, he is the only person in the world who has ever truly understood me; he supports and encourages me, and wants nothing in return but my love. He’s my best friend and soul mate.
I’ve left out some details from that first date, but I suppose I should come clean. When Jason arrived in Philadelphia and came up the train station escalator, I almost ran for the doors. Seeing him for the first time shocked me. I had somehow stopped thinking about how he was a student at NYU, i.e., young. In the previous year, his e-mails had made me feel like I was corresponding with someone of my age and maturity level. His knowledge and calmness were new to me. His youth scared me. To make matters worse, after three laps on the ice rink, I stopped. Translation: I was out of shape. He was the star of the NYU swim team, and earlier in his career had been on the Maryland state team with Michael Phelps. He was tall and slim, I was short and portly. His family was Catholic while mine was Jewish. He came from a conservative military family, and I was a left-wing pinko fag. But somehow we connected. He was and is one of the brightest people I know. I am truly turned on by brainpower.
Jason thinks I changed his life, but the reality is that he changed mine far more dramatically. The past decade has been among the happiest and most productive of my life. Like all couples, we have our problem
s, a primary one being everything that comes along with being me, that circus I call a life. Instead of complaining, he encourages me. He allows me to think big. When I do fail, he’s there to suggest new projects to keep me busy and engaged.
* * *
Just a few months after Jason and I met, the organizing began for a big Elton John concert. I had somehow gotten engaged, and Jason accompanied me and several others on a related trip to Vienna and then to London for negotiations with the Elton John AIDS Foundation. This trip showed me what a partner should be and that in some ways our relationship was like a fairy tale. At the Hofburg Palace in Vienna on a private tour, when we arrived in the queen’s bedroom, a band in the courtyard below started to play, and without a word he took my hand and we danced.
Being part of Elton’s entourage was an experience that would scare even seasoned media veterans. Jason was not fazed at all. Motorcades, shopping trips, dinner with Elton—nothing rattled him. The one thing I noticed on that trip is that he challenged me without making me feel threatened. The numbers showed him to be young, the brain showed him to be Yoda.
Shortly after our return from London I hosted a meeting of the National Gay Newspaper Guild, an organization of LGBT publishers, and invited Jason along. On our first day of meetings I asked the mayor to say a few words to open the conference and he obliged. After welcoming the publishers to the city, Mayor Street got up and went around the table to shake hands. When he came to Jason he said, “I’ve certainly heard a lot about you.” Then he turned to me and said in a loud whisper that all could hear, “A little young, Mark.” He patted me on the back with a warm smile and made his way out.