Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  I positioned the sharp edge of the funnel over the X. Beads of sweat dripped down my forehead. My heart was pounding in my chest. When I looked up at the man’s agonized expression, I squeezed my eyes shut, whispered an apology, and plunged the instrument through his skin with all my might. After an audible pop, urine rushed out of the funnel like a fountain. The urologist slapped me proudly on the back and walked away.

  Standing over my toilet, I now knew how that patient felt.

  “Well, listen, if I ever get to New York,” said Bill, “I’d like to meet up for a cup of coffee.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Are you still involved with the Boy Scouts?”

  Bill chuckled again. “Yeah, I’m still part of the Explorer Post in Staten Island.”

  “But you live in Pennsylvania?”

  “I’m not supposed to since I don’t live in New York, but I get up there about once a month. So they let me keep my position.”

  I eyed my watch. It was just after 7:30 P.M. I was already late, and Scott was probably worried. He knew I was obsessed with being punctual, but I couldn’t break free. I held on, asking more questions, clinging to Bill like that eleven-year-old boy with his nose pressed up against the screen, ready to bolt out the door when his hero’s red truck pulled up.

  “Well, if I am ever in the city”—he said a second time—“let’s get together and have a cup of coffee.”

  Let him go.

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, talk to you soon.”

  “Good-bye, Bill.”

  I hung up and began chanting. “Olga Koniahin. Olga Koniahin.” Xanadu began at 8:00 P.M. I was supposed to have met Scott ten minutes ago. My chanting accelerated. I knew I had to urinate at that very moment, before I left for the theater; otherwise I would have to suffer through the entire first act. Most Broadway theaters have few stalls in the men’s room. Prior to showtime, the restroom would be overwhelmed with audience members waiting to pee before the curtain went up. Being late already meant I had to be lucky enough for a stall to become available when it was my turn to go. The equivalent of winning the lavatory lottery.

  I couldn’t chance it. I had to pee now. “Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin.” Even the chanting wasn’t working. My frustration was rising. I stared down at my penis, willing it to work. Looking up, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and turned away in disgust. I was furious with myself.

  You’re so pathetic.

  “Let’s meet for coffee,” he said.

  Sure, Bill, then we can talk about old times, like how you used to make me suck your dick?

  “No!” I yelled out loud.

  My voice resonated off the tile walls. Then I heard the neighbor’s dog bark back. I was taken off guard. Miraculously, droplets of urine started to fall. One, two, then a steady flow. Air gurgled up in my bladder like a water cooler, and a cool swell of relief washed over me.

  Scott was grinding his teeth when I arrived at the subway station. We made the show on time, but I was unable to concentrate. In the darkened theater, I replayed my conversation with Bill over in my mind, ignoring the performance entirely until I heard Kerry Butler sing that lyric: Suddenly the wheels are in motion.

  I closed my eyes and saw Jonathan singing into his hairbrush. Now more than ever, those words rang true. I knew I could not dwell on the past or worry about whether Bill was going to come after me. Not after what I’d just learned. Now I was intent on exposing him. Not only for my sake but also for all the boys I believed he had molested, especially the ones who still lived with him.

  It had begun. I had to find Jonathan.

  CHAPTER 11

  Something You Should Know

  AFTER XANADU, I SAID GOOD NIGHT to Scott at the subway station and walked home. Once I was in my apartment, I sat by my computer, wrote a detailed account of my conversation with Bill, and e-mailed it to Dean.

  I stayed up for another hour, hoping Dean would write back. When he didn’t, I went to bed. Splayed out in the center of the mattress, I stared up at the red light projected onto the ceiling from my router. When I fell asleep, I dreamed of Bill.

  The next morning, when I signed on to my computer, I saw Dean’s e-mail was waiting. He confirmed my suspicions: Bill had likely molested all the boys; molesters never do it just once. Bill had been doing it for years, over and over. Dean wasn’t surprised Bill didn’t remember me. If he were an alcoholic, I was just another glass of merlot to him. Dean’s biggest concern was how far I was willing to take this. He suggested that I think things through and be careful. If anything, I should remember that Bill was not stupid. As far as my next step, Dean thought I should consult with a great lawyer and an excellent psychologist—the best that money could buy.

  I signed off and got ready for work. I skipped the gym again. Walking to work, I felt shell shocked. Knowing that Bill had adopted fifteen boys was made worse by the fact that not a single one had come forward with allegations in almost twenty years.

  The entire day passed like a bizarre dream. Patients arrived. I greeted them, listened to their complaints, and then wrote prescriptions. They were all faceless—one melded into the next without any clear distinction. When the last one was gone, I stayed behind. Alone in my office, I sat in the dark, not wanting to go home.

  PER MY USUAL ROUTINE, I sat on the edge of my bed and wrote to Dean. “I had an awful day today. With his book, Bill has rewritten history. Now he will be remembered only as a decorated police officer and dutiful father. The more I think about it, the more it makes me sick. I can’t live with myself knowing that boys still live with him. I couldn’t pee tonight for over half an hour. All because of him. He has to know what he’s done to me.”

  Later that night, Dean wrote back saying we needed to speak on the phone. He said he would call late the next night and that it broke his heart that I couldn’t pee. When he read that line, he said the bottom of his chest fell out. He encouraged me to go to see a movie or get a facial. He insisted that I shouldn’t be alone.

  I was tempted to call Chad and tell him everything. But I was afraid of scaring him off. After my reading at Barnes & Noble, we’d started seeing each other regularly. Just last week, we ate takeout Mexican in my apartment. After dinner, we spooned on the couch, watching his all-time favorite movie, Bad Romance. During the movie, I asked him, “What day do you consider our anniversary?”

  He didn’t respond right away. I could feel his breath in my ear as he nestled his chin on my shoulder. “That’s a good question.”

  I sat up to look at him. “We met in August, but then there was that period where we weren’t really dating.”

  “You mean when you started seeing other people,” he joked.

  “No, I was working on my book, Mr. Smart-Ass. We started back up again once you moved to New York.”

  “Honestly, things really only started getting serious after your thing at Barnes & Noble.”

  I thought about that for a second. “Okay, then that date should be our anniversary.”

  Once I read Dean’s e-mail, I picked up the phone to call Chad, but it went directly to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. Staring at the computer monitor, I contemplated my next move.

  I have to find Jonathan.

  Searching the White Pages online, I found a listing for Duran, Anthony. Was that Jonathan’s father’s name? The address was familiar. I picked up my cell phone and dialed the number. A man answered.

  “Hello, Mr. Duran. My name is Frank Spinelli. You probably don’t remember me, but I was good friends with your son, Jonathan, when we were in grammar school back at St. Sylvester’s.”

  There was a pause. All I heard was the faint beating of my heart. In those few seconds, I prayed that this was the right man. “Oh, oh yeah,” he said, his voice rising in recognition. “I remember you. What’s it been, like thirty-some odd years?”

  “Just about. Does Jonathan still live on Staten Island?”

  “Oh no. He moved to Denver years ago.”

 
“Really? Well, do you know how I can get in touch with him?”

  “Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll pass it along to him when we speak on Sunday. Hold on. I need to find a pen and some paper.” When Mr. Duran returned, I slowly dictated my cell phone number, repeating it twice.

  “So how is Mrs. Duran?” I asked.

  “Sharon? She passed away twenty years ago from lung cancer.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was sad, but we weren’t married at the time. The smoking finally caught up to her.”

  “Jonathan must have been devastated?”

  “He was. I don’t think he ever really got over it, but he sure is going to be surprised to hear from you. I’ll be sure to tell him on Sunday.”

  I SPENT THE NEXT NIGHT OVER AT CHAD’S APARTMENT. The first time he invited me over, I felt as if I’d walked into an art gallery. His loft had high ceilings, and everything was painted white. What I remember most about that day was that Chad’s apartment smelled like it was brand-new. Everyone’s home has a distinct odor. My neighbor’s place reeked of peanut oil and curry. Kitty litter fumes hovered outside the young single girl’s studio down the hall. My parents’ house always smelled like an Italian restaurant.

  That first time Chad invited me over, I was reminded of when I was younger and my mother and I would visit model homes for fun. I loved wandering around a home where no one had lived yet. It was like walking into a giant dollhouse, fully furnished, immaculate, and without odor except for the fresh smell of the brand-new furniture and carpet. Walking into Chad’s apartment felt exactly like that.

  Apart from all the white, there were hints of orange in the Native American rug and in some of the abstract artwork. There were several chrome sculptures on a far wall, which Chad had painstakingly hung. On the opposite wall, a sideboard that looked as if it belonged on the set of Star Trek was centered, with a fifty-inch flat-screen television on top. The only piece out of place was a carousel horse, which Chad had stripped down to its natural wood and refinished himself. I loved his apartment and told him it looked like a cross between a spaceship and the Playboy mansion. He was very pleased with my description.

  I hadn’t yet told Chad anything about Bill, his book, or my conversation with him earlier that week. As we relaxed on Chad’s L-shaped couch, watching television, I nervously monitored the time, waiting for Dean to call. I had spoken to him only three or four times before: always brief, cordial conversations. Tonight was different. This was a serious matter.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Chad. “You keep checking your watch.”

  I explained that I was waiting for Dean’s call.

  “You seem nervous,” he said, picking up the remote control. He began flipping through the stations. “Is anything wrong?”

  I took the remote back from him and began to systematically check the stations I frequently watched. Chad did not protest. “He’s got some ideas he wants to go over with me on how to publicize my book.” I settled on a program about the history of cinema.

  “Does he have a boyfriend?”

  “Of course,” I said, rolling onto my back and placing my head on his lap. “He’s been in a relationship forever. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” he said, reaching toward the remote again. I deflected his hand with my arm and moved the remote out of his reach. Then my cell phone rang. It was Dean. I jumped up and tossed the remote to Chad. Walking briskly into his bedroom, I answered the phone.

  “Hi, Frank, sorry to keep you waiting. We just got home.” His voice was unlike how I remembered. I detected a Southern accent, but I couldn’t be sure. “So listen. I’ve been thinking about your situation ever since you said you talked to that motherfucker. First of all, you need to keep a journal every day. Write down details and how they make you feel. The next thing you need to do is find a lawyer and have him explain the law to you.”

  “I already did that. My friend, Peter Panaro, is a lawyer. He represented Jesse Friedman, who was accused of child molestation. The family was the subject of a documentary called Capturing the Friedmans. Peter said that the statute of limitations for my case has run out, but if one of those boys in Pennsylvania was to come forward, they could press charges against Bill. A victim in that state has until his fiftieth birthday.”

  “Then I suggest you contact Child Welfare in Pennsylvania.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “The next thing you need to do is get a therapist. You need a very good female therapist. One who’s not going to come on to you like the last one.”

  My previous therapist, Roger, had become so frustrated with me during our last session that he threatened to “hold me down and fuck me.” I sat there stunned after he said it. I went home and e-mailed Dean. He wanted me to report the “fuckhead” and get his license revoked. Of course, I felt protective of Roger and defended him, even though, as a clinician, I knew he’d crossed the line. Dean insisted that I stop seeing Roger at once. I cancelled our next two appointments and ignored the messages Roger left. Finally, I decided to call him back. To bolster my confidence, I kept thinking about Eric’s acting rule number three: listen and respond. I had to give Roger the chance to explain himself and then tell him how that made me feel. Except his explanation was that as gay men, our conversations often bordered on sexual. Even though Roger apologized, it didn’t matter, because I swore I’d never go back to therapy again.

  Lying on Chad’s bed, I cringed at the thought of finding a new therapist. “I have been in and out of therapy my entire adult life. I’m tired of telling my story. It makes me sick to hear it.”

  “Well, then, that answers my next question, Frank. If you really wanted to do something, then you would take the necessary steps, but that’s okay if you don’t. This could potentially be the biggest thing you have ever encountered in your life.”

  “But even if I do this, do you really think I can put everything behind me?”

  “No, but you can learn to move on. I still have a lot of holes in me, and no matter how hard I try, those holes won’t close up. They get smaller, but they don’t close. You told me that you have been angry for years over what happened, and how your parents reacted. Now is your chance to possibly correct those mistakes. But you have to be willing to go all the way.”

  In the darkness, I heard the television playing in the other room. “What about Chad?”

  “What about him? Tell him everything. If he can’t handle it, then good riddance. What you need right now is emotional support. Even if Chad was to hang in there with you, the reality is that he won’t be able to give you the emotional support you’ll need. It’s too much to ask of him. You need a professional to guide you.”

  “Is that what you would do?”

  “No, what I would do is wear a wiretap and visit that fuckhead. Then I would get him to admit that he molested me and throw his slimy ass in jail.”

  “Should I do that?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “To do that, you would have to have the skills of an Academy Award–winning actress. No offense, but you’re no Meryl Streep.”

  I hung up and lay there in the dark, listening to my heartbeat. Five minutes later, I got up and walked back into the other room. I took the remote out of Chad’s hands and sat down next to him. “I need to talk to you. It might be too soon for us to have this conversation, but there’s something you should know.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Sunday Dinner

  THE SUNDAY AFTER I RETURNED FROM SAN FRANCISCO, I planned to talk to my parents about Bill at our monthly family dinner.

  Sunday with my family was a tradition like Christmas and weddings. Like most things Italian, they involved the Catholic Church and eating. Growing up, Sundays meant attending the ten o’clock mass, followed by an early dinner with the entire family, then a visit to my grandfather’s house. When I was young, I remember waking up on Sunday morning to the smell of tomato sauce instead of bacon and eggs because my mother started cooking din
ner as soon as she got out of bed.

  Being brought up by parents who were from Italy didn’t seem unusual to me as a child, because they were my parents, but eventually, as I grew older and saw how other families lived, I realized how different mine were in comparison.

  My parents were from a small town called Teggiano in the province of Salerno. Michelina Cirone was just eighteen years old and studying for final exams when her cousin, Pep; his wife, Antoinette; and her brother Angelo, who was visiting from America, paid her a visit. Twenty-three years old and single, Angelo was under strict orders from his father to find a wife on his trip back to his hometown. But my mother had no interest in meeting him, even when Pep described him as a wealthy and handsome man from New York City. Of all people, it was Michelina’s best friend, Pina, who convinced her to have coffee with Angelo once she finished her exams. Reluctantly, she agreed out of respect for her older cousin, but the meeting didn’t go well. Afterward, Michelina described Angelo as a pompous “pseudo-Americano,” whom she had no interest in seeing again.

  When she returned home for the holidays, Michelina’s parents coerced her into giving Angelo another chance. Pep had convinced my grandfather that, because his daughter was educated, she was going to be too smart for most men and therefore difficult to marry off. In the end, Michelina gave in, and seventeen days after their initial introduction, they were married.

  When Michelina traveled to America by herself to meet her husband in New York that summer, she was horrified to learn she had been misled. Angelo was far from rich, and Michelina found herself alone in a new country, with a different language to learn and a husband to help support. For weeks she cried, cursing her family, her husband, and even God. Yet despite everything, she remained devoted to Catholicism and always respected her husband and her parents.

  According to my parents, Italian children showed respect in the way they spoke and behaved. My parents expected their children to abide by their rules, regardless of whether we agreed with them. Disrespecting them was considered not only a sin, but it was disloyal and ungrateful. While I lived at home, I obeyed my parents. Once I moved out of their house, I found it difficult to visit them for years because I was still closeted. My parents considered homosexuality a sin, and returning home for Sunday dinners meant keeping this secret from them. Over the years, I grew to resent them for this, and before I told them I was gay, the thought of making that trip to Staten Island for dinner caused me so much anxiety that I could barely sleep the night before. In general, I avoided Sunday dinners as much as possible.