Superman’s X-ray vision was nothing compared with my dad’s.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
He let out a long sigh, like air escaping from a beach ball. Then he rubbed a hairy-knuckled hand across his face and turned off the stove. “So, how old are you now? Sixteen?”
My stomach dropped. It was his turn to tell me that I was too young to be gay.
“I wasn’t much older than you when I enlisted in the army.”
Oh my God. My father was going to ship me off to the armed forces!
“It was a pretty big shock for a farm boy like me. I saw plenty of things I had never seen before. Like queers.”
My mouth went dry.
“We even had a couple of them in my unit. Great big queers. And everyone knew they were queers too.”
My mind raced with all the things that might happen to a couple of gay men in the army: court-martial, gang beating, lynching.
My father picked up the spoon, still dripping with chili. He pointed it at my head and spoke with the force of one who is not about to be contradicted.
“Those two men were some of the bravest, most decent guys I have ever known. Don’t you ever in your life forget that, okay?”
I gulped.
“Got that?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get me the salt.” He turned back to the stove and resumed cooking.
On wobbly legs I began hunting for the salt. Did I really have this conversation with my dad, or had I been talking to a cleverly disguised impostor?
The salt wasn’t with the silverware. It wasn’t with the dish soap and bathroom cleaners either. It wasn’t even in the bread box. At last I found it, alphabetized between the sage and the sesame seeds, exactly where it belonged.
My dad sprinkled a little into the chili, then took a taste. “Just one more thing,” he said. “There’s no reason to tell your mother about any of this. We’ll keep it between you and me, all right? Just us two men.”
My father knew I was gay. My mother knew I was gay. My best friend knew I was gay.
Too bad there wasn’t anyone I could talk to.
I was afraid if I said anything more to Rachel, she’d organize a citywide demonstration, or nominate me for National Gay Student of the Year. My mom was still petrified by the topic. And my dad seemed to think that the matter was closed. It’s on the table, we know the situation, no need to discuss it further.
But I did need to discuss it further. I might not be ready to be the founder and president of a gay/straight alliance at school, but I knew I was ready to talk to somebody. Somebody who could relate to the millions of emotions bouncing around in my head, ready to shoot out my ears. But where to find that somebody, I didn’t know.
I decided to try the Internet. For years I had been a frequent visitor to a chat room devoted to collectors of Superman memorabilia. Somewhere on the Web there had to be a similar site for kids like me who were cautiously creeping out of the closet.
I waited till there was an afternoon when both my parents were out of the house, then snuck into my mom’s study and turned on her computer. A quick visit to Google uncovered a Web site that seemed tailor-made for me: LONELY GAY TEENS —TALK LIVE, NOW!
What more could I ask for? I was lonely, I was gay, and boy, did I want to talk.
I double-clicked the link and was whisked to a screen that asked for my nickname. Somehow “Geezer” didn’t seem appropriate, so instead I chose something that reflected my interests but didn’t make me sound quite so boring: Superman.
Maybe I’d hook up with another collector.
A bright pink triangle flashed on the screen and I was instructed to wait while being connected to other visitors. Then the screen turned a deep blue, and a message appeared at the bottom.
BIG DADDY: HEY SUPERMAN.
Big Daddy? Ha! And I had been worried that “Geezer” would sound weird!
I typed a reply and hit the return key.
SUPERMAN: HEY BIG DADDY.
His response was instantaneous.
BIG DADDY: WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?
I reread his question several times. It seemed a strange first thing to ask, but I gave him a quick rundown of what I had on.
SUPERMAN: WHITE SOCKS, A BLUE T-SHIRT, A SWEATSHIRT FROM MOUNT RUSHMORE, A STRIPED SWEATER, AN OLD PAIR OF JEANS.
No use pretending I was into high fashion when I wasn’t.
BIG DADDY: SOUNDS HOT.
No, not really. My dad kept the thermostat at sixty-five, and everyone in our house has learned to dress in layers.
The guy was quick with another question.
BIG DADDY: WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO?
I thought about this carefully. Do I let this guy in on my secret hobby and risk sounding like a complete doofus, or do I play it cool and aloof? I chose the safe route and let him answer first.
SUPERMAN: LOTS OF THINGS. WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO?
And then Big Daddy told me.
I had thought Solveig Amundson was sexually uninhibited, but Big Daddy made her seem like Mother Teresa. Half the things he described didn’t even sound physically possible.
“Hi, Steven, working on your homework?”
It was my mother, standing behind me with an armload of groceries.
I threw myself across the screen and hit the power switch in the back. With a tiny click, the computer’s screen went dark. “Research,” I blurted. “For biology.”
“If you’re done studying, you can help me carry in the rest of these bags.”
She disappeared into the kitchen leaving me alone in her office with a blank computer and an exploding chest.
Big Daddy was gone.
And I was glad.
Don’t get me wrong. I liked guys. I knew that for a fact. I liked the way their bodies looked. The thought of being physically close to one was exciting. And I wanted to be physically close to one too. But if I was going to be gay, did that mean I had to dive headfirst into the deep end of the sexual swimming pool?
Couldn’t I just find somebody to talk to?
“Nice hair.”
“Thanks.”
It was lunchtime, and I was eating with Rachel in the cafeteria. Her hair had been avocado green for almost a week.
“It’s Victor’s favorite color.”
Victor and Rachel had been seeing a lot of each other. In the past week and a half they had gone to two movies and one Sierra Club meeting.
“But I’m not going to see him on Saturday afternoons or anytime during lunch,” she had promised. “Those times will always be reserved for just you and me.”
She dipped her fingers into a Tupperware container of guacamole and licked them clean one by one. Then she told me about a show she had watched on TV last night. It had nothing to do with the environment, disenfranchised minorities, or world peace. It was just a funny movie. Ever since she had been spending time with Victor, Rachel seemed a lot less serious. Playfulness looked good on her.
“You know, Steven, if you ever want to double-date again, just say the word.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Kelly and I have broken up.”
Rachel licked the last of the guacamole off her thumb. “Not with Kelly. With a real date. An actual human being. Victor would be perfectly comfortable having you join us.”
I shot her a quick, sharp look.
She crossed her heart and held up her hand. “I haven’t told him anything. I swear.”
“Well, thanks for the invitation,” I said. “But I’m looking at a future of lifelong celibacy.”
Rachel opened a bag of jelly beans and popped a yellow one into her mouth. She was even eating refined sugar now.
“That’s too bad,” she said, as she rolled the candy around on her tongue. “You’re cute, Steven, and you’re considerate too. You’re also a lot of fun to be with.”
Then she leaned forward and whispered so that no one else could hear. “Any guy in the world would be
lucky to land a date with you.”
A date? If I couldn’t even find someone to talk to, where was I ever going to find a date?
I had forgotten my science folder in biology and when I swung by the room after school to pick it up, the door was locked. By the time I found a custodian to let me in, the buses had all left. Four phone calls home, and each time the line was busy, which left me walking.
It was sleeting out.
Fine. I was in a sleety mood.
A silver Grand Am sped past and splattered me with a shower of cold, slushy snow. Then it stopped, and backed up.
Was the sadistic driver going to drench me again?
The window on the driver’s side slid open.
It was Mr. Bowman.
“My God, Steven. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
His face looked so upset that I was the one who wanted to apologize.
“Are you going home? Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”
He didn’t have to offer twice.
I gave him my address and tossed my wet backpack onto the floor of his backseat. Then I sunk into the velvety upholstery of the front. I made a quick mental note: Forget folder in science on a regular basis.
“We’ve missed you at square dancing,” he said.
I hadn’t been back to the Bees since my date with Kelly. The Swensons would ask about the dance, and I couldn’t bear to tell them I had opted for a dog over their granddaughter. “I’m taking a break,” I said. “Giving my dancing shoes a rest.”
“Fair enough,” said Mr. Bowman.
I stole a look at his profile as he drove. It felt good being this close to him … and I didn’t feel bad about feeling good.
“Are you coming to the game next week?” he asked. “If we win, we head to the state tournament.”
I’ve never been to a high school hockey game in my life.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I told him.
“Terrific. In fact, I’m just making a quick stop at the district office, then it’s back to school for practice.”
We had already reached my house. I was sorry the trip was over so soon. “Thanks for the lift,” I said.
“Anytime,” he replied.
I reached behind me to get my pack, and that’s when I saw it. Halfway hidden beneath the seat was a copy of International Male.
It was as if Christmas and my birthday had arrived at the same moment. Throw in a double dose of Thanksgiving as well. I had just found the person I could talk to, and his name was Tom Bowman.
Okay, just because Mr. Bowman had a copy of International Male hidden in his car didn’t make him gay. Maybe he just liked to dress well. Maybe he just liked to scout out the latest fishnet tank tops and micro-brief running shorts.
Yeah, right. And straight guys bought Playboy for the articles.
My next move was clear. I would catch Mr. Bowman tomorrow after hockey practice. I’d casually bring up the weather, the hockey team, the magazine I had seen lying in the back of his car, and before I knew it, I’d be spilling out my guts to him. And more important, Mr. Bowman would be telling me everything I wanted to know about being gay but was afraid to ask.
I don’t think I slept more than ten minutes.
It was a study day in health class. I studied Mr. Bowman. As he moved up and down the aisles, he joked with students, pointed out a new haircut, complimented a kid on a well-done homework assignment. As always he was perfectly pleasant and agreeable. No wonder everyone liked him.
Maybe I’d become a teacher too. I could do my student teaching in Mr. Bowman’s class. It was official now: Corcoran had taken an early retirement and wasn’t returning, and Mr. Bowman was his permanent replacement. After I got my teaching license, maybe I’d get a job in the classroom next door.
Who knows, maybe Mr. Bowman and I could even share an apartment together. After a long day of teaching we’d come home from work and I’d cook us up a big pot of chili. We’d discuss our day at school, listen to a little Elton John, then retire to the comforts of our neatly organized, spotlessly clean bedroom.
Hey, it could happen.
Rachel noticed my good mood at lunch. “It’s nice to see you smiling, Steven. You should do it more often.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I will.”
When my last class of the day ended, I hurried to the school’s hockey rink. Just last year the hockey stick plant had put up the cash to build a state-of-the-art, indoor ice arena connected directly to the school. Our computer lab might be outdated, but at least the kids at Beaver Lake had the best when it came to ice.
From my seat in the stands I watched the team go through their drills. As they practiced their precisely organized formations, it dawned on me that hockey was a lot like square dancing: It was all a matter of knowing your place and doing what was expected of you.
Even though he was only an assistant, Mr. Bowman was more animated than either of the two head coaches. He ran alongside the boards, shouting encouragement and congratulating the skaters on good hustle. I’ve never had good hustle in my life, but I was ready to lace up a pair of skates and join the guys on the ice.
Two hours later, when practice had ended, Head Coach Pangborn blew his whistle and the players gathered around him in a circle. This was the same Pangborn who had cringed at the sight of my bloody nose. Industrial Arts teacher, hockey coach … this guy’s life must be one accident-injury form after another.
“You morons skated like crap!” he bellowed.
Even though he wasn’t talking to me, the disgust in his voice made me want to crawl beneath my seat.
“Unless you want to get your asses kicked by Lake Asta on Saturday, you’d better start skating like men. When I looked out onto the ice today, I didn’t see any men at all.”
The hockey players hung their heads like scolded puppies. Even Dwayne and the Bull. I didn’t realize it was possible for anyone the size of the Incredible Hulk to look so ashamed.
I waited for Mr. Bowman to speak up and tell Pangborn that these fine young men had been trying their best and that there was really no reason to get so upset. It was, after all, only a game. But Mr. Bowman stood off to the side, hands folded respectfully behind his back. I guess when you’re still an assistant, you don’t want to make the head coach look bad by contradicting him.
Pangborn’s voice softened, but not much.
“But I have confidence in you. I know you can do this. I know that deep down inside, each of you really are men. And those Lake Asta Walleyes, they aren’t men. You know what they are? They’re a bunch of friggin’ faggots. And a bunch of friggin’ faggots don’t stand a chance against a team of men.”
The other head coach standing next to Pangborn laughed. A few of the guys on the hockey team laughed too.
That, I could handle. I’ve heard plenty of laughter when people at school talked about homos and fairies. What I couldn’t handle was the fact that Mr. Bowman was laughing just as loud as anyone else.
Maybe even louder.
“Now hit the showers!” said Pangborn. “And come back tomorrow when you’re ready to play some real hockey.”
The players clomped down the rubber path that led to the locker room.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
The two head coaches followed the team, but Mr. Bowman stayed behind and began collecting towels and water bottles. Then he noticed me, sitting about twenty feet away. “Steven! What are you doing here?”
The surprise on his face was quickly replaced by his familiar smile.
“I was just leaving,” I said.
He took a couple of steps in my direction. I stayed where I was. “Why don’t you wait a few minutes and I’ll give you a lift.”
Was it only yesterday that he had driven me home? It seemed like years ago. “Thanks,” I said. “But no thanks.”
He gathered up a bag full of pucks and set them down on a bench.
“You’re still coming to the game on Saturday, aren’t you? W
e’ll need all the fans we can get.”
Why would I want to go to a hockey game? I hated hockey. It was stupid of me to have forgotten that. “I’ll have to see,” I told him. “I might be busy that night.”
Mr. Bowman continued to clean up after the team. He was as neat as any follower of my mother’s book. He even brushed off the paper drinking cups before tossing them into the trash. It dawned on me that it was possible to be too neat.
Suddenly I wanted to go home. Maybe even mess up my room a little.
As I walked toward the exit, Mr. Bowman called after me. “See you tomorrow, Steven.”
I turned and gave him one more look. He was bending over, picking up a couple of hockey sticks. I don’t know why I had never noticed this before, but there, on top of his head, was the unmistakable beginning of a bald spot.
How could I have ever thought that this guy looked like Superman?
“You’re home from school awfully late, Steven. Better not have a snack. It’s almost time for dinner.”
My mom was in the kitchen, following my father closely with a legal pad and taking notes as he made pork chops. Her Clean Teen book had gotten a glowing review in the New York Times and her publisher was pressuring her to finish her working woman’s cookbook as soon as possible. My dad looked ready to bite somebody’s arm off.
I didn’t even say hi. I went to my room, closed the door, and quietly sat on my bed.
Okay, maybe Mr. Bowman wasn’t gay. Or maybe he was. All I knew for sure was that he wasn’t the guy I wanted to share an apartment with.
I kicked off my shoes and let them bang against the wall. I took off my jacket and threw it after them.
Then I spotted today’s mail lying on the edge of my desk. Ever since I’d turned sixteen I had been the target of daily recruitment catalogs from the Navy, the Marines, and the Air Force. I was in no mood to read how the military could turn me into a real man, so I grabbed the stack and slammed it hard into my wastebasket. As I did, a hand-addressed envelope fell to the floor.
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