The Cross in the Closet

by Kurek, Timothy

  Still, don’t dismiss them. The church does its part for people with AIDS. Think about Africa.

  Maybe little orphans in Africa…but how about people in our own backyard? Why does the church send millions of dollars and thousands of people across the globe, when there are men and women dying every day within walking distance, completely alone?

  You also have to look at AIDS as a symptom of a bigger heart problem. By preaching the gospel, the church is helping to prevent the spread of the virus.

  Are you serious? So we ignore the people who already have it? Sounds like a cop-out to me. In fact, what you just said offends me. The church can teach abstinence or the dangers of using illegal drugs and needles, but it all seems like talk without action.

  Don’t write off an entire religion because Nashville churches didn’t show up.

  Look around you, for Christ’s sake! Everyone is wearing a “Nashville Cares” t-shirt, but I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that maybe, just maybe, some of Nashville doesn’t give a shit. Believing is seeing. When I see a non-affirming church show up to an AIDS walk, I’ll apologize.

  This is your first AIDS walk.

  It was a tad off my radar until recently. But I won’t make that mistake again.

  I walk to another booth and see some friends from Tribe. They smile and wave me over, but I hesitate. They are stretching for the walk under a covered area. I would join them, but I need to process all of this. What would I do if I ever found out I had HIV or AIDS? Would I lose hope?

  ~~~

  After stretching I see an old friend, my former manager from Revive Café, Brent. As soon as I see him I feel a deep sadness that Revive was taken from us so abruptly. I miss that little café more than I have ever missed a job before. I only had a few months there, but they were a few of the best months I’ve ever had. I remember the smell of a perfectly timed espresso shot poured into silky steamed milk. I wonder if Brent misses it too. He’s walking with his partner and their puppy, and he probably has a new job by now. I wonder if working with me was as pleasant an experience for him as working with him was for me.

  Brent and I walk together and catch up on life, and he is not the only one I’m reunited with. Most of the regulars from the café are also here. It’s funny how much more we can appreciate the good things when they’re getting lost in the rearview mirror. Everyone agrees that what we shared in that little shop on Church Street was a truly profound blessing.

  The Nashville Cares AIDS walk is three miles long, but it feels like a hundred yards. The rain actually provides a peaceful ambience to the walk, and though it is getting cool outside, the warmth of the crowd somehow makes up for it. It is a profound experience: we aren’t just walking in a big circle, we are walking towards a goal, and with every step we are closing the gap on finding a cure for an epidemic I never knew existed.

  “I’m going to go see the boyfriend,” Brent says.

  “It was great seeing you!” I say.

  “Bitch, I love you,” he says as he walks away.

  “Bitch, I love you…”

  Brent rejoins his partner, and I see another regular from the café and decide to walk with him.

  “Jonathon! It’s so good to see you.” I haven’t seen Jonathon since opening day of softball. He was on the travel team this year, so we never had the opportunity to play each other. I give him a tight hug, and he pop-kisses me on the cheek.

  “Tim! How are you?”

  “I’m good. And you?”

  “Been better.”

  “What? Why?” I ask.

  “A friend of mine just found out he contracted HIV from a needle he used a few years ago before he got clean. His whole family is here walking with him today,” Jonathon says, breathing deeply. “Oh, look, the finish line!” Jonathon always had a short attention span, with conversation and with men, but I cannot help dwelling on his friend’s situation.

  “I know. It went so quick. Your friend, is he going to be okay?”

  “We hope so. HIV can be monitored and managed, sometimes for decades. But it’s still a battle.”

  “I can’t even comprehend it.”

  “He’s not my first friend with HIV. I’ve known several men who didn’t take care of themselves and were a lot less lucky. Every time one of them passes, I feel like a part of me dies with them…But listen to me—I’m probably depressing the hell out of you! You’re young. You won’t have to see what I’ve seen. The ’80s and ’90s were tough.”

  “At least we’re raising money for the research.”

  “Yeah, but we could be raising a lot more,” he says as we walk past the finish line and high-five volunteers to the left and right.

  “How so?” I ask, taking a bottle of water and an orange slice from another volunteer.

  “Look who isn’t here. No one from my church, or any of the major churches, for that matter. Do you know how efficiently churches can raise money? Could you imagine how much we could raise if we were committed to finding a cure, together?”

  “So you noticed.”

  “It’s hard not to notice. I guess they won’t be passionate about the AIDS research till they find out their kids, or brothers, or parents have it. Then just try to stop them!”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “Well, I’m going to go meet up with my friend’s family. Pray for him, okay? I know you’re one of the Jesus people.” He hugs me and kisses me on the cheek again.

  “Will do. See you later.”

  Jonathon walks away and I feel the same anger from earlier, just worse. It is worse because it’s not just me that has noticed the absence of my old community…other people noticed it, too, and those people have less reason than me to defend the church. I am frustrated. I didn’t know that loving your neighbor as yourself was contingent on the neighbor being a white Christian male, between ages eighteen and forty-nine—and straight.

  I walk back to my car and try to kick the mud from my shoes before getting in. The rain has picked up, and it is getting cooler outside. But before starting my car, I grab my bag of stickers and peel the back off one of the little red ribbons. I stick it on my dashboard and flatten it to the surface with my thumb. I do not want to forget any of this. I look at the little raised ribbon, lightly touch it with my finger, and I wonder just how long it will be before we actually do find a cure. I hope that in the meantime, someone will have given that homeless man in New York a blanket and some food. I refuse to let myself think of him being gone.

  I Kissed a Boy and I Didn’t Like It

  Moving through the packed karaoke night at Springwater is like moving through a heard of zebra on the plains of Africa. The smoke takes some getting used to (even if you are a smoker), as does the ever-present stench of cheap beer. The Tuesday-night crowd is a diverse mixture of punks, bums, hippies, and drunks. Mix in the oddball Christian, and you’ve got a recipe for something truly unique.

  Josh and I are waiting for our song. We put in our infamous Tenacious D standard, and Chris, the DJ, nods his approval. He is one of those guys who does what he does simply for the love of it. The combination of a regular bar family, beer, and the lesser-known gems the musical world has produced over the past three decades, reveals a side of Chris I wish everyone could see.

  On stage, Cara, known to the superstar karaoke crowd at Springwater as Lucky, sings “Bridge over Troubled Water” better than any rendition I’ve ever heard. My boyfriend Shawn is up next. He is going to sing his traditional Boyz2Men song…the one during which his voice melts the underwear off every man and woman in the place. On stage, Shane, AKA Pimp Daddy Supreme, toggles the lights between red, green, and blue, adding to Lucky’s performance, and the crowd goes wild. This is the only real way to spend a Tuesday night.

  I am on my first pitcher of beer when Shawn comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek and a hug. It has been a while since we have been able to spend time together, much less go on a date…but as I have grown more comfortable in my life as a gay man,
I’ve been less and less in need of rescue by my knight in shining armor.

  “How are you doing, handsome?”

  I can tell by his voice that he has had a few beers and seems to be feeling the effects.

  “I’m doing well. I’ve missed you!”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” he says, his hand rubbing my back as we hug. His physicality is normal enough, and I’m completely comfortable with him, but something feels different. His usual restraint that comes from knowing that I’m a straight man seems to be waning, and for the first time I wonder how flirtatious he’ll get.

  Earlier this year, before I spent significant time in a gay bar or club, I would have reacted very negatively to any sort of physical flirtation; it wasn’t until Shawn and I started spending time together that I became comfortable. Even the provocative humor from men like Scott and Jason, my two favorite regulars from Revive, would’ve been enough to send me into a place of extreme discomfort. And there were situations as recently as early summer where I would revert back into a place of revulsion. Thankfully that was always fleeting.

  Ultimately, I had to recognize flirtation for what it is—a compliment—and not as some sort of literal play to get me into bed. Even flirtation rooted in that desire became easy to deal with, because I began to recognize it as part of a unique individual’s sense of humor. I can’t judge. I used to make the same kinds of jokes, speak with the same edge of suggestive humor towards women. It feels like lifetimes ago.

  Shawn holds me for what seems to be ten minutes before being called up on stage to sing. As he walks towards the microphone, Josh meanders through the packed dive bar to my side. “He’s drunk,” Josh says and I nod in agreement. But even drunk, Shawn can sing. He belts out his Boyz II Men tune with the precision of a professional, and everyone in the bar is on their feet.

  “He sure is on his game tonight.”

  “Yes, he is,” I reply.

  “He isn’t hiding his attraction tonight, is he?” Josh asks me quietly.

  “You noticed? It’s okay. Shawn and I always flirt. He is the only one who gets to be that way with me.”

  “But what about me, bubba?” Josh says.

  “You’re a given!” I laugh.

  After Shawn finishes, he walks back over to the table and retrieves his beer.

  “You were fantastic!”

  “Ah, really? Thank you!” Shawn pulls me into another hug…but it’s not just a hug this time. Something strange begins to happen. I am pulled into something I am not remotely ready for.

  I see Shawn’s lips pucker, and seconds tick by like calendar pages flying off their binding, one by one by one. The real possibility that I would have to kiss a man at some point this year flashes through my mind, and I weigh my options. Kiss a man who I know loves me and has selflessly been there for me—or a stranger who surprises me on the dance floor? It seems like an easy answer, but either way, it means I am kissing a dude, and that is not something that any part of me really wants to do. I feel guilty for my near-constant flirtation with Shawn; I can’t imagine what it must be like to have someone you’re attracted to flirt with you, just for show. Do I owe it to him? He has gotten nothing from me, physically; maybe a kiss is a way to show him how much he means to me.

  I debate, but it isn’t an easy argument.

  “Am I really this drunk?” one side wonders.

  “You knew this would happen at some point, and it really should be with Shawn!” the other yells.

  “But I’m not really gay.”

  “If an actor can do it, you can too!”

  “What will everyone think?”

  “Who gives a shit what they think?”

  “He’s not just doing this because he’s horny. He cares for me.”

  “And that matters?”

  “But…But…”

  “Just let him do it!”

  I see Shawn drunkenly measuring my response. I haven’t turned my head yet and forced an awkward kiss on the cheek, and that has not escaped his notice. Now I know I’m in for it. His face lights up and his lips move toward my own.

  This is it! I’m done for!

  The warm flesh of his lips collides with my own like two shape-shifters melting and contorting together, and it takes me a second to compute exactly what’s happening. I’m kissing a man—not with the full vigor I’d kiss a woman, mind you, but with the meek, guilt-ridden resignation that this is something I have to do. Shawn puts his hand on my cheek. His gentleness, even while drunk, even now, is something that I admire in him. I try to think of anything but what is happening. I feel burning hatred for the seemingly sluggish passing of time, as if each second is trying to karmically spite me. But I cannot get over this scene. I am kissing a man! I am actually allowing myself to be kissed by another guy. What the hell am I thinking?

  I feel the tip of Shawn’s tongue slide across my upper lip…

  Enough! I can’t do it! I’m not gay. The desire for physical anything with a guy will never be there.

  I pull away as unassumingly as possible and look up at Shawn. He is smiling…no, not just smiling; his face has broken out into a full-blown grin. He is thrilled, and all I feel is guilt.

  Shawn really wasn’t kissing me because he was horny and wanted to kiss someone. He wanted to kiss me. Something else is happening between us, and I do not want to think about what it means. I am a straight male. I have always known it, but never more than right now. I feel uncomfortable and totally put off. I don’t like this feeling. But is violation by something you allowed to happen valid or appropriate?

  “Oh, sorry, honey, I guess I got carried away! You have the softest lips, by the way—oh, my god!”

  His gushing makes me smile. “You aren’t so bad yourself, there, stud.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to go have another beer,” he says, still smiling.

  “Me too,” I say, already walking behind him to the bar. I wish they served liquor. I want liquor.

  In my peripheral vision I see the Pharisee. He’s scowling at me. I also see Josh, and his jaw practically hanging to the floor.

  “Next up, Sycho…!” Chris yells from the stage.

  Josh takes a deep breath, re-hinges his lower mandible, and walks towards the stage, shaking his head the entire way.

  I order my drink and look around. A few people are looking at me and smiling. Shawn is still smiling, too. And I realize that if for no other reason than to make him smile, it was worth kissing a boy. Even if I didn’t like it.

  Angela

  It is the season of holidays, and winter is almost at hand. It is the season of Halloween and Thanksgiving, and then my last holiday before this part of the journey reaches its end, Christmas. I’ve decided to take a trip before Christmas for a final test to see if I have truly learned what I think I have, but I don’t leave for another few weeks. For now, I am content to sip my coffee and eat a hummus plate at the café with Josh. It is a beautiful night, and quite an eclectic crowd has gathered to enjoy the atmosphere of the café.

  “Love the hat!” I say to a woman as she walks passed our table on the patio.

  “You should! It’s my attempt at being festive!” Her every word, every syllable, rings out confidently, like she’s looking down on us, or something. Like she’s royalty.

  “Well, we do,” Josh says, smiling.

  “So I just moved here from New York. I’m retiring, actually, and thought the South may be a good place to settle. What do you think?” She walks casually to our table, and we know she wants to talk.

  “You’re retiring? Are you even old enough to retire?” I ask.

  “Honey, with compliments like that, Santa is sure to bring you something nice this Christmas.” She touches my arm, and I’m surprised at how expressive and delicate she is, the epitome of a dame. “I’m forty-nine and have a good diet and anti-wrinkle cream to thank for my appearance!”

  “I would be thanking them too, if I were you,” Josh adds.

  “Not one, but two perfec
t gentlemen? Wish there was more of you in New York!”

  “Why’d you move?” I ask.

  “Ladies can’t usually model past the age of thirty, but I was blessed and made it to forty before I had to hang up my heels and say goodbye to the runway. I’ve been mentoring younger models on the finer points of the business ever since. Did I mention that I attend AA? It really is the best place to make contacts. You wouldn’t believe some of the celebrities I’ve befriended in my time there. And you know the craziest part? I’m not even an alcoholic. It’s just the best place to be, and my career thrived because of it.”

  Josh looks at me, and I can tell he’s enjoying the conversation. It is not every day you meet a woman like Angela.

  Meeting unique people has become a normal occurrence this year. My former church of predominantly white conservative Baptists did not have much room for diversity. But this year I have learned that a lack of diversity isn’t good for anyone. It is our differences that teach us the most about ourselves, about life, and in terms of faith, most important, about God. I am beginning to realize how beautiful others’ stories can be, and I am thirsty to hear them. Angela walks into my life as if from a runway, her confidence disarming, and her story, even as yet untold, powerful.

  I have only ever met two transgender people, and thankfully both of those meetings happened this year. I doubt I would have known how to react, before. Angela, formerly Albert, speaks about her pre-operation therapy, and the effect the hormones have on her body, with the candor and self assurance of someone who has spent years getting to know herself. It is an odd thing to think about changing my gender; it is a lot simpler to admit how little I actually understand about life and its many complexities with which I have no experience. What matters most for me at this point is being true to myself while not encroaching upon the sanctity of someone else’s uniqueness. Desmond Tutu calls this Ubuntu: the idea that I am because you are. The more you are you, the more I can be me. It is a beautiful tradition that has filled in the many holes where my dogma once resided.