by Dave Holmes
I began reading Less Than Zero immediately. It is a depressing read, full of drugs and rape and decadence, but it was very Gouda, because of this: there is a part in the book where the protagonist, Clay, wakes up in bed with a male friend and then gets up and casually gathers his clothes from the boy’s living room while the housekeeper tidies up. That’s the whole thing: it is suggested that our main character has had some kind of sexual encounter with another male, but it is only that—a suggestion. I reread that passage roughly four thousand times. It was easily accessible gay porn.
After classes, we’d go to the nearby art-house cinema and watch movies they didn’t play in the suburbs. Something Wild. After Hours. Mondo New York. Laurie Anderson’s Home of the Brave. We’d smoke cigarettes from the tobacconist next door. Dunhills, please; we’d pretended to outgrow Marlboro Lights within the first week.
These were kids with whom I could trade mixtapes. I’d throw on some Replacements (“Left of the Dial” having the perfect mix of joy and pathos), some Marshall Crenshaw (there is a wealth of goodness beyond “Someday, Someway”; besides Tommy Keene, the man is America’s greatest unsung hero), and some vintage Monkees (whose sitcom was being rerun on MTV that summer). At the time, I was well aware of IRS Records and their hip roster of artists: The Go-Go’s, The Police, REM. An IRS logo on an album cover—a black-and-white drawing of a G-man in Wayfarer sunglasses—was a mark of quality. A Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for kids who based their identities on which bands they listened to. But the Mark Twain kids dug deeper. They were into acts on Enigma Records: Don Dixon, Game Theory, Rain Parade. I had been trumped. Frederick made me and Ned and Tabytha mixes of Cocteau Twins, The Fall, “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” from Annie. Oh, shit, Simply Fred, I thought. You are good at this.
I spent the six weeks writing stream-of-consciousness poetry, overwrought one-act plays, short stories about life on the streets of the big city (by a boy from a nice house in the suburbs). My characters swore a lot, because they could, because I could make them. I tried to write strange things, because I was in a place where nobody would make me feel strange about it.
That year, my family had moved into a bigger house with a huge backyard and a tennis court we would never use, and I decided I should throw the Mark Twain goodbye party. My parents chaperoned from inside, over a rented movie, while outside, artsy fifteen-year-olds threw down. Kids furtively smoked weed out of Diet Slice cans. Dancers did some free-form work to Scritti Politti album tracks on the smooth surface of the tennis court. The scent of cloves hung in the air. I was living the less-rapey parts of Less Than Zero.
David came to the party, and he smoked, and he swayed to The Cure. Ned and I kept our eyes on him and talked too excitedly about all the women at the party who were Gouda. We sneaked drags off cigarettes and drank plastic tumblers full of Matilda Bay wine cooler from a box someone brought and hid in the bushes. And then David’s ride showed up, and he had to go, and he hugged us both on the way out. My heart soared and apparently so did Ned’s, because I don’t remember if he said it first or I did, or if we said it together, but somebody said: “David is Gouda.” And we looked at each other and walked over to an area of the tennis court where nobody was, where we talked about where literally every other boy we knew fell on the cheese scale.
Simply Fred was at the party, too, and we could have waved him over into the conversation, but we didn’t. We didn’t say this out loud, but looking back, I think the reasoning went something like: He is gay. We are just boys who have intense sexual attraction to other boys. Whole different thing.
We continued that way for the rest of our high school career. We’d socialize, and then one of us would give the signal, and we’d escape to a corner or one of our cars to talk about which boys we were attracted to. Later, we’d share which ones we thought we liked, and later still, which ones we thought we loved. Throughout the rest of high school, the most we were able to admit to ourselves was that we were bisexual, despite the fact that neither of us said even one thing about even one girl, even one time.
After the summer ended, the Mark Twain kids and I would talk on the phone once in a while. They were back to their underfunded public schools or art magnet programs; I was back among the coats and ties. But we were new people. We’d found the confidence that comes with finding your tribe. We’d send letters to one another—diary entries, really—with song and book recommendations. How had I never bought Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love? How had Simply Fred not tried that first Crowded House record?
That autumn, my attention returned to Jim, who became the first kid in our class to get his license. For his sixteenth birthday, his parents leased him a brand-new Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, and our young adulthood officially began. And the first Friday of his life as a driver, Jim stopped by my locker.
“Holmes.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t think I’m doing anything.”
“A few of us are gonna drive around. You wanna come?”
I felt like a sweepstakes winner. Me? “Um, yeah! Sure.” And he came and picked me up, and there were a few guys from our class in the car, and we just drove, because that was enough. I did an impression of the way the new French teacher said “l’ouiseau,” and my audience laughed. Even Jim laughed. I had a purpose and a new life, and a new friend on whom I had an enormous crush. I felt like that hotel maid in Joe Jackson’s “Steppin’ Out” video when she tries that dress on, just twirling and twirling and imagining her new life, and also tried on the spot to think of a more masculine thing to feel like.
In the winter of that year, Priory took a field trip to the local repertory theater to see Steel Magnolias. (I suppose we had to be exposed to women somehow.) It was one of those matinees where the entire audience is high school kids, which must be brutal on the performers. The parking lot was bright yellow with buses, and the theater was roaring with shouts and giggles.
And a few moments before the show began, I heard someone calling my name. Shrieking it, really. “DAAAAAAAVE!”
It was Simply Fred. His sophomore class was here, too. He waved, a few inches of black fabric flapping past his hands, like an inflatable man outside a car dealership. “HIIIII!”
Everyone looked at him. And then everyone looked at me. Everyone.
“Hi, Simp…Hi, Fred—” I felt my face heat up. “…erick.”
It may have been fine for him to go back to school and be who he’d been that summer, but the same wasn’t true for me.
We looked at each other for what felt like a minute.
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
“Yeah!” I said. “Yeah, you too.”
Me telling him “Not here,” him telling me “I’m sorry,” neither of us saying words.
He walked away. Slower this time.
I don’t remember who said, “Is that your boyfriend, Holmes?” first, but within seconds it was nearly everyone, and I was spared only by the dimming of the lights.
I was in danger.
And then the curtain went up and we watched a play about a bunch of sassy women in a southern hair salon.
On the line to get back onto the bus, Ned pulled me aside. “Thank God he didn’t see me. Are you okay?” I wasn’t sure whether I was.
American pop culture wanted me to be a grown man. I was still a little boy.
So let’s say the kid in your class whom you idolize suddenly becomes one of your friends. It doesn’t have to be weird and painful, it can be weird and painful and fun! Spend your entire high school career doing some or all of these:
Be with Him All the Time
If he talks to other people, he might find that he likes them. He might even like them better! This is simply too big a risk. In between classes, at lunch, after school, be there. Be the guy he talks to. Be the only guy he talks to.
Find Some Songs That Remind You of Him, Put Them All on a Mixtape, Listen to It All the Time
Bryan Ferry’s “Slave to Love.” The majestic ache of Heart’s “Alone.” Belinda Carlisle’s robotic vibrato in “I Get Weak.” Alison Moyet’s “Weak in the Presence of Beauty,” which is pretty much the same song. Put them all together—and many, many more!—on a Maxell ninety-minute tape and always have it on. Expert level: don’t be aware that this mixtape is actually about him, just tell yourself that these are your favorite songs all of a sudden.
Call Him Your Best Friend, Immediately
People love this, teenage boys especially. It’s just a fact: when you meet someone and you enjoy spending time with them, label it as quickly as you can. Everybody feels more secure that way. Do it!
Had a Fun Night Out? Go Tell Him About It
Everyone is starting to get their driver’s licenses, and you and the other Candy Store Boys are starting to get invited to girls’ school dances, because girls love boys who aren’t afraid to be the first one on the dance floor and won’t ever be sexually aggressive with them. Your social life is opening up. He’ll want to know! When the dance and the after party are over, go throw pebbles at your very best friend’s window, get him out of bed, and tell him everything that happened over late-night Fruity Pebbles and Night Tracks. Who needs sleep? Not him, probably!
Learn Some Fun Facts, Say Some Fun Facts
Your best friend might not be much of a talker. He might be the strong, silent type—a beguiling, mysterious, confident fellow who doesn’t need to be making a sound at all times to prove his worth. Fuck that! He probably just doesn’t know what to say. Casey Kasem can be a big help here; you can spit back some of his most useful facts: “Terence Trent D’Arby was born Terence Trent Howard in New York City!” “You know, Roxette is a duo now, but just a couple of years ago, they were successful solo artists in their native Sweden.” “Huey Lewis calls his new album Small World a real departure!” Just fill the air with noise. Fill it!
When You Go to Pick Him Up for a Night Out, Wait a Few Minutes Before You Knock
Say his parents go to bed early so you can’t ring the doorbell. Say he tells you to rap at the TV room window when you come to pick him up. Imagine the TV room is situated in such a way that the couch faces the window and when you go to knock on it, he’s facing you. His perfect legs are up on the coffee table, his blue eyes are on the TV, but they’re close enough to where you’re standing that you can imagine he’s looking at you. You can let yourself feel how it might feel to be this close to him, just a few feet away, the two of you staring at each other, feeling the same way, thinking the same thing. All around you, there’s a whole world of social activities, but this is where you truly need to be. Right here, imagining. Do this for as long as you feel like. This behavior falls under the umbrella of activities we will come to refer to as “stalking,” but that’s not important right now. Stay. Take it in.
If Possible, Do All of This in the 1980s
Everything that is painful about homosexuality still being the love that dare not speak its name can actually work in your favor here. What in the twenty-first century would immediately be recognizable as a young gay boy with a massive, awkward crush on a beautiful straight boy can now just look vaguely inappropriate in ways nobody can quite articulate. You don’t even need to tell yourself what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. Just do it.
I mean, it’s not like you have a choice.
I spent the rest of high school obsessing over music and Jim, trying desperately to appear like a normal boy. When it came time to start thinking about colleges, there was a part of me that wanted to go somewhere artsy, where I could wipe the slate clean, finally integrate all the disparate parts of myself, and prepare for adulthood—the way the rest of the Candy Store Boys were planning to.
Here’s what I did instead, in mixtape and memory-fragment form, because it’s too pathetic any other way.
1. “Achin’ to Be”—The Replacements
I had originally had my heart set on Boston College, based on its name alone. It was college, it was in Boston, and that was pretty much all I needed to know. Plus it was close enough to Colgate, where Jim would be. (The East Coast was all one ten-square-mile mystery to me. I hadn’t gotten out of St. Louis much.) I had visions of ivy-covered buildings and touch football games on grassy quads. I had no idea what to study, but I knew it was time for me to grow up and get practical, which I did by making my top college choice based on theoretical plant life and imaginary roughhousing. I visited BC and it seemed fine, and then my father suggested we make the forty-five-minute drive to Worcester to visit Holy Cross, a place a few kids from Priory had gone in the past.
It was love at first sight. The campus was gorgeous. Dramatic. Set up from Worcester on a massive hill, all stately buildings and spires and columns. And as we took the campus tour, the students simply beamed. They shouted hello to one another. They were freshly scrubbed and glowed with love for themselves, one another, and, we have to assume, God. I immediately developed a crush on this place and everyone in it. I thought about autumn mornings and tailgate parties and visiting someone’s parents’ house on the Cape. It was a superficial connection we had developed, this place and I, but it felt real. What I was feeling, I now recognize, was the desire to be one of these people. To be proud and to beam and to look good. To have no issues with my identity. To put my love of popular culture in its proper place, behind more practical matters. To be a good Catholic and a grown man. Holy Cross is the place for me, I decided.
2. “Sowing the Seeds of Love”—Tears for Fears
Boston College accepted me, Holy Cross put me on the wait list, and because the object of my affection indicated that it didn’t feel the same way, I suddenly became obsessed with making it want me. I wrote letters and asked the monks who liked me to do the same, and in August, HC relented and accepted me. I was all about it. (Michael Damien’s cover of David Essex’s “Rock On” made it to number one in July, so, really, all of America was making questionable decisions in the summer of 1989.)
As my parents and I pulled up at my dormitory and a squadron of chipper sophomores in matching T-shirts unloaded our station wagon, the new Tears for Fears boomed out of a fourth-floor room. It was the first time I’d heard it, and it was sweeping and majestic and matched my feelings. I was starting over. We all were. We were all hitting the reset button. We were going to find out who we were, together. From scratch. I’d never be on the outside again.
And then I went to my room and met my two roommates, Brian and Mike, lifelong best friends from the same hometown just outside of Boston.
3. “What I Am”—Edie Brickell & New Bohemians
Our first event was a tailgate and barbecue down by the football stadium, and we mingled. I learned quickly that Holy Cross draws almost exclusively from New England, and New England is a big small town. Everyone seemed to know one another, or know someone from one another’s hometowns. At the very least, everyone spoke the same language, which is the language of abuse. Mockery, I learned after many confusing and unpleasant months, is how people from New England show affection. It’s how they show they like you, which is very confusing, because it’s also how they show they don’t like you, and they’re just never going to tell you which it is.
A local cover band played the hits of the day, and the one sort-of hippie girl in our class danced blissfully. She had brown curls down to her breasts and looked a little like Edie Brickell, and she twirled and she smiled and her paisley skirt caught the sunlight. She was happy.
I watched. A group of kids from my hall walked up, watched me watch her, and then watched her. Rich, an ROTC guy, spoke up: “What is she, retahded?” And everyone laughed. Twirling, even from a hippie girl, was not a thing that would be tolerated here.
4. “One Wind Blows”—Toad the Wet Sprocket
Situated as it was on the side of a massive hill, the campus received two radio stations, the college radio station WCHC and Worcester’s hair metal station WAAF, and 90 percent of the students opted f
or the latter. The two most significant bands in my life as a freshman became Toad the Wet Sprocket and Warrant.
The campus was full of the kind of people I wanted to be and devoid of the kind of people I was, and if anyone else felt the same way, they were hiding it better than I knew how to. This was the kind of place where people got dressed up to go to class, and then went home, showered, and changed into a nice clean outfit for dinner and study. Everyone was putting his or her best foot forward, and I had forgotten how to walk.
It was this kind of place: once a month, someone would run out from the student center, where our PO boxes were, and shout “It’s here! It’s heeeeere!” And people would sprint inside to get the hot item of the day: the new J.Crew catalog. The students were generous and thoughtful: if someone knew their roommate would already have brought one home, they’d leave theirs out on a table near the mailboxes for someone less fortunate. Everyone would make their selections, and eight to ten business days later, everyone would model their new barn jackets or wide-wale corduroys.
5. “Cuts You Up”—Peter Murphy
Holy Cross was homogeneous to the extreme, and everyone seemed to know the rules of survival except me. I got a weekly DJ shift at the campus radio station WCHC and I was there all the time. Music was my drug and I needed relief, so I was always using. I worried I had made the wrong choice, and I didn’t know how to go about fixing it.