Monday, January 27, 2003

Jeffrey Gentile is a freelance writer and smarty-pants savant living in Los Angeles. He's also an email junkie, so please drop him a line at [email protected].
 

He came sailing around the corner and into the courtyard, blonde hair bleached white from the sun. Even the downy hairs on his legs were white. His tan had reached a shade that only blonds can achieve. The color of his skin made the whiteness of his teeth even more shocking. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and barefoot on a surfboard, he was nothing short of a cliché: Ryan was a California beach boy. He was also the most beautiful child I had ever seen. And a child is what he was. Ryan was thirteen. It almost took your breath away when you saw the magnificence of God’s handiwork. Okay, genetics played a part in it, since both his parents were attractive. But God gave this child an extra dose of “wow.” I had moved next door to his divorced mother, Jean, a few months after I moved to Los Angeles. I’d met both sisters, but this was my first encounter with the baby of the family. There’s no need to get queasy. I never harbored a second of lust toward this child. How could I? I was too busy enjoying the role of Auntie Mame.
 

Here’s what sealed it: Early one weekend morning, there was a knock on the door. It was Ryan, fresh from bed, wearing a pair of gray sweat pants and a serious case of pillow head. He was carrying a cereal bowl like a waif out of Dickens and said, “Do you have any milk?” That did it. I dragged him inside and cooked that boy a stack of pancakes. We were pals after that.
 

His mother was a nurse who worked the night shift. That left Ryan alone a lot, and he gravitated toward a place where he felt safe and welcome. It just happened to be my apartment. He knew from the start that I was gay, but it never gave Ryan a second of hesitation. He was comfortable in my home, popping in and out freely and eating constantly. We would talk about life, girls, family, school. I would listen, encourage and be supportive without having any of the actual parental responsibility. It was great.
 

I didn’t think anything of it when I asked him if he’d like to go to a matinee of the new James Bond movie. He said it sounded like a good idea and went to tell his mother. Jean gave him permission, but she also issued a warning: “If he tries anything, run.” That was what she told him. Ryan was mortified. He tried making light of it, but he was bothered. I could tell. As I drove to the movie, my face was hot with shame and rage.
 

I sat in the dark theater as James Bond saved the world and wondered how Jean could think such a thing. I thought I was a family friend, maybe something of a surrogate parent, informal babysitter, tutor, mentor, and big brother. Instead I was reminded that I was a faggot and that I was automatically, inevitably and absolutely suspect. I was indeed a part of the family: I was the funny uncle with grabby hands. “If he tries anything, run.”
 

Jean and I were good friends. That’s what made it so unexpected. We swapped recipes. We talked about her dates, her children, her shattered marriage. We spent holidays together. One Christmas when my presents didn’t arrive from Chicago, she bought me a gift so I had something to open. That’s how thoughtful Jean was. She attended my parties and met my family. But when it came to sending off her only son into a car with a known homosexual, she felt compelled by parental duty to warn him.
 

It was as absurd as it was outrageous. If I’d had designs on him, there had been countless nights when he was in my apartment watching movies (and getting an education in the classics) and fell asleep. There he would be – a sleeping angel, something Michelangelo carved on a really good day. I’d go to upstairs to bed. When Ryan woke up, he’d turn everything off and walk next door to his mother’s apartment.
 

It was my good fortune to come out in a relatively painless manner. I’ve never known discrimination in the workplace or housing. I’ve never been gay-bashed, so my experiences are fairly tame. I wasn’t prepared to be suspected of something so foul by someone I thought was my friend just because I was gay.

 

I used to work with a mulatto woman named Toshi who was raised by her white mother in a white environment. But every now and then, she said, one of the little white girls would get mad at her. “Then they’d call me a you-know-what.” It was automatic, inevitable and absolute. There was a line that separates us. On one side Polite Society says you are This. But right across the line is Something Else. Something Ugly. I’d never seen the line before. So I didn’t know it existed. But there it was.

 

If Jean’s reaction was mistaken, her ex-husband’s was militant. I was a clear, present, and constant danger. Curiously, Jean would defend me in these battles. It was the difference between “theory” and “practice,” I suppose. I never blamed them for suspecting the worst. They couldn’t understand how unfounded their fears were. The burden of parenthood prevented it, and the legacy of bigotry encouraged it.

 

The years separated us, and Ryan became the stuff of memories and photo albums. About three months ago I walked into a store. Ryan looked up, did a double-take, and ran toward me. “No way!” he shouted. “No way!” He hugged me and demanded, “Where have you been?” The missing years tumbled out in a rush. He was married now. “I sent an invitation, but it came back.” There was a daughter. “Four and half months old today!” Photos came out. Updates on family followed. He was sorry to hear about Jon and me splitting up. I was sorry to hear that Jean was suffering with emphysema.

 

He was fuller now. And thirty-three. But he still had that fresh-scrubbed beach boy look and the same wiry blond hair, but now he had the air of a young man at peace with himself. Ryan made it clear that losing track of each other again was unacceptable. “You were an important part of my life, and I want you to be an important part of my child’s life.” That’s what he said. Rewards don’t come sweeter than that.

 

See you in two weeks