Dancing

Dancing

In the early 80's, soon after Tom and I first met, I invited him to go dancing with me. We hadn’t known each other long and I was excited to consider the possibilities for the evening as I dressed and blow-dried my hair. We took my old Ford Pinto from my place toward the Oz of every gay boy’s fantasy, West Hollywood, where the drinks were stronger and the acid washed jeans were tighter. Driving my shortcut through Laurel Canyon, I was much relieved the Pinto managed to climb the grade over the hill and reach the apex, then we could coast the rest of the way. After a couple of stops we found ourselves at the dancing Mecca for LA gay boys, Studio One.

For those of you who were there, I don't need to say much to describe the scene. It wasn’t New York's studio 54, but it was fun and had a lot of interesting people in it. There were your leftovers from the disco days, your body builders, the coke freaks, and your suburban boys in town for a night of revelry. We had a blast! We danced and laughed and drank our gin and tonics. And then danced some more.

After a long night, Tom and I were exhausted. And I wasn’t sure the Pinto would be able to climb Laurel Canyon again. So we two underpaid professionals sought out the cheapest accommodations we could find. We settled on a motel on Santa Monica Blvd., whose name shall go unspoken here. We’ll just say that Tom Bodett wouldn’t have stayed there, even if the lights were on. We got a queen-size bed but that was the only queenly thing about the room. You could hear the roaches scurry when the lights went off, so we left the lights on all night. The sheets were so thin, you could read the name of the mattress company through them. I don’t really remember how I slept that night; I guess sleep was not the point of the journey.

Road Trip With Flash

A few years ago, Tom and I took a road trip with our dog, Flash, a 9 pound toy- fox terrier. He was relatively new to us at the time of our trip but he was about two years old when we adopted him and you can never be absolutely sure what went on in those pre-adoption years. He seemed to like riding in a car. But he made some of the most God-awful noises while on the road. Especially when leaving home, arriving back at home, turning corners, driving on winding roads, well …you get the picture. The noises were a combination of barking, howling and screeching. We were terrified for a long time that he got car sick or sick in some other way or injured, so we stopped and checked him out; he appeared to be unhurt.

We drove north because I wanted to show off California's most beautiful sights to Tom, a native New Yorker. We spent a couple of nights in Yosemite National Park, where a deer wandered up into our backyard and held a staring contest with Flash. Both Flash and the deer escaped unscarred. We continued north to Mendocino where we stayed in a hotel designed to look like a western town. Our room was the general merchandise/feed and grain store. It was more comfortable than it sounds. We were an odd looking Trio of tourists; I in the wheelchair with Tom pushing and holding the leash for Flash. We decided we would take our odd-looking troop out for some sightseeing

Mendocino is the queen of cities for cute shops. Old plank sidewalks lined with little stores and cafés. We found one shop specializing in pet clothes. The friendly proprietress showed us several dog coats and sweaters. We chose one, a sweet little turtleneck, and tried it on over Flash’s head. We said we’d take it and since it was a chilly morning we decided Flash could wear it. Unfortunately, the price tag was still attached to the sweater, so the store-owner came over with scissors to clip it off. Flash is nobody's fool, and when you see someone approaching with a pair of sharp scissors you go into alert mode. Right? Barking, snarling, teeth bared, he was taking no prisoners. If your finger happens to be attached to the sweater…. You're probably thinking I end this story by telling you we now own a pet clothing store in Mendocino. But no, we got away that day. We paid for the sweater. No animal control police followed us from the store or down the street. Flash still has that sweater.

Nothing To Do

In the mid-1980’s when I worked as a chaplain in a midsized suburban hospital, I would sometimes get paged to the ER. Such a page usually meant one of three things: 1) someone had died or was about to, 2) family members of the sick needed attention, 3) the ER staff didn’t know who else to call. On one particular afternoon I got a page to the ER for what turned out to be all three reasons.

I found a young woman in her mid-20s in the trauma room. She was standing next to the stainless steel table and a body covered in a sheet. The ER staff introduced us and explained to me that her husband had just died. Her red-rimmed eyes were still wet. Her name was Laura. I introduced myself and asked her if she would like a quiet place to sit and talk. She wrapped her arms around me and put her head on my shoulder while we stood next to her husband’s body.

I escorted Laura down the long hallway to the lobby, and through the crowds to the small chapel, which was located just off the east entrance. It was a small dark room with six upholstered pews facing a stained-glass window. We sat in the hush for a while and then I learned that Laura had been married for less than a year. That afternoon her husband was flying a one-seat plane when he went over their house and dipped his wings to say hello. Laura was in the backyard pulling weeds. Twenty minutes later she got the call. He’d hit a nearby mountain.

I asked Laura if there were any people I could call for her. She told me she’d already spoken to her parents in Arizona, and his parents in Illinois. Her sister who lived in Los Angeles was on her way. So there was nothing to do. We sat for a while. She told me about how they met and married, she told me they got a chocolate Labrador retriever and painted the bedroom of the house they rented a very soft baby blue. She told me he liked listening to baseball on the radio, and eating Red Vines and flying. They would wait a couple of years before trying for a baby. She cried hard for a while.

Her sister arrived after another hour. Laura and I stood in the aisle of that little chapel made holier by her tears. We hugged before she left.

I got a note from her a month later. She moved to Arizona, at least for a while. Her dog, Dusty, loved riding in the car with his head out the window.

I was struck that day that sometimes there’s nothing we can do. We hope to help, and to heal, and to make a difference. But that afternoon taught me again: sit still and listen. Could it be that a high and holy calling is to sit and bear witness to the wonderful, terrible, beautiful, tragic unfolding of this life of ours?

Three Weddings

Three Weddings

Tom and I come from people with long marriages. My parents were married for 55 years before Dad died, and Tom's parents were married for 60. So it seemed only natural when we fell in love in the 1980’s to get married.

Our first wedding took place in the sunken garden behind the courthouse in Santa Barbara. It was just the two of us. Tom and I had gone into a little jewelry store on State Street called The Family Jewels. No kidding. That's what it said on the window: The Family Jewels. We bought two gold bands. Nothing fancy. Just two respectable gold bands. We gave them to each other that very afternoon saying something like: “I promise to be yours”.

The next time we got married was in 1993, during the LGBT March on Washington. We put on our ties and blazers and joined another thousand couples in front of the Treasury Building. There, Troy Perry, of the Metropolitan Community Church, said some words over a scratchy PA system and we agreed and exchanged rings again. A local TV station thought we looked interesting and interviewed us for their evening news. Of course, they also interviewed the two bearded men in wedding dresses standing near us. I can only guess which interview made the broadcast.

Our third wedding took place during that window of opportunity in 2008 when California issued wedding licenses to 18,000 same-sex couples. Our friends, Jim and Patrick, hosted the event in their home. 100 of our nearest and dearest gathered to watch us exchange those same gold bands, cry a little and eat cake. My 85-year-old mother was there and Tom’s mom, blind with macular degeneration, listened on the phone from her home in Florida. Our friend Carl, a Presbyterian minister, officiated. Our friend Arvid, a Unitarian minister, gave a blessing. It was a wonderful day.

Between our second and third weddings I was diagnosed with primary progressive MS, and over the years Tom has picked up more responsibilities as I have become more disabled. He now gets me in and out of bed, on and off the toilet and does the hundred little things that make a household function. For better for worse, in sickness and in health. Some people claim that gay marriage is bad for the institution. I can’t see their point. You be the judge.