Fourteen: Gay Uncles Give Good Heart

All girls should have a gay uncle. And for those who weren’t fortunate enough to have been born into a family where the gay gene is prevalent, I highly recommend finding a surrogate. My gay uncle is named Vic. He was one of Southern Florida’s premier florists until he hit fifty, and went through what appears to be a national phenomenon best called “gay menopause.” As opposed to its female counterpart, gay menopause pretty much skips on the hot flashes and memory loss and instead focuses all of its energies on making its host body completely, entirely insane. It’s sad but true. Not that my uncle Vic hasn’t always been crazy, it’s what made him my dearest uncle in the first place. Sure, my Uncle Tommy was cute and young and came to all the school dances, but my Uncle Vic took me shopping for Gaultier.

I remember first questioning my Mom and Nana on Vic’s gay-ness when I was eight. We were vacationing in Ft. Lauderdale and staying at my uncle’s house. I had noticed that his “roommate” Paul and him slept in the same bed even though they had a three bedroom house. And then there was the issue of the word, “honey.” My uncle always called Paul “honey” or some other term of endearment, and that too seemed suspicious. Because of the AIDS epidemic and the subsequent letter that was sent to every household in America, I had gotten wind of this “gay” thing, and has begun to think that my uncle might be one. I knew better then to just come out with it, this was still the eighties after all. My mom, Nana and I were getting into our rented car when I decided to pop the question, “Mom, why does Uncle Vic call Paul “honey?” I saw my Mom and Nana pause, they both shot a look at each other over the roof of the car, and then my Mother began, “Um, well, you know Uncle Vic, he…”

But Nana stepped in, “He calls everyone honey. Your grandpa did the same thing.”

My grandpa is a very rarely mentioned figure in my family so bringing him up at all almost threw me off my game, but then I remembered that Vic and Paul shared a bed and decided I would try that tack, but as though she could see me formulating it, Nana turned her steely eyed glare on me, and ordered, “Get in the car.”

The glare didn’t always get me to obey but this time it did. I got in the car and decided it was better I not bring it up. Yet. Years later, Nana and I were vacationing at Vic’s house again. I was watching TV while Nana talked on the phone behind me. I decided to see what was in the VHS because it was summer and I was bored. The next thing I knew I was watching a man get fucked in more ways than I knew was possible. In fact, more ways than I think I still might know is possible. I tried to turn it off but the battery in the remote control wasn’t working, I banged the damn thing a couple of times but it just kept going. More moans, more penises, I was on the verge of a heart attack. Nana’s back was away from the TV but she could turn at any moment. I flew up, leaped over the coffee table, slammed my ankle into the side of it, and hit the “off” button on the TV.

Nana swiveled around, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said, rubbing my ankle as I limped backwards out the front door. Then I turned around and ran. I ran fast and hard, as though if I got far enough away from the video, Nana wouldn’t dare see it. I got to the end of the block and then I began to smile. Because I was right, I was right! Vic was indeed gay. Very gay. But I still didn’t want Nana to know anything about the evidence proving as much.

Vic calls me the other day because he has been speaking with Nana and has some concerns about my recent attempts at dating.

“Nana says it’s that neighborhood you’re living in,” he tells me.

“What? Silverlake?”

“Such a good name,” he sighs.

“I know. It is and what the hell is Nana talking about? She likes Silverlake. I mean, I know she would prefer Beverly Hills, but she gets it. She thinks it’s charming and shit.”

“Yeah. But she says there are no professionals in the neighborhood. That they’re all artists. K, believe me, stay away from artists.”

My uncle and I both share of a vision of the big dream. His was to become a top florist and mine is to become a famous writer, and we both know that big dreams can come with steep prices. My mom and my Uncle Tom believe in nice things and decent jobs, but they’re no artists. They pay their bills. They do their taxes. They vote Republican. And so I understand why Vic warns me against the artist. He is warning me against our kind. He is also, without saying it, warning me against Jimmy. I knew I should have never told Nana about him.

“I go out with professionals, Vic. I just went out with a professional last night?”

“Really? How did it go?”

I don’t really know how to respond to that. How did it go?

I meet Peter last night at a local Mexican restaurant for our second date. Because of the holidays, it has been a long and lackluster break since the first time we met. We had sent a bunch of funny emails, but after date number one, I was pretty convinced on the “he makes me laugh” front, so it didn’t really add much to our already humorous rapport. I don’t dread our second date. I know I will have a good time. I know we will have enough relatable experience to connect, and enough differences to be able to mutually educate. And I know I will laugh. A lot.

Still, there is no daydreaming involved. No thinking about my outfit three days, let alone three hours, ahead. No dancing around before the time of departure. No giggling. Period. I simply shower, dry my hair, put on makeup, throw on jeans and a sweater from the night before, and leave to meet him at a restaurant up the street. And I think that this is what people do all the time and call it romance. It’s just I’m used to a little more spit in my fire. I know that life would probably be a cushy with Peter. There would be paid-for travel, and big meals we would cook at home together, and sailing lessons. And this sounds a lot like what I first wrote about Peter, but ultimately it’s the same concern as I had on the first date. The same concerns I had with Mandla years before. That for all our similarities, we’re very different people, and I’m still looking for my kind.

We sit down at the restaurant, we order drinks (me: ice tea, he: Diet Coke), and we launch into long and storied talk before we even look at the menu. We talk a lot.

“I can’t believe you got to study abroad in South Africa,” Peter seems genuinely excited about my five months in Durban. And I like that. I loved my five months in Durban.

“Well, it’s not like you’re not well traveled.”

“I guess, but really only to Europe. Although my friends and I did once go to Normandy. We went swimming there.”

“Really? Wow – I bet that was eerie.”

“Yeah, it was. It’s fucking crazy to think how many people died in those waters.”

“Hmmm,” I shrug, “Life’s a beach.”

Peter doesn’t even crack a smile he’s so good at this, “And then you’re massacred by the Germans.”

I laugh, “Don’t you know it.”

We talk about his job, and I can tell he’s been waiting for a woman with whom he can share his work concerns. The first phone call. Bad day: call her. Good day: Call her. And I know as I listen and ask questions and offer supportive thoughts and cheer, that I am making for a good her. Peter is also a good him.

“But no spark, huh?” Vic asks me.

“I don’t know, Uncle Vic. I just feel like, like is that all it’s supposed to be? Is life just supposed to be comfortable? Forgive the pun, but I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”

Vic sighs, “You’re so much like me, it’s scary, you know?” And I am and it is.

He continues, “K, some people just want to live life with their hearts. They don’t care that they’ll be broken, they’re not afraid to lose. They just know that they have to go wherever their hearts take them. Even if it’s really fucking hard.”

I nod, “I know.”

And he laughs, “And some people just want to be safe. And we don’t need to judge either of them.”

I don’t want this to come down to the emotional girl versus the safe guy. I have never wanted to play Dharma to anyone’s Greg. And so as I sit across from Peter as he analyzes the check and figures out exactly how much he should be tipping the waitress, I decide that I should try again. And I hope that it’s not simply a generational problem. That the men in our world today go swimming off of Normandy, and have long forgotten what it means to fight for it.

Peter is going to London for two weeks on business, and I like that. It’s why Nana isn’t the only one who wants a professional for me. Because Peter walked to the restaurant, I drive him home to his designer apartment in Silverlake, and though he might be a lawyer, he still loves this neighborhood as much as I do. I lean a little over the emergency brake and I hope that he will take the opportunity to go in for some passionate kiss that shows his artistic side. That shows that he can he storm a beach as well as play on one. But he doesn’t.

“Well, uh, let’s um, would you, um, when I get back? Would you um, like to?” he stutters. And all of his professionalism, all his humor, it just can’t seem to save him here.

“Sure, I would love to go out again,” I say because though I get flashbacks to a relationship I was in years ago, I cannot help but hope that this one will be different. That I won’t hate the safe guy for not feeling as much as I do. That I might be open to actually finding out how he feels. That I might just make it to date number three with a guy who would otherwise not have stood a chance, because I am quick to question, faster to judge, and like my uncle, believe that the big dream demands a partner who is also willing to fight for it.

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