Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (29 page)

Also, I doubt I had the balls to do it without them pushing me along. What I’d come to realize, with their help, was that the longer I took to come out to my parents, the harder it would be to ever tell them the truth. Living the lie, you see, had become the norm for me, and, the more I lied, the more I felt guilty for waiting so long to tell them, but not guilty enough to actually bite the bullet (oops, bad phrasing there, all things considered) and tell them the truth. It was one of those double-edged swords, for sure. Still, with this whole Peter thing brewing in my head, I knew I had to do it.
How
, I had no idea, but
when
was going to be the very next weekend. Peter and Sparkle, in fact, were thrilled at the prospect of going to the land of Dorothy and Toto. I had my doubts, however, and was praying for a twister to come swoop me away to Oz.

I arranged for the three of us to fly out of San Francisco right after Peter’s school ended on Friday. (I arranged. Sparkle paid. Not bad.) Much to Peter’s delight, we picked him up outside of school in Sven’s limo. He approached us as if being picked up in a stretch limo after school was an everyday event for him. Then, after he got in, he squealed in delight and kicked his feet about a hundred times on the plush carpeting.

“That was, like, so cool,” he shouted. “I’m starting to dig this limo trick you guys keep pulling.”

“My pleasure, Master Peter,” boomed Sven’s voice, directly overhead.

“Hey, Chauffeur Man,” Sparkle shouted back, “less drivel more drive, okay? And you,” he said, turning to Peter, “my little man, I wouldn’t get too used to this if I were you. And make sure to thank your Uncle Sven when he drops us off.” He smirked and looked up at me. Sven’s eyes were looking back at us through the rearview mirror and I could tell that he had a big grin on his face as well. And, damn, even his crow’s feet were sexy. Personally, I was starting to dig the whole limo thing, too. Sure beat the hell out cabbing, any day.

Not wanting to be upstaged, Peter countered Sparkle’s fun by yelling up to Sven, “Uncle Sven?” To which Sven replied, “Yes, Master Peter.” And he answered with, “Uncle Sven, will you tuck me in to bed when we get back? I’ve been an awfully good little boy lately.” Which caused the two of us to smack Peter on his arm. (Not too hard. We don’t believe in corporal punishment, except between consenting adults.)

“Stop flirting with the help,” Sparkle reprimanded Peter. “Besides, that’s my job. Go pick on someone your own age.”

“I’m trying. Believe me,” he uttered, scaring us both to death. Emotionally, for him, it probably wasn’t such a good idea. Emotionally, for us, it
definitely
wasn’t a good idea. I don’t think either one of us was ready to start meeting beaus just yet, and, all at once, I started feeling very overprotective of our young charge. We both left Peter’s comment alone, however. After all, we were still young enough to know that telling him not to do something was tantamount to giving him the go ahead to do it anyway. He would just have to learn from our mistakes, and, between Sparkle and myself, that shouldn’t have taken too long, all things considered.

In any case, it simply amazed me how utterly different this parenting stuff was than what I was expecting. Every day with Peter made me have this totally knew appreciation for my own mom and dad. I prayed that they would still appreciate me in return after this weekend. After all, my little troupe was zero for two with the whole coming out thing, and I knew that bad luck runs in threes.

A short drive later, Sven dropped us off at the airport, hugged and kissed us, and drove off. That turned more than a few heads on the sidewalk outside, let me tell you. “What?” Peter announced to no one in particular. “Haven’t you ever kissed your chauffeur goodbye before?  Jeez.”

“Shut up and walk, boy,” Sparkle mumbled, ushering us inside. “Nice one,” I whispered into Peter’s ear. Sparkle turned to glare and mouthed a
dickwit
at me. Naturally, I mouthed a
bitch
back at him. (Ah, friendship.)

“Look Thing One and Thing Two,” said Peter, breaking it up. “You’re both a couple of lunatics, okay?” And before we could scold him for being a smart-ass, he added, “And that’s what I love best about you both.” Granted, he was being sarcastic, but it nearly melted my heart to hear him say it. And though Sparkle wasn’t showing it, I knew it choked him up as well.

Within minutes of our arrival at the terminal, they started boarding the plane. Sparkle turned to me and asked, “Ready?”

Was I? I suppose as ready as I was ever going to be. But what kept going through my head was that this really shouldn’t be as difficult as I was making it out to be. It was so stupid that anyone had to worry about this kind of thing. I mean, I was gay, I’d always been gay, and always would be gay. Why should it make any difference at all to anybody? Clearly, it had no effect on anyone but me. So why was it such a big deal? And, yet, it was. Literally, I was terrified to tell the people I loved the most in this world something about myself that was so fundamental and yet had absolutely nothing to do with them whatsoever. That’s fucked up, right?

As soon as the plane was in the air and level, I snapped my hand up and ordered a gin and tonic. The flight attendant handed me my can and my mini-bottle and gave me the ubiquitous nod and smile. (You know what? I like the term
stewardess
so much better. Sorry.) Sparkle tapped me on the shoulder and added to my joy with a pretty little blue pill held out in the palm of his hand.

“Bless you,” I whispered, downing it and the drink in one quick gulp before turning to the flight attendant, whose name badge I noticed said Bethany, and asked, “Miss, can I tell you something?”

“Certainly, sir, what would you like to tell me?” A little forced, but I was rolling with it.

“I’m gay.” I proclaimed.  She gave me a strange grin and a head tilt and then looked over to Sparkle for some direction.

“He’s practicing,” my friend explained. Not knowing what to say or do, she simply nodded, continued to smile, and gave me a bag of peanuts. My reward? For being brave or being gay or both? In either case, I ate them with pride. Sparkle patted me on the back, while Peter just sat there and shook his head back and forth. Minutes later, the other flight attendant, Mark, came over and introduced himself. (Thanks Bethany!)

And then, before I knew it, our plane was landing. Little blue pill or no little blue pill, I was nervous as all get out. God, I wished I’d done this years earlier. We departed the airport, rounded up a rental car, and proceeded with the twenty-minute drive to my parent’s house. I told them not to meet me at the airport, as five people in their car, plus our luggage, would’ve been too much. The real reason was that the five of us trapped in a car for that amount of time could only have led to disaster. Needless to say, I was in no condition to drive, so Sparkle took the wheel while I gave directions.

I hadn’t been home since I moved to San Francisco several years earlier. I couldn’t afford it and neither could my parents, but we did talk on the phone every week, and I still felt as close to them as ever. Thankfully, seeing the flat, arid countryside reminded me of my youth, and my nerves started to settle a bit as we drove down the highway with my Aldo Nova tape cranked up to full blast. (Life
is
just a fantasy.)

And then we were home. We sat in the driveway for a few minutes while I caught my breath, but I was only delaying the inevitable. Sparkle and Peter, for their parts, were upbeat and excited and were trying desperately hard to keep me in good spirits. But, honestly, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea; I love my parents deeply. It was just the thought of hurting them was making me a total mess.

As we sat there waiting, the door to the house flung open and my mother emerged. “What are you waiting for, a personal invitation?” she shouted out as us.

“Coming, Ma,” I shouted back.

“Secret?” Sparkle said to me just before we exited.

“Yes, Sparkle?”

“No matter what happens, I love you.”

“I know, Sparkle, and thanks, but if you embarrass, mortify, or otherwise destroy my world this weekend, I’m going to kill you,” I said, threatening him with a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“No promises, Secret,” he responded. Meaning, I prayed to God for a miracle.

The three of us got out of the car with our duffels and walked up to my mother. She was beside herself with happiness and ran up to throw her arms around me. She smelled like home, like everything that was happy in my life. It was, suffice it to say, good to see her.

“Your father should be in from the office soon and dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.” She beamed as she walked us into the house, with Sparkle immediately taking stock of the home I was brought up in. I could hear the gears shifting in his head as he scanned the living room to find signs of why I was who I was. I was sure he would use my past for dish at some future date. Peter, too, was looking around, but his expression was significantly different than Sparkle’s. It had to be the first home he’d been in since he was thrown out of his own, and it was apparent that he was going through something, if not painful, then at least uncomfortable.

My mom was oblivious, of course, as I introduced her to my companions and she hugged and kissed them both. Inside my head, I was chuckling. I mean, the thought that my mother just kissed three gay men was strangely humorous to me. Then she dragged the three of us around the house for the grand tour. Sparkle snatched up every picture of me as a child as we progressed through each room. Few comments were made, but I knew he had a bitchy thought for each one that he was keeping tucked away somewhere in his devious little brain, destined to emerge at the most inopportune moment far in the future.

By the time we were through and had made it back to the living room, my father was walking through the door and dinner was ready. My dad and I gave each other a big, manly hug before introductions were made all the way around. Five minutes later, we were sitting down to eat. It all seemed so surreal. I mean, I never for a second imagined my parents eating dinner with Sparkle, but there, in fact, we were.

Smalltalk was made throughout the lovely dinner that my mother had prepared. You know, the usual: who moved where, who married who, who got divorced, who they ran into recently. The standard stuff. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how I would work the gay thing into the conversation. But, I figured, what the hell, I had all day Saturday to do it; why spoil a great meal? And then I relaxed a bit knowing that the pressure was off, however temporarily. That’s when, unfortunately, the conversation turned to a more personal level.

“So, Bruce,” my mother began, “are you seeing anybody special in San Francisco?”

Oh, God, why? Why me? “Um, not really. There’s this, er,
person
I met at a show recently, but nothing serious,” I semi-truthed it.

“Oh, what kind of show was it?” she asked, oblivious to my internal turmoil.

“It was a benefit for our men in uniform,” Sparkle answered for me.

“Oh, that’s nice. So, tell me, why is it nothing serious?”
Damn
, I thought,
I should just tell her now. Tell her now, Bruce; tell her now.

Except, it wasn’t the right time, and so I answered with, “Well, you know how it is. I work just about every day and night at the shop and there aren’t enough hours in the week for a relationship as well. Don’t worry, though, Ma, it’s okay. I’m young and there’s plenty of time for that. Besides, I love the work and Spar… er, William visits me almost every day.” (Lift up foot, place foot in mouth.)

Then my father picked up the ball. “Why does William have the time to visit you every day? Maybe you need an assistant, William; I mean, I’d also love to have my days free.” Can you imagine the training process to be Sparkle’s assistant? Poor dad, if he only knew what he was asking.

I answered before Peter or Sparkle could further deepen the hole I was digging for myself. “No, Dad, William came into some money and he doesn’t work, exactly.” I should’ve known better than to phrase it that way, though, because my father was a stickler for the standard fifty-hour workweek, and he immediately became irked at the thought that a strong, healthy, young man didn’t work for a living.

“Huh?” my father began, wiping his mouth and setting his fork down to show that he meant business. “You mean you do nothing all day but sit in a bookstore? When I was your age, I had two jobs and a family to support. Even if I had all the money in the world, I would still work. Keeps the brain juices flowing.”

The hole was getting deeper and my mouth was now full of feet as I said, “Well, Pop, William doesn’t exactly do
nothing
all day; he takes care of Peter.” I knew I should’ve just dropped it even as the words were coming out of my mouth. I mean, how was I going to explain that arrangement?

“Um, if you don’t mind me asking,” my mother asked, without waiting to see if Sparkle minded, “how does someone so obviously young as yourself come to have the responsibility of taking care of someone Peter’s age?”

Now no one was eating and all eyes were on Sparkle, who, in return, was staring back at me in the hope, I can only figure, that I could somehow telepathically send him the answer to
that
tricky question. Peter, however, beat us both to the punch. And, as much as I would’ve preferred answering the question myself, I knew Peter’s motivation. He, after all, owed a lot to Sparkle and just wanted to stick up for him.

“William takes care of me because my parents won’t and because the State was going to put me away,” he offered up.

Both of my parents’ jaws dropped and simultaneously they asked, “What do you mean your parents won’t take care of you.” I knew that there was no turning back now, and braced myself for the answer and the subsequent reaction.

Peter paused for a second before he answered. Coming out to anybody, even total strangers, is never an easy thing to do. In fact, it feels so strange to have to say the words
I’m gay
to somebody. I mean, really, you never hear someone saying
I’m black
or
I’m straight
. These are just things that should go without saying, but Peter wasn’t going to turn back now; he owed it to my friend.