The Advent of Hope

Chapter 1-2

It was time. Time for me to hop on the bus to Ann Arbor, and then another bus, if there was one, to the campus of Utopia College, where I was going, because Dad couldn’t afford to send me to the university like he had my older brother. I didn’t have any kind of sport to help me get accepted anywhere, but at old Utopia, it didn’t matter. It was enough that I was a Protestant of some sort. Not their sort exactly, but it didn’t matter. They accepted me because I wrote a nice paper on how good a minister I’d make (lying through my teeth) and because my graduation picture showed me with a fresh haircut and a clean white shirt and tie. Do I sound bitter? Well, yes, and grateful, too, because after I earned a BA of some sort, I could do whatever I wanted.

If I wanted to please the school, I’d become a minister or a teacher or counselor. If I wanted to please my father, I’d come home and do the accounting and business end of his hardware store for the rest of my life. If I wanted to please myself, I’d probably have to go way off campus to find myself a boyfriend. And for all four college years, I’d have to hide the fact that I was gay, just as I’d been doing for the last four years, ever since I figured out why I didn’t want to date any of the girls in our high school except Milly. Only as a junior did I find out Milly was a lesbian, trying as hard to hide it as I was.

My father had been kind enough to take a few hours off work to drive me to the bus depot. I had been pleased and thought it was a very kind and loving gesture on his part, because he was nothing if not all about his work. He lifted my two bags out of the trunk for me and waited as I got my tickets. The bus was already hissing to a stop when he put his hand on my shoulder, smiled briefly, and then placed an envelope in my hand.

“It’s time to give you this and wish you a good experience.” He patted me awkwardly, turned, got back in the car, and drove off.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open and a sinking feeling in my chest. Still, I thought it was probably a nice fat check or a glowing accolade of praise. He wasn’t much good in the face to face emotion things, unless it was anger and criticism, but then, he’d been brought up with no father at all.

I took a final look around my home town. I’d lived here for seven years, and they’d been difficult, but it was almost all I had. I wasn’t counting those happy days of being a kid, five, ten, eleven years old, still with that harsh and critical father but with siblings who also suffered his coldness, and a warm and loving mother. It had been not great, but good, very good, I guess, compared to many. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt as I headed off, feeling like an adult for the first time in my life.

Besides being all I could afford, this college would also please my mother. That may be the only thing I could give her.

I knew I wasn’t ugly. I had fine dark hair, curly but not annoying, barely needed to shave yet (I think I had Indian blood), and was built as nice as I’d want in someone else. Even though I was not very athletic in the supposedly important team sports way my father worshipped, I could swim and run well enough to have made both teams in school.

It was time. I stepped up on the bus and headed down the aisle with the other sheep, resisting the urge to say baaaa like I had always done as a child. The only seat left was halfway down, next to an overweight older man who looked none too clean. But hey, I was going to a church college—this would be good Christian practice. Maybe I could do something nice for him. Or maybe I could catch lice, which is what actually happened, but that wasn’t something I found out until later.

I sat, nodded at him, and opened the letter. The older man looked over my shoulder, and to be polite, I looked away a minute. That gave him time to knock my arm, and the letter fell on the floor and flew up several rows under people’s feet. I was aghast.

Then the man said, “Here’s the fifty-dollar bill that was in it. It was just wrapped up in the blank paper. I’m sorry I bumped you. Damn arthritis, ha-ha!”

“It’s from my dad,” I said slowly, taking the money. It was a lot to me and meant a lot, too.

“He must love you very much.”

I guess my eyes spoke, wetly…

“Some of us don’t express it very well, son,” he replied with a smile, “especially to or from people like us.”

I dozed. We got off and on again. We changed buses somewhere. I forgot all about the blank paper and the old man. Except, when I went to get off in Ann Arbor, it was the middle of the night, and I was half asleep, having a seat all to myself. The driver woke me up.

I said, “When did the man next to me get off?” We’d had the same driver the whole time. He looked at me strangely.

“There was no old man next to you on any of the trips.”

It was a year and a half before I remembered to thank my dad for the money and discovered he’d never included any. In fact, the paper had not been blank, and he let loose with a stream of cusswords when he told me what he’d written. I won’t repeat it here, but thank God for that old, imaginary, or angelic man who may or may not have been next to me. Because of his smile and warm heart, I’d had time to grow up enough thinking I’d been loved.

Well, I know I put that badly, but it was the first time I’d ever had any kind of paranormal or spiritual experience, and it’s dear to my heart. It’s the first time I’ve talked about it, too. What had he meant about people like us? I think I knew—I think I’d always known. That was the night my confidence as a gay man in this terribly straight world began to grow. It’s only failed me once since, but then, that was the only rock I’d had to build on, the only one.

The one time had been mortifying, to say the least. I’d just come back from summer vacation, and the job I’d had set up fell through. I couldn’t seem to get another, so I offered to volunteer at the local kids’ summer center, where they had a sort of day camp for the kids of parents who couldn’t afford day care while school was out. It’s also where I first met another openly gay person. His name was Rocky, and he also volunteered. In a way, he reminded me of my imaginary friend, as I’d come to think of the man on the bus. He was older, probably way past retirement, and had been a teacher.

One day, we were the only two men there, in charge of sixteen boys of all ages, from three on up to twelve. They’d never given us any trouble before. But this day…we’d gone to the pool, where we at least had two life guards to also help watch the kids. But in the locker room, we had trouble. Two of the older boys started calling a ten-year-old a faggot. He had no idea what they were talking about.

Rocky took the two bullies by the scruff of their necks, and my heart started to swell with pride. I took the ten-year-old to the door and let him out into the hallway to meet his folks.

Behind me, I heard Rocky laugh and say, “Yeah, he may be, but don’t worry, it’s not contagious! It’s like warts or leprosy, just don’t touch him and you’ll be fine. Just the same, if you call him any more names or bother him in any way, I will bust your butts from here to Friday.”

The boys laughed and finished getting dressed. I could hear them saying, “You’re a faggot, too!” and “I know I am, but what are you?”

I wanted to cry with confusion and pain. Had Rocky thought he handled it right?

I made a mistake at supper and told my family about the incident. My dad and my brother laughed hysterically.

Mom just ignored me, shook her head, and said, “Boys will be boys.”

I couldn’t eat another bite. I felt sick.