Glen Saves the World

Chapter 2

Here we are, home sweet home, well, the airport anyway. I stood in the men’s room taking one last look at myself, trying to see what my sisters would see: tall, handsome, curly brown hair, deep brown eyes, no glasses yet. Tan: check. Nice outfit: oh hell no. I was all about comfort on airplanes. I hated flying. Expensive luggage: nope. Nice straight teeth, thank you Dr. Noble, and the one job I held two years because it had dental insurance. Braces? You bet, but gone now and worth every ounce of pain. I smiled at myself, although it was more of a grimace. The man beside me said, “Welcome home, am I right?” and we chuckled. He kept looking at me. “Don’t I know…yes I know you, you’re Tom and Margaret’s kid, Glen, right? I knew your dad from the church vestry; we were both on it at the same time.”

I was not up for this. My dad had been a tyrant at home, but everyone else on the planet loved him. He was so strict that when he was kind to me when I came out, I was flat-out astonished. Later, when he had passed away and Mom asked me to clean out his closet, I found out why. He had certain leanings himself, leanings which explained why every Christmas he’d give my mother something sexy and silky, like lingerie, and she’d go in the bathroom and cry.

“There’s my plane, I have to go. Have a great visit! Shame about your mother and the police though.”

My mouth dropped open. I watched it in the mirror as the older man, whose name I never had recalled, left. Small towns; everyone knew everyone else. I wondered if he also knew I was HIV pos. I shuddered.

I couldn’t do this: I knew I had to leave the bathroom, I knew what security would think otherwise, but once out, there would be my sisters at the baggage claim, or their husbands, or some combination thereof, to pick me up. I suppose I should turn on my phone now and see if there…whoa, that kid over there looks familiar. He looks like me: how old is my oldest nephew now? Dammit! Tristan? Is he old enough to drive now? Too f*****g bad he’s related to me and underage…damn we look good.

He smiled when he saw me. He also looked scared. I walked up to the luggage carousel and watched as my bag went past, upside down and sideways, crushed under someone’s sled or skis or golf clubs, some huge heavy thing. I should have bought a better bag. A gay man with a Walmart suitcase; would they take my gay card back?

Nah, Tristan was better looking than me. Young, probably didn’t even shave yet, blond curly hair all over in the latest style that made him look like a surprised rooster, big blue eyes; the girl next to him was only about fifteen but staring, slack jawed. Tristan recognized me and his eyes lit up. “Gunkle Queer Eye!” and then, “Oh my God I’m so sorry!” came out of his mouth. The girl giggled. Tristan blushed. I forgave him instantly. In fact, I was hungry and I wanted to eat him up like a box of donuts. That. Sweet.

But my luggage came around again and he grabbed it and hoisted it onto his shoulder in a move that, any closer, would have decapitated me, but that I could never have done with both hands and a crane. The girl was staring again. The little brat winked at her. “Let’s go, Daddy-o,” he sang out.