Life by Fives

Day four of sobriety. I did a little research on rehab and talked to a few people. I'm probably still gonna go. But I didn't find anybody using a clinical/intellectual/artistic approach to the problem -- which is what will resonate with me. I don't care how many steps there are: 12 is fine, so is 9, 14 would be OK. But talking to me from a Christian perspective is not going to work. Neither is talking to me from an airy fairy perspective. I'm not a serious drink till you drop, black out and lose time kinda drunk. Actually, I'm not a drunk at all. It's just that drinking is a daily habit in my life that's been hard to stop. It bugs me because it seems I am unable to take charge and quit. That's the kind of Alcoholic I am (see: the first step is admitting).

So on Friday morning I vowed to not drink for the next three days, and to get up and exercise every morning. I made it. Even resurrected my old VitaMix machine and made fresh vegetable soup and smoothies to treat myself through the process. Now I have four nights in a hotel room coming up while I teach a class. But I'm not thinking about that. I'm thinking about today, and I've decided to not drink today. What the heck.

So I'm out doing my walk this morning and suddenly I'm dividing my time up by fives. Where was I at ages 5, 10, 15 and so on? What was I doing? What was happening around me?

1955: I am 5. We live in suburban Philadelphia.
I am my mother's angel. She buffers me from the stupid stomping creature that is my father (is he really my dad? I wonder). It is clear that of the three men in her house she likes me best, which drives my dad nuts. I'm playing quietly in the house by myself while my brother is outside chasing the other boys in a game of tag or something. My best friend is Jenny and we explore our differences beneath the pool table in her basement. Occasionally, I take one of the neighborhood boys around the corner of our house and down into the transom that allows daylight to get into our basement. I pull his pants down and his shirt up and put my cheek and ear against his stomach. I know this is wrong but it's just so . . . nice.

1960: I am 10. We live on the south side of Jacksonville.
I picture myself as Jungle Boy, as we live on a lake and are surrounded by acres of woods. I rarely wear shoes on seldom a shirt. I'm comfortable running into snakes and bugs, all kinds of water creatures and creepy crawlies. I have been a failure in school so far, but am on the verge of a complete turnaround. My dad's still an asshole, even more so than he was five years ago. He seems to wait in prey to catch me screwing up. We've had a couple of battles that were a little physical.

My favorite pastime is getting together with other neighborhood boys for circle jerks in the woods or anywhere else we can find where there are no adults. Yes, I got started early. It's something my brother taught me when I was eight: to service him and his gang of hooligan friends. Was that abuse? Probably. But I didn't think so at the time: I was having too much fun.

1965: I am 15. We are living in what was then a distant suburb of Atlanta: the Stix.
We have just moved and the new city and school are my first opportunity to reinvent myself. I'll do this several times over the next 40 years.

When we left Jacksonville, I left my circle of boys behind, and not wanting to get my face smashed by the rednecks at my new school, I decided to put that all behind me and become a regular guy. I took up playing guitar with a couple of friends and we had several bands over the next few years.

My love affair with music had started in about 1962 when I discovered top forty radio. Prior to that I saw rock n roll as embarrassingly sexual and chose to listen to classical instead. But I was totally into it by the time the Beatles showed up. In '65 I was listening to The Stones a lot and also Donovan and (gulp) Peter, Paul and Mary. In addition to playing and singing with my pals, I was the 'arranger' for an all girl folk trio. I loved harmony.

I'd become a good student and school was easy for me. I fell into Art and English, fancied myself a Bohemian. I hung out with an odd collection of weirdos who were considered 'Freaks' - - which could be a good thing or a bad thing depending on who was making the judgment. Dad became less threatening, choosing to mostly ignore me. I think he was working very hard at that time.

1970: I am 20. I'm living in Decatur in a rented house with four of my friends.
My band is reinventing music. I'm teasing, of course, but we were the most original thing going on at that time. I'm in college majoring in English. I started as an Art major but switched when my favorite teacher took me aside and praised my ideas . . . then told me my craftsmanship sucked and suggested I consider something else.

Like my friends, I'm am pretty deeply into drugs. We've all done everything we could, starting with Marijuana, hash, acid, mescaline, 'shrooms, speed and even cough syrup, nasal inhalers and freon ( I never did that last one, myself). Our back yard is a Marijuana garden. I've pretty much gravitated to speed -- diet pills, really -- as my drug of choice, but will do a hallucinogen whenever one is available. I do a little speed a couple of times a day and am an astounding student. I waltz through college making A's and wowing my teachers. Of course, I'm psychotic by the time I'm 24, but that was a couple of years later.

We are all such hippies! Peace and Love and Flower Power. But the freewheeling, anything goes sexuality of the era was lost on me. I only had eyes for guys . . . but my actions were a feeble attempt to get myself to like girls.

I loved the Jefferson Airplane and thought Jack Cassidy, their bass player, was some kind of god. Also high on the list of favorites were the Allman Brothers. We'd seen them arrive on the scene just before their first album came out. The summer of '69 they played regularly for free in Piedmont Park. Dead Old Duane was . . . amazing.

1975: I am 25. I'm living alone in the cheapest apartment I can find in north Atlanta.
After many months of pretending to try I finally got a job teaching emotionally disturbed adolescents in a treatment setting. The academics were secondary to the therapeutic work that was going on. Our classes were very small and afforded the little loonies a place to act out their behaviors and be confronted immediately. I found that my kids were very bright and were mostly reacting to the craziness of their parents. What I did was to socialize them: teach them how to get what they wanted given the reality of the world in which we live. It was very rewarding, but I couldn't pay my bills.

We're in the midst of the disco explosion, which I detest almost as much as country music. I go to one disco once. I go with my friend Robyn and her friend Drew. They invent new names and histories before we get to the place then proceed to find 'sponsors' for the evening: guys who, on the hopes of scoring, will buy them drinks all night. I sit bored on a bar stool. When it's time to go, Drew and Robyn (Brandy and Carly) excuse themselves to go to the ladies room and meet me outside the front door.

I'm starting to see my first shrink and am scared to death that I might be 'crazy.' It takes a long time to relax into the process and begin to benefit. I become a bit of a recluse. I start building furniture in the living room of my apartment: a sofa, chairs, tables, bookshelves, etc. These items follow me around for the next five years.

I've quit listening to music. New music anyway. I hate this disco shit and that's all there seems to be. I'm back to classical. Oh, Hey! Here comes Switched on Bach!

This is a cocooning time for me.

1980: I am 30. I'm living in the first house I owned in an all Black neighborhood in Atlanta.
I'm in real estate and doing quite well. I got in when I talked to my dad one day about the utter dysfunctionality of my life. I wasn't going anywhere, couldn't pay my bills and could see no solution. He suggested I try real estate, which is what he retired into. I didn't want to but wasn't in a position to say no. Six months later I was a complete animal, loved the business, saw it as helping people, and was making what to me was very good money.

As the financial and professional side of my life began to take off I started to focus on my personal life as well. It wasn't working either. I wasn't dating anybody, saw that as a huge, nearly impossible task. I'd had a couple of excursions back into the gay side, but they left me frightened and depressed. Then one evening, eating oysters at my favorite oyster bar, I met Phillip. He was dark and burly and matched me oyster for oyster at the bar. We began to talk. He was a fireman and in addition to being very good looking was quite friendly. 'The Odd Couple' was going to be on TV that night (this was back when a movie on TV was a big deal), and we were both enthusiastic about seeing it . . . so we went back to his place. About the time the opening credits quit rolling we were kissing and groping each other on the couch. As I recall I led him to the bedroom and there we had some serious sex (far more serious than I'd ever had before).

The next day I was at the crossroads. What was I going to do? I'd finally had what I'd been thinking about for years -- and I liked it. But if I was going to be gay, my whole world would probably collapse. I'd be rejected by my family and friends, I'd be alone and my business would die. But hell, I was smitten. Phillip was all I could think about and I imagined our life together constantly. What the heck, I thought, I'll just go for it.

Then I had my first orientation to the realities of gay life: he wasn't interested.

Phillip would have been happy to add me to his list of playmates, but was so terrified of his co-workers and family finding out, that anything beyond occasional casual messing around was out of the question. I was crushed. And angry with myself. How could I have let this happen? What was I thinking? It's ok, I told myself; I just put my toe in the water . . . ok; my foot. I can just as easily take it out.

Meanwhile, my ass had begun to hurt (yes, Phillip and I had done everything to each other). Day by day it got worse and worse and there was a nasty boil like bump on one cheek. Much as I didn't want to, I forced myself to go to my old family doctor. I decided to be completely matter-of-fact and honest with him. 'Doctor,' I began, 'I recently had my first experience with anal sex and now there's something wrong back there.' His face fell. It was as if someone had reached down and let the air out of his tires. But he said nothing. He checked me out, opened the boil and discovered the remnants of a toothpick inside. He said I must have inadvertently swallowed the thing and it worked all the way through me, coming out through the wall of my rectum. No big deal, really, and nothing to do with getting your ass pounded. I was so relieved . . . and I never saw that doctor again.

That's it! I told myself. No more of this shit! I know I'm no different than any other guy. We all have the same feelings and most of us experiment at least a little. That doesn't mean I'm not straight! In fact, I CHOOSE to be straight. Right here, right now: no more of this nonsense. I will actively seek and will locate the right woman to fall in love with and we will be together.

And the quest began. It was rough and awkward at first . . . but I had the support of a good shrink (my second) and he acted as my coach. Finally, after a few false starts and minor disasters, I met E. She fascinated me more than any human being of either gender that I'd ever met. Falling in love was easy: I think it happened in the first 7.35 minutes. We moved in together in a few months and got married a year later.

Interestingly, it wasn't my homo-ness that destroyed my family; it was my marriage to E. They couldn't accept her. In fact, they never gave her a chance. Finally I had to draw a line in the sand and we became even more estranged than we'd been up to that point. I self-righteously reveled in this situation, but it really was a good thing: I finally separated from my parents.

1985: I am 35 and living in the most wonderful old farmhouse, lost on almost 4 acres of ground.
E. and I are living a charmed existence. We do everything together and never get bored. We have the best house on planet Earth, two dogs, two cats, and a pack of friends. Our parties are legendary.

My career has continued to progress and I'm now out of sales and into the corporate side of things. I am the golden child, the fair haired boy of the company, the one who can do no wrong. I'm traveling, coming into situations as the expert from afar, and starting to stand up and speak to groups. I have a sense of destiny about this. I know I will be making huge leaps up the ladder in the next several years.

Music managed to revive itself with the advent of Punk -- which I never understood. But Punk gave birth to New Wave and that's all it took for me to wake up. I loved the Talking Heads and R.E.M., Oingo Boingo and Guadalcanal Diary.

E. was deeply into her exploration of New Age thinking and spirituality and was rapidly becoming a local icon in that realm. I tolerated this fairly well, I think, and even became interested a little -- but it was mostly out of support for her. I found much of this stuff hard to swallow.

These were our golden years. Oh, we had problems and money was tight . . . but there was an overwhelming sense of optimism about nearly everything. Everything was getting better all the time. The future was so bright, we had to wear shades.

1990: I am 40. Living in a tiny carriage house in an artsy neighborhood in Mid-Town Atlanta.
E. and I have just gone through a fairly amicable divorce. Some of the reasons were spoken (she felt smothered by my career and was tired of it all being about me), some were not (how fulfilling could it have been for her to be married to a gay man?)

Ok, that last parentheses requires some explanation. I insisted to myself that I was a typical straight husband, just like every other straight husband, that the thoughts and dreams I had about other men were normal and besides, sexuality was a choice and I chose E. Period. There were no gay experiences during my marriage, in fact, I was never even the slightest unfaithful to E. But in retrospect, I don't see how the reality of who I was didn't manifest in our lives . . . and perhaps that's what was smothering E.

I was destroyed . . . for about 36 hours. Then I started doing what I always do in such situations: I started thinking about the future and making plans. Once again I was reinventing myself and I gave myself permission to have anything I wanted. At that moment it was very clear what I wanted: a man. So I moved to mid-town to be in a gayer neighborhood close to the bars and set about discovering my new self.

Which was not easy. I didn't know how to meet other guys, was scared to death to go to a gay bar (what goes on in those places, anyway?) and knew nobody to show me the ropes. I spent my days plotting my next move up the corporate ladder and my evenings eavesdropping on the chat lines (I never spoke). I thought back to my old circle jerk days as a teenager and remembered my best friend at the time, Charles. I wondered what he was doing and set about trying to find him. Phone books were of no use, so I sent him a letter in care of his mom.

A week later there was a call. He was living in Atlanta, just like me and we met for lunch. It quickly came out that he was gay and lived with his partner. He immediately took me under his wing (or petticoat?), introduced me to a nice group of guys and proceeded to show me how to be gay. (You know that Will and Grace episode where Jack and Will take over the education of this newly gay guy? It was like that). I had my coming out party at Blake's Bar in Atlanta and nothing was the same after that.

I started listening to (shudder) dance music. That's all any of those queens listened to, so I was bombarded. I started to notice that some of it was not bad . . . not bad at all. My particular favorite was Erasure and when I heard Drama it was a mind altering moment. I enjoyed Dee Lite and Snap and Black Box and all of the others that were being played in the gay discos -- which, yes, I started to frequent.

Suddenly I was GAY . . . in every way except one: I was homo, but not sexual. Then one night at the Armory, I met Andy and our two week affair was a complete     education for me. It was only two weeks because I'd already engineered a promotion and move to California for my job and I was leaving. That was devastating to Andy . . . but didn't stop us from enjoying everything we could in the time we had.

1995: I am 45, living in my fabulous condo in Long Beach.
I've just gotten out of my first gay relationship: three years with Robert Rivera, who I will always adore. My career is popping along perfectly. I am near famous all over the country (it was a very big company), well respected and trusted with very important projects. I'm out speaking a lot and have finally become very comfortable with that.

I had met Bob four years earlier and shared a brief flirtation with him. When my eyes locked on him in Floyd's Country Western Bar in Long Beach, all the bells went off. He was absolutely my ideal man right down to every detail: he was short, in good shape, balding and bearded. And boy could he smile. But I was already involved with Robert Rivera and though that was still new I didn't want to jeopardize it. So Bob and I went our separate ways and lost each others numbers. By the time I was single again, in 1995, he began to occupy my mind . . . I kept picturing him and wishing I could find him. I started going back to Floyd's hoping. But nothing happened. Southern California is a big place and my chances of finding one specific gay guy were slim.

Then one night, my pal Dale asked me to meet him at Bulldogs Bar on Cherry. He'd just bought a new motorcycle and wanted to show it off. I was in my Keifer Southerland phase and was often mistaken for him (no shit) and had thus been mistaken in the bar. I went outside with Dale to see the bike and as we stood there in front of the place, I saw a white Probe slow then stop in front of Bulldogs, then pull away. Hmmm, I thought; Bob had a white Probe. A minute later it was back and pulling into a recently vacated space on the curb. The door opened and out came . . . Bob.

The affair was quick, fun and incredibly sexual. We had (have) amazing chemistry there. I was coming off three years with Robert Rivera that were wonderful, but not particularly sexual (we didn't have that chemistry), and was hungry as hell. Soon I was telling myself that there really was no future with Bob -- we were just too different -- but there was nothing wrong with enjoying the fling for awhile. (Of course, you realize that now, 10+ years later we are still together, trying to figure out how to split up; he's become more and more like me and I more and more like him . . . the gulf is not quite what it used to be but the differences have taken on a vicious clarity)

Then, in the Fall of '95, everything changed. My company, in which I had literally grown up, was sold. The new owners came in an pink slipped everyone. Me included. I couldn't believe it. They obviously didn't understand who I was. I set about trying to educate them . . . but it didn't matter. They had other plans. Turns out their plans were to replace people like me -- who had been around awhile and were making pretty good money -- with kids being paid entry level wages. It was what takeover artists did in the downsizing '90s and it was very good for the company stock. These new Pirates (god, I hated them) moved the whole operation to New Jersey then realized they'd cut too deep. The kids didn't even understand how the company made money, much less how things should be done. So a handful of us old hacks were retained as consultants to help make the transition.

My gig lasted four years. Every Sunday I'd catch a Continental flight to Newark and every Thursday night, I catch one back. I was paid ridiculous sums of money. My 'job' was so stupid and simple that I could have done it in a coma. I had an apartment in Morris Plains and spent as much time as I possibly could in New York. I saw everything on Broadway at least once and got to where I could navigate the city like a local. Yes, I love New York.

My intention to take what I could from the Bob relationship and then move on fell by the wayside. He became my home. I'd be gone for four days and then we'd be together for three. Every time I got off that plane, we had a party. Every weekend was an adventure. Often he joined me in New York or somewhere in between. I remember my shrink at the time trying to convince me that you could have a relationship and NOT share the same living space. I thought she was full of shit at the time, but today I think she may have been on to something.

2000: I am 50. Living with Bob in San Diego.
By the time I started my cross country commute, Bob had gotten into real estate . . . and had done ok. But he was undisciplined to the point that a good manager was essential. I knew of only one in all of Southern California and he was in San Diego. Bob arranged an interview for himself, went down and wowed 'em. We realized we could live anywhere and, heck, who wouldn't want to live in San Diego? So we moved.

My consulting job ended on Dec. 31, 1999. Bob and I were in Las Vegas, getting into our tuxes in preparation for Barbra Streisand's Millennium Concert. Bob is a huge fan so we HAD to be there . . . for both shows . . . at great expense . . . but it was worth it. Before you go getting any ideas, I can't stand the old bat. I respect the hell outa her, think she's an amazing singer and entertainer, but have had to listen to her so much in the past ten years that . . . well, the next time I hear 'Piece of Sky' I think I'll puke. Having said that, the evening was awesome . . . we exchanged rings again and made the usual promises.

It's amazing how time flys by and you look around and this thing you were just casually doing has become what you do. That's the way it was for Bob and I. By 2000, I actually loved him. I wanted to be with him. He was my hero and I was his. And boy did we have fun in bed! Thank goodness for that: when I came home for keeps, I fell into a deep depression and I needed all the support I could get. Here I was, 50 years old and had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had scads of money in the bank and Bob was doing well, so there was no financial pressure . . . but the pressure to do something was huge. And I didn't know where to begin. I started playing the stock market and took on a couple of part time consulting jobs.

It didn't take long before the golden age of Bob and I was over. We'd turned into a couple of vicious snarling dogs with nothing good to say to each other (except when we were in bed). Going from being together three days a week to 24 hours a day was something we were not ready for at all. And by Fall we were making plans to split up.

Then everything stopped.

Bob's mom, Helen discovered she had lung cancer. She'd been an integral part of our lives, moving to San Diego to be close to us when we moved. I adored her. She was a wonderful Mexican mama, full of great recipes and compassion for everyone. Her history was so rich . . . I really need to write it down some day. When she was diagnosed we immediately fixed up the second bedroom and moved her in. Her cancer was very bad and after a lot of prodding, her Oncologist told me that she might have three months. That was a surreal moment. Helen was in no pain, looked fine, was a little tired and sometimes had difficulty catching her breath. That's all.

We started searching for anyone who could give us hope. Oh, we went ahead and did the treatment the MDs recommended, but wanted something more. We considered a clinic in Mexico where they cure everything from AIDS to Parkinson's Disease . . . it just seemed too magical. We considered a clinic in LA which just looked like a hokey sham when we visited. Finally we settled on the Livingston Institute here in San Diego. It was a comfortable place with good people and they claimed to have something that had helped many cancer patients. It had to do with making a serum from the patient's own blood.

Bottom line: instead of three months, Helen had six. She had little pain until the last day. She died in her bed here at home. The day before she died, she called me in and asked me to close the door. She showed me a handful of keys that she kept in her bedside table, and told me what each one went to. This one went to this chest and that one to that box and these two to safe deposit boxes here and there. She wanted me to take charge of them because she knew Bob was going to have a hard time. He was already crazy with fear and grief.

The next day she died. And I gathered up all of the boxes and chests and carried them back to the bedroom closet. I expected to find photos and costume jewelry and the like inside. Helen was by all estimations, poor. She'd worked a bit in her life, but mostly had been a mom. And her husband, the lout, supported her and his other family (he had two) with his small wages. But when I opened the first box . . . there was cash. Lots of it. Thousands and thousands of dollars, mostly in small bills. Helen was of the generation and culture that doesn't believe in banks. She kept her money close at hand where she could get to it. And she'd scrimped and saved her entire life.

I remembered conversations with her where she expressed her fear that she'd outlive her money. I didn't think she had any anyway, and knew Bob and I would be there for her whenever she needed us. I also remembered when she wanted to give one of her grandsons a little money, she'd disappear into her room, close the door and emerge a few minutes later with a crisp twenty or two.

So how much money was there? I don't know for sure. I took what was in the house and put it in the bank in Bob's name and gave him the safe deposit keys. It wasn't a huge amount, but a hell of a lot more than we expected.

We buried Helen in May of 2001. As expected, Bob was a basket case and his life came to a complete standstill. It took a year for him to begin to move again and truthfully, he's still crippled by his loss to this day.

2005: I am 55 (or will be in October). Living in San Diego with Bob, sorta.
So here we are: I have a new company; well, I've been with them for three years. I totally adore who they are and what we stand for and the kinds of things I'm doing. I'm continuing to have my own mid-life crisis -- which probably started when I was 50 . . l. or was it 40? I'm looking forward to being in control of my own consumption of alcohol (and if that means being a tea-totaler, so be it), and making plans to make a big investment in another city.

Bob and I are splitting up, I think. But right now that's not the most important thing. It'll take care of itself, probably as I move forward with my business plans.

Or not. (I keep thinking about that Tracy Nelson song that goes: 'I smoked my last cigarette -- I threw that nasty habit away, Put down my last dollar on my last bet -- I didn't ever win anyway, Gave up the wine and whiskey -- as everybody said that I should, and I'm giving up on quitting you baby 'cause it just feels too damn good. You are my strongest weakness . . . .you are my deepest secret.')

Mostly, I'm just happy. I love what I've done and what I do. I love the people I know and those I've met along the way. Almost every day is an adventure of some kind. And I believe I haven't yet started my biggest project. Most of the doors in my option house are wide open revealing lush gardens of possibility.

Comments

[fag8]

Hi Jazz. Really amazing your life, it looks like a movie!
Now I realize what you mean in the comment you leaved me.
I'll try to follow your advice and see my boss in a different way if - I'll be strong enough to face it with clear mind (at the moment I'm *little* smitten with him, how you guess).
I wish you lots of happiness!
Thank you :)