Kevin

Sometimes it takes a lot of balls to be a man. Last night Kevin Monroe found his. I’m Kevin and I boarded the Greyhound bus on the way to my future without any particular destination in mind, and now I find myself on Route 66 heading west, leaving Albuquerque, the city where I have lived since I was eleven.

I never thought that I could do it—take off on my own—but, after Jasper showed up and I had a nasty fight with Raphael, leaving seemed to be my only option. Raphael Delgado is my best friend, my ‘brother’, and the man I am irrevocably in love with.

Now, I’ve always known I’m gay. Yep, I am—I carry the card in my wallet and wear the rainbow band on my wrist. Thing is, Raphael, whom I have called Raffle since the day we met when I misheard his name, didn’t realize he was gay until high school, yet he kept his sexuality a secret from me for the last five years.

What’s amazing about him is that when I told him that I am gay, he totally accepted me. I didn’t even have hair on my pubes when I shared that tidbit with him. Raffle advised me to keep my queerness in the closet to protect me from my homophobic parental unit. He recognized that it was dangerous for Jasper Monroe to discover not only that I am gay, but also that I have a deep-seated yearning to become a drag queen.

My fascination with drag has steadily grown since the day I first laid eyes on my treasured book Queens of the Night, which is full of pictures and stories of drag queens in all their glorious regalia. Actually, Raffle gave me the book as a Christmas gift but cautioned me to keep it hidden away to protect myself.

The book was the catalyst that gave me my purpose in life. Intending to be a drag queen, I pored over the pages for hours—reading, studying and dreaming. I can sing fairly well, and I’ve been practicing different personas for years, honing my skills as best I can. One night when I’d been rehearsing my Liza Minelli persona and singing Cabaret, Jasper came home unexpectedly and beat the shit out of me. Crawling on my hands and knees in the middle of winter, I made my way to Raphael, my sanctuary, who nursed and nurtured me back to health.

Then one night Jasper came back, pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and told us he had been in the hospital where he’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Apparently the doctors thought the progression of his Alzheimer’s was the reason he’d attacked me. He read his notes like a laundry list, citing all the reasons he could no longer subsidize Mama D’s care and food. The thought of losing his support sent Raphael into a tailspin, and next thing I know, he’s telling me he needs to make Mama D his priority. When Raphael told me he wanted to take care of Jasper, I lost it and left. Sure, there were mitigating circumstances surrounding Raphael’s offering himself up to Jasper’s disease, but I still thought he’d betrayed me. When I close my eyes, I can see the letter I left for Raphael on his kitchen table this morning, wondering if he has read it yet.

Dear Raphael

One of these days I may grow a pair of balls and face you like a man rather than leaving you a letter, but today is not that day. I am leaving, Raphael. I am going to find my place in this world. I am going to find my joy.

I once thought that joy would be a loving relationship with you, but those were the dreams of a child. I know now that you can never love me as I want you to. Perhaps the fault lies with me and not with you. All I know is that I die a little each day that I am here with you, and you see me as only a brother. I can’t be your brother any longer. Once, it was enough just to be with you, to be your friend and companion. You led and I followed, but I can’t follow anymore. I must make my own way and live my life as the kind of gay man that strengthens and nurtures me.

I’ve thought about this and have determined that there is no right or wrong way to be gay. We each choose our own way. I want to be out and proud and visible as a drag queen, entertaining people, making them feel good. I had forgotten that for a while. But now I am healed and I’m back on track. I know what I want.

You, my dear Raphael, are an enigma. Sometimes I can feel that you want to break out of the suffocating confines of the closet in which you have become so comfortable. Other times, I sense the hate emanating from you as you try to fight your nature. It is painful to watch and I know that I am a large part of that pain. So because I love you and always will, I am leaving so we can both find happiness.

My heart has housed my anger since Jasper’s beating, but your betrayal of my trust and love has enraged me. You have hurt me, Raphael, and I don’t know if I can move past the pain. The relationship with my dad has been complicated since I was a child. You moving him into our home and asking me to passively accept his presence feels like a huge betrayal to me. You have betrayed my love. You have betrayed our brotherhood. I know that makes no sense. I don’t want to be your brother any longer, but my mindset is so confused by all of this. When my dad beat me, it killed something in me. The fact that you ask—no, not ask, but rather demand that I live there day after day, knowing that at any moment he could lash out at me and hurt me, is a betrayal of everything you have ever promised me. How many times did you promise to protect me? I don’t think that you can protect me from him, and I am scared to death of him. I thought you were aware of that—maybe I’m wrong. I don’t want to believe that you would intentionally ask me to live with that kind of paralyzing fear every day.

Please don’t try to contact me unless it is an emergency. I have my cell and my computer, and you have the number and my email address. Tell Mama D that I love her and will miss her. I trust you to take care of Shadow for me.

I love you. Be happy.

Kevin

I can almost picture Raphael breaking down after he realizes I’m not coming back. I feel bad about that, but if I were to stay with him, I would disappear. Sometimes we need to nurture ourselves before we can hope to be whole. That’s how I feel, like I need to nurture the fact that I’m gay and that I want to live my life free of the confines of the closet in which Raphael has sheltered me.

Now maybe I could have endured the situation if Raphael had given me some kind of sign that he cared for me as I do for him. But, he won’t do that. He’s too afraid, or too homophobic—I’m not sure. How can a gay man be homophobic? He’s terrified that someone will find out about him and that he’ll be tormented by bigots. I began to think that one of the reasons he wouldn’t commit to me is that I know he is gay, and since I know he’s gay, it makes it nearly impossible for him to remain closeted.

I decided the best thing for me, and for Raphael, would be to leave. I foraged deep in the back of my closet, found my balls, packed my suitcase and high-tailed it out of there, leaving my ruined drag gear at home.

So now, here I am—sitting on the Greyhound bus, rolling down Route 66 and heading west. I have money in my pocket thanks to graduation. I have money in the bank—enough to last me a year if I’m frugal. Plus, there’s a college fund that I won’t be using for college.

Instead, I’m going to use it to develop my drag queen resources, costumes, and materials. My goal is to become a professional entertainer. With that in mind, I settle in my seat, deciding to leave my heartbreak in the rearview mirror and not look back.

As I watch the desert of northern Arizona roll past my window and feel the distance between Raphael and me growing, I rethink my initial plan of going to Los Angeles. LA would be big and intimidating for someone who wants to live on his own for the first time. It’s really kind of scary to be on my own without a support system, and I’m afraid my nest egg won’t last long in LA. I would also be too far from Mama D, and if there is an emergency with her, I want to be able to return quickly. Weighing my options, I decide to change buses in Flagstaff and head south to Phoenix.

Spending the night in Flagstaff, I stop at the Waffle House for breakfast. I’m happy to have chosen to go to Phoenix as it’s a better choice. After all, I received tickets for graduation to see the Diamondbacks play the Yankees. This way, I see my beloved Yankees with the luscious Derek Jeter and not waste the tickets. They really were a thoughtful gift from Raphael and our friend Cassie. Their plan was that we travel to Phoenix to see the game together. They both know how enamored I am with baseball.

After ninety quiet minutes on the bus, I notice that the guy sitting next to me is wearing a Diamondback ball cap, so I try to strike up a conversation with him. “Hey, you’re a D-back fan?” I begin, trying to determine if he’s the friendly type. He’s been quiet since we boarded the bus in Flagstaff, but since we’re only an hour out of Phoenix, I figure that if conversation doesn’t happen, nothing lost. Besides, after all those hours on the bus yesterday, I could use a diversion.

“Yeah, I am. I’m looking forward to the game tonight. You? Are you a fan?”

“I’m a fan of baseball and of the Yankees in particular. I’m relocating to Phoenix. My friends gave me tickets for my eighteenth birthday to one of the games with the Yanks. I’ve been a big Jeter fan since I was a kid.”

“That’s cool. You’ve got good friends. Whatcha gonna do in Phoenix? ASU student?”

“Nah, I’m going to look for a place to stay first, and then maybe look for work.” Uncertain if I should mention my quest to be a drag queen, I answer ambiguously, “I’m trying to break into show business, sort of.” Hearing Raffle’s voice in my head encouraging me to keep my drag dreams to myself, I decide to keep the drag queen piece of my plan confidential.

“You got a place to stay—know what part of Phoenix you wanna live? It’s a really big town, not so much in population, but it’s spread to hell and back.”

Here is my chance. I want to live my life as an out and proud gay man. That means not hiding who I am—letting people decide up front that I’m worth more than something to be stomped on. “I’ll be looking for somewhere inexpensive to rent, in the gay-friendly part of town.” I pause a minute for that to sink in then add, “You don’t have any recommendations, do you?”

“You thinkin’ I’m gay? Is that why you’re askin’? If so, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, sweetheart.” And with that, as the bus goes around a curve in the road, he stands unsteadily and moves forward where he plops in the first empty seat, next to a woman.

Well, strike one—I guess I’m lucky I still have my teeth. Before I can open my laptop and start browsing for vacancies, the old guy sitting in front of me turns around. He reminds me of Jasper with his long, whitish hair pulled back and tied with a leather cord. That’s where the similarity ends. Jasper’s features are fierce and hard. This guy is wrinkled by age, life, and laughter. His tan face is host to friendly brown eyes set below bushy black eyebrows. He’s thin and wiry and sports a grimy John Lennon T-shirt beseeching Give Peace a Chance. When he begins to speak, the tobacco stains on his teeth tell the story of a serious nicotine addiction.

“I hope you don’t mind my butting in, kid, but I couldn’t help overhearing your question.” I shake my head and shrug as he continues. “Now Phoenix is a mighty big place and has plenty of opportunity for tolerance from all kinds of good folk. You just happened to sit next to some bigoted dickhead with his head so far up his own ass he can almost see daylight on the other side of his tonsils.”

I snicker at Hippie Dude’s picturesque, but apt, description of my former seatmate. “Right on, dude,” I say as we share a manly knuckle bump. He chuckles at my use of the popular sixties idiom.

“It seems to me you have two things working against you—dude. You’re young, and I doubt you have built up a credit history. Am I right?” I grin at his calling me ‘dude’ and nod, eager to hear what he has to say. “Getting someone to rent to you at a decent price will be difficult. Secondly, you want to live in a gay-friendly neighborhood. I can understand that—people are comfortable with their own. There are a couple of good areas that I can think of, but they’re high-end, in the suburbs. The downtown area near North Seventh Street will be your best bet, and it’s not far from the bus station. You should be able to find something inexpensive there.”

“Thanks, mister. You’ve been really helpful. How come? No disrespect intended.”

“Not a problem kid. I’ve been around the block a few times, did my time in ’Nam. Met all kinds of folks, and saw more than any human being should see in their lifetime. But I never saw a man, woman, or child, black, red, yellow, gay, or straight, deserve to be beat down and humiliated for being what God intended them to be. I mean, who am I to argue with God, to think I know better than He? Besides, I fought in the jungles and deserts with brothers who are gay and would lay down their life for me and me for them. Makes no difference to me what a man does in his bed, provided everyone in that bed is an agreeable adult.”

“Wow, that’s really forward thinking for a man of your generation. By the way, thanks for your service, sir,” I offer him my hand to shake. When he turns toward me, I can see between the seats that his right arm has been amputated above the elbow. Certain this guy is a Purple Heart recipient, I impulsively hug him over the back of the seat. He ruffles my hair with his remaining hand and asks me my name.

“Kevin, Kevin Monroe, sir,” I reply, a little embarrassed by my effusive behavior. “Thank you for the information. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s good to meet you, Kevin Monroe. I’m Benjamin Logan, but folks just call me Logan. What’re you looking for in Phoenix, son?”

“I’m looking for my identity, sir…umm, Logan. I graduated from high school the night before last, and thought I would like to try moving someplace where nobody knows me. I could just be myself, do the things I like to do without having to hide my sexuality, or meet other people’s expectations or demands.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there, son. But we’re coming up on Phoenix, and I’m sorry there’s not enough time for me to hear it. Let me give you my card. If you need to talk or get together for coffee, anything, call me. I work with the veterans in the area and can frequently be found at the VA centers in town. If you find a place near North Seventh, you’ll be equidistant between the centers. It’s an easy bus ride. It’d be great if you could maybe come by to visit with the guys. There’s always a need for visitors, regardless of age or persuasion.”

I look at the card he hands me and glean that he is a doctor of clinical psychology for the VA. Holy crap. Who would have thought? Logan is so down-to-earth and real. Beneath the hippie dude attire and grime is an impressive, well-educated individual. I’m puzzled as to why he’s slumming it on the Greyhound. But that, too, may be a story for another day. We arrive at the station, but before we disembark, he offers me one more bit of advice.

“There’re also several gay clubs in the area on North Seventh. Drinking age is twenty-one in Arizona, but you can work in the clubs at eighteen, and if you serve alcohol, I believe the age is nineteen. But you will need to be careful—there are also predators in the area, just waiting for a fresh young face like yours—someone who doesn’t know his way around. Stay away from a place called Jake’s Bears and Booze. It’s rough, and the type of crowd it attracts will eat you up. Now, if you have the means to pay for several weeks or months up front, you may be able to get a decent room. Be careful, Kevin. Remember, if you need anything, give me a call. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks, Logan,” I say as I see him head over to a crowd dressed in military fatigues. They all greet him with friendly backslaps and guy-clenches. Eventually he retrieves his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder with his one arm, and heads off laughing and conversing animatedly with his buddies.

I cast around to find my over-stuffed suitcase sitting alone on the curb. Thinking it’s best to follow Logan’s advice, I make my way to North Seventh Street. It’s mid-May and already the temperature is climbing. Hopefully, I can get out of the heat before too long. Sure enough, there are motels and apartments within walking distance of the bus line. I decide on a motel for now since I have no furnishings, and I really don’t want to comb the area dragging my suitcase behind me. Finding a place with a McDonald’s across the street and a convenience store next door, I rent the room for a week and pay up front. After settling in, showering, and hanging up my clothes, I pocket the room key and venture out to explore my neighborhood. My first stop is the bank where I open an account and transfer a few dollars into it—enough to last me about six months.

Next I start scouring the area for a place to stay that at least has a kitchenette, because I cannot live on Mickey D’s alone. Mama D’s, yes, but not Mickey. I finally locate something, not too far from the motel I’m staying in. It’s a furnished studio apartment with a decent-sized cooking area. The walls are a muted gray—at least I’m hoping that’s their color and not once-upon-a-time white. They won’t have a vacancy for a couple of weeks, but that will work out just fine. After putting down a deposit and signing a month-to-month lease, I ask around about thrift stores or Goodwill. It’s time to replenish my working clothes, pick up some cooking utensils and buy new sheets.

Fortunately, there is a thrift store three blocks from my motel, and I find what I need. I load my cart with a few dishes, mugs for coffee, and a barely-used coffee maker. I also spy a couple of gowns that I can use in my act. I grab them off the hanger and toss them on top of my buggy. The lady at the checkout gives me a cursory glance and wrinkles her nose as if she smells something foul. I assure her I showered today and give her a saucy wink, ignoring the disapproval coloring her pinched face. I gather my purchases and make my way back to my room. Some people have no imagination. I leave my new purchases in the bags since I won’t need them until I move. The gowns I hang up after ensuring they fit with room for the body suit I’ll wear to give me curves in the right places.

Pumped up over the possibility of renewing my drag passion, I decide to practice my act. I always start out in a Liza persona and like to open with Cabaret. However, since the night Jasper tried to rid the world of my gay ass, I haven’t been comfortable rehearsing my Liza gig. Just the thought of doing the makeup for her sets my heart pounding and my hands trembling. Can a drag persona suffer from post-traumatic stress? If I ever see Logan again, I may ask him.

Instead, I opt to work on my Barbra. The night I woke up on the floor, Barbra was playing on my stereo. I opened my swollen lids and heard her singing Papa Can You Hear Me? God certainly has a campy sense of humor at times. Deciding to add that particular song to my repertoire, I cue up the music on my iPod. If God can tickle my funny bone on the worst night of my life, I consider it my calling to pass it on. So my Barbra set consists of Papa, People, Don’t Rain on My Parade, and Someday My Prince Will Come. Do you see a theme here? I run through the songs, working on the body language, having trouble getting the hand movements just right. Barbra always moves her hands in such a way that her audience will be sure to admire her perfectly manicured nails. I may need to add fake fingernails to my short ones before I can decide if the movements are right. I put false nails on the list of things to pick up at Wally World, known to the world as Walmart.

After practicing, I check my email. There is a short one from Raphael. So much for boundaries, I think, becoming angry. He doesn’t respect mine. I asked him not to contact me unless there was an emergency. His wanting to know where I’m at and if I am okay is not an emergency in my book. I decide to ignore the email and delete it. Damn, I had been doing so well not thinking about him. His intrusion into my new life has cast a cloud over my otherwise sunny day.

After brooding for a while, I head across the street to Mickey D’s to grab a couple of burgers and fries for dinner. There is an eclectic assortment of people inside. The place is busy with parents feeding their kids, a bag lady grabbing a quick cup of coffee and a couple of lesbians making out in a corner booth in the back. Some of the parents hustle their children out of the door when the curious kids show an interest and want to know why there are two ladies kissing. I would like to be a fly on the inside of the car windshield, listening to the conversations that are sure to follow the innocent inquiries.

My attention is caught by a kid sitting alone in a nearby booth. His body language screams vulnerability. Watching him reminds me of myself the night Raphael asked me to leave his house. I couldn’t hug my knees tightly enough to feel safe. This kid looks scared to death. Before I can get up the courage to approach him, he chucks his trash and leaves. I mentally kick myself because I apparently left my balls in the motel closet next to my ratty old suitcase.

All in all, my first day in Phoenix on my own has been satisfying and productive. I go back to my room, feeling really good about myself. For the first time in my life, I’m on my own, in my own place, facing the world on my terms. Yay me! It is a heady sensation—this satisfying feeling of accomplishment and independence.