Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
I looked like a bum. A vagabond. A freaking homeless person! My process was long overdue to be reprocessed: I had naps the size of tumbleweeds growing beneath my waves. And I had a five o’clock shadow that was five days’ thick.
I’d been locked up in the house for days now.
Chevy and I had bumped into each other a handful of times, but I didn’t bother to ask what was going on with her and she did the same for me.
But something was happening, because she’d been quiet. So quiet I hardly even knew when she was there, and that’s not like Chevy.
She’s so loud and flamboyant, if she weren’t a black heterosexual female I would swear she was a flamboyant gay man!
Whatever.
I had my own problems, and to top it off, Zhan was flying in on Labor Day. I told him that I had the flu and that I thought it would be best if he’d hold off on coming, but that only made him change his flight in order to get to me sooner.
I was spending all of my time on the Internet, in search of some type of support group that could help me with this problem of mine, and I’d finally found one.
Homosexuals with Heterosexual Tendencies. HHT.
They’re a small group that meets twice a week on the Upper West Side. I’d called and spoken to someone named Bob. Not his real name: “We believe in anonymity here at HHT,” Bob had said in a calm and even voice. “What name would you like to go by, friend?”
I racked my brain for a few seconds. “Um, um…Wayne?”
“Wayne it is, then,” Bob said. “We have group sessions—they usually last for two hours and the cost is one hundred and seventy-five dollars per session.”
“Wh-what?” I stammered, thinking about the hit my bank account was going to take.
“Yes, well, while you may think the cost of these sessions is high, especially because you’re sharing your time with others, I want you to reflect on the benefits involved.
” Bob took a breath and then sipped something from a cup.
In my mind I’d already put together a visual of him.
White, thin, neat. Pinky finger at attention as he sipped.
“We have members who have conquered their heterosexual issues, and they can impart knowledge on newcomers that can make a newcomer’s road to recovery an easier journey.”
“Well, if they’re recovered, why are they still plunking down one hundred and seventy-five dollars a session?”
“Well,” Bob began, and then stopped to sip. “Just like alcoholics, gamblers, and other addictive peoples, you have to continuously work the program to remain well.”
“Uh-huh,” I moaned.
I was so desperate that I would have paid five hundred dollars a session. I jotted down the address and told Bob that I would be at the next meeting, which was Friday night.
My only worry was what would happen to me between Brooklyn and the Upper West Side.