CHAPTER NINE
MATTEO
I stood at the window by Sean’s Buddha statue, watching the fat snowflakes falling. The street below was dusted with an inch of fluffy white stuff, the footprints of a single person cutting through the blanket, creating a sense of lonely peace.
Maybe in a parallel universe, those footprints were my own as I wandered the city, trying to understand my place in this world and wondering if anyone else was as lost as I was.
Snow on Christmas morning was both rare and beautiful and I tapped Bach’s “Prelude in C Major” on the side of my thigh, the notes floating in my mind like wayward snowflakes.
The gray of the sky and the drab monotones of the buildings became a distant thing, the scene taking me back to happier times.
Nana had loved snow and though I wasn’t allowed to spend Christmas with her on the count of her whimsical ideals regarding the holiday, Christmas Eve mornings had been ours to play the classics.
Even now I could see her smile in the bright morning light, the dimples and wrinkles, the liveliness in her dark eyes.
Her gray hair would be pulled back into a tight bun, as I played for her.
For a brief moment, I thought I heard her voice, but it was gone as if carried away by the chilly wind back to the recess of my memories.
The flannel long sleeve Sean had gifted me last night was soft and cozy and I snuggled into it as a cold draft penetrated the window.
“It’s pretty, amirite? Even in the city. You have to appreciate it, because soon it becomes a gray slush on the streets. But that makes it all the more special,” he said, coming to stand next to me with a cup of steaming tea.
“Yeah. I used to spend Christmas Eve at my grandmother's house in Kenilworth. She has pine trees around the yard. They’re beautiful covered in snow.” I needed to stop talking because I was going to tear up and I wasn’t comfortable letting him get that close to me.
I looked at him, taking everything in from the soft smile dimpling his cheeks, to his broad shoulders covered in buffalo plaid, all the way down to his bare feet and hairy toes.
The manner in which he cradled his clay teacup in his big hands imprinted on me.
Remembering what he said about the snow, I thought that was a nice way to look at it.
I wished I had Nana’s piano right now. I’d like to play something for him.
“This is one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had,” I blurted.
He frowned and met my eyes. “I hardly think takeout ham that you could barely taste and new underwear for a present makes it anything close to being the best.”
Returning my attention to the window, I said, “My parents never celebrated Christmas the way everyone else does. They believe Christmas is a capitalist invention, designed to distract from the truth. My family’s version of celebrating the holiday is a lengthy church service, followed by praying all day.
No trees and beautiful lights, no dinner with extended family and friends, or exchange of presents.
Just a reminder of how we are all terrible sinners and need to repent.
So, yeah, this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had. ”
I was aware he was watching me, but I wanted to lose myself in the snow and the sound of my music.
I craved to sit at Nana's grand piano and play something that reminded him of the rare beauty of snow in a big city. He didn’t say anything for a long while, his attention sliding to the window as he sipped at his tea. I supposed he didn’t know what to say.
“What is that thing you do all the time?” he asked, motioning to my hand.
“I’m playing my piano,” I said, a cough bubbling up. I returned to the couch and concentrated on controlling my cough. When I was sure I had a handle on it, I said, “It’s how I stay sane.”
He set a cup of tea in front of me, and I cradled the mug in my hands, the heat soaking deep to my bones.
I let the steam caress my face, the faint scent of peppermint tickling my nose.
At least I was getting my smell back. And when I sipped it, I got a hint of bitter tea leaves and sweet peppermint.
“Do Buddhists celebrate Christmas?” I inquired.
“Our version of Christmas is Vesak, celebrated in May,” he said, returning to the window.
He lit some incense, little ribbons of white smoke curling around the statue.
“We celebrate the birth, death, and enlightenment of Buddha. We pray in our temples, sing, and do a variety of humanitarian stuff. It’s a celebration, really.
A big misconception is that Buddha is our God.
He is a teacher, no greater than anyone else except that he achieved enlightenment, the single thing every Buddhist strives for. ”
I drank some more tea, the warmth soothing my scratchy throat. “So, there is no heaven or hell?”
“This is hell,” he said and came to sit next to me.
“We are all now living in our own version of it. In the next life, if we follow his teachings we will come slightly closer to enlightenment. We are continuously reborn and must strive to be the best we can be in this life in order to reach Nirvana, or heaven. Buddhists believe we are in control of our own lives and fates. If you are a bad person and do bad things, you are reincarnated as a worm or other lowly creature to suffer, but if you are kind and compassionate, you will come closer to enlightenment and find peace and unity with the universe.”
I rubbed at the tension in my forehead that seemed to permanently be there, absorbing his words. “I was taught Buddhism and anything other than Christianity was the work of the devil. Heck, Pilates is an intricate demon-summoning spell.”
“I came to Buddhism because I wanted to be a better person and liked the idea that we are in charge of our own fates. I’m not accountable to a mysterious sky daddy, only myself.
If I'm gay, that’s okay and I won’t be punished for it.
Sexuality is not a moral issue. I am solely judged on my actions as a person.
I know it seems foreign. But like I said before, I have a long way to go. ”
It was strange talking about religion with him. Creed had been such a huge part of my life for so long. I still did things like pray when I told myself I didn’t believe anymore. I suppose it took a long time to deprogram. “But you weren’t born into Buddhism?”
He tossed his head back to finish off his tea, his Adam’s apple bobbing through the whiskers on his neck. He set the cup on the table and wiped his shiny lips with the back of his hand. “Nope. I’m Irish Catholic. Rather, I was.”
“Really? How did you go from that to…that?” I inquired, motioning to the statue by the window.
He smiled and licked his lips. “Long story. But the day my parents discovered I was gay set me onto that path. It just took me a very long time to get here.”
I knew I should leave this alone, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to know there were others in the world that had survived the cage of religion. “Did they kick you out or something?”
“No, but that day everything changed. First it was a short round of denial: You’re young and confused.
Pray for guidance, they’d say. Then came a sort of weird period where they acknowledged that I was gay, but not really, because I was actually possessed by demons or something.
I spent most of my sixteenth year in church, youth groups, and forced sports try-outs.
Oddly, I was pretty good at sports, but it never turned me straight.
The worst came next: The acceptance that I’d chosen to be gay and that I’d willingly damned my soul.
That was unforgivable to them. They accepted I was not the son they loved, but some creature unworthy of the light of God.
That was probably the worst, knowing my own parents resented me, mourned me as if I’d already died.
They still tried to get me to repent, of course, but we all knew it wasn’t going to happen.
So, the day I turned eighteen, I took what little I had, including my old beater I’d bought for myself with summer-job money and drove away.
I had to leave if I wanted to save myself. ”
I tried to imagine how he’d felt leaving the home he’d grown up in.
His parents. Siblings? Friends? Everything he’d ever known all slowly fading in the rearview mirror.
He must have been as terrified as the day I’d left my parent’s house with my backpack and duffle bag of clothes.
“You talk about everything so easily as if it wasn’t you that it happened to. ”
“Because I’m in a better place with my life now. And knowing where I came from and where I am now is important. But there were a few years in my twenties when I almost destroyed myself because I couldn’t deal with the trauma my parent’s bigotry caused.”
“What do you mean?”
He blew out a big breath and looked away as if he didn’t want to relive it.
He rested his elbows on his knees and stroked his beard roots to tip.
“There is this thing called religious guilt. In my case, catholic guilt. It’s immensely powerful, and sneaky.
It nearly ate me alive. Leaving home had allowed me to live as my authentic self, but it set off a chain reaction.
I would sleep with someone, and the next day fall into a sort of depression.
We’re told God is always watching and all I could think about was how He’d know every shameful thing I’d done with that person.
A little voice would play on repeat that I was a sinner for falling to temptation.
Then I’d go into this short period of having to prove to myself that I was not a sinner, and there was nothing wrong with being gay–after all, this was how he’d made me–so, I’d sleep with as many guys as I could to convince myself of that. Rinse and repeat.”
I listened to the info dump, a lot of what he was saying hitting closer to home than I liked, but it was nice to know I wasn’t the only one battling with things like this.
“I was twenty-four when I realized I was destroying myself with this circle of beating myself up over sleeping with men, then drowning myself in sex because for a short time, it made the pain go away. Old men, young boys my age, twinks, bears, all colors, all manner of kinks. I didn’t have a type. Ugh, you got me going.”
“No, I’m sorry. I guess this isn’t the best topic of conversation for a nice morning.”
“You seem like you need to hear it,” he said carefully.
I grumbled a curse under my breath and said, “You’re not wrong.”
“I won’t ask what keeps you up at night, but I am here to listen if you want to talk about it.
I’ll finish with this: It took a very real scare to wake me up.
Even to this day I don’t remember all the details, only that I woke up in a strange bed, naked bodies lying everywhere.
I couldn’t remember a whole lot of the night before.
What I do remember is the lines of coke dust on the table and the absence of condom wrappers.
I’d always been careful to use protection, but I had no idea if I had or how many men I’d had sex with that night.
It scared the fuck out of me. Back then we didn’t have PrEP like we do today.
I’d saved myself by leaving home and I refused to destroy myself.
So I made a promise and never went back to that lifestyle.
Buddhism helped me cope and set me on a more productive path.
Just…whatever is happening with you, don’t let yourself get to that point, okay? ”
I bit my lip and nodded to let him know that I’d heard him, but I didn’t know how to respond, so I said nothing at all.
I looked to the window where the snowflakes were whipping and whirling in a flurry of activity, some pelting the glass and melting. I felt like the snowflakes outside, directionless and at the mercy of the wind.
“Let me see if I can make this Christmas a little better for you with breakfast. How do waffles sound?” he asked, bumping my arm with his.
“Are you going to put a pink frilly apron on for me, housewife?” I teased, glad for the change of subject.
“Housewife? You ain’t bringing in any kind of moolah so I ain’t your housewife.” He got up and stalked into the kitchen.
I yelled out hoarsely, “So if I was the breadwinner, I could expect dinner and blowjobs regularly?”
“Brat,” he shouted back. “You better be nice, or I’ll eat these waffles smothered in real maple syrup in front of you and not feel bad about it.”
I smiled widely, something warm and feather-soft brushing against my insides.