After Step One
Running away isn’t the hard part; knowing where to stop is.
Or maybe when to stop.
I’d been kicked out at sixteen for being unapologetically, unremorsefully, and unrepentantly gay. As my old man put it, I hadn’t even tried to get better.
So, out the door and yadda, yadda, yadda.
You always feel alone and different until you find out you’re a cliché. Or at least I did.
My journey began in a suburban neighborhood in San Diego. When I was kicked out, I went east to Phoenix then to Tucson, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Durango, St. George, and Carson City, finally landing in a tiny Sierra Nevada foothills town.
Ten years passed. I was older and much, much more tired.
In the tiny foothills town, I hoped to find a job, preferably with an employer who wasn’t going out of business, relocating soon, or dying. I needed rest. I needed a moment to stop, take a deep breath, and figure out what I was doing with my life.
I needed help.
Fortunately, I’d developed marketable skills through my travels.
Nobody cooked up faster, juicier burgers or fixed minor engine problems quicker than I did.
No retail register threw me for a loop; no employment form was too obtuse.
I may not have a high school diploma, but so far no one had asked to see one when they hired me.
Rather than stagnate at any of the jobs, when boredom hit, I looked for another experience or got out of town. There was nothing to keep me anywhere.
So, here I was in a cabin nestled in a small residential resort, heading into town to find a job. My available cash had been depleted by travel. Time to start the saving cycle again.
Ruddy Creek emptying into Reedy River lived up to its name a thousand fold. Brown, brackish water meandered up to a reed-lined waterway. Its name bled into the town and took over: Reedy Groceries, Reedy Pharmacy, Reedy Bank, and down the line of the usual small town stores and offices.
The place was tinier than larger, flashier cities, but maybe it was, in turn, more reliable, more comfortable, more potentially home.
I’d walked down one side of the main street and up the other. No for hire signs. So it was going to be a day of cold calls and chatting with the locals. All I had to do was decide where to begin.
To my left was Reedy Pharmacy, across the street Reedy town center which the sign in front said held all the municipal offices. My immediate choices: stock clerk or gofer/receptionist/office worker?
I sighed. Did it matter? I’d try the pharmacy first and then the city HR department.
A bell rang over my head. It was a nice small town touch. Walking purposefully, I headed to the pickup counter and the guy in his late fifties or early sixties wearing the white jacket.
“Hi. May I help you?”
He had a kind voice, so I took the plunge.
“Hi, I’m Max Dearborn. I just rented a cottage at the Buck Tail Resort and am looking for a job. Are you hiring?” I took a breath. “Or do you know of anyone else in town who is?”
He gave me a long assessing look, then stuck out his hand.
“Dr. Phil Rogers, pharmacist. Hope you don’t mind my asking. How old are you, son?”
Here we go. I either looked older than he imagined or younger than he thought. Either way, I was probably screwed.
“Twenty-six,” I answered truthfully. Not having a driver’s license, though, I couldn’t prove it.
Buying a copy of my birth certificate was on the top of my to-do list. Along with getting a driver’s license. Then a Harley. I had plans for the money I would work to earn.
“Okay, go down to the lumber yard in back of the hardware store. Ask for Lem. Tell ‘em Doc sent you. He’ll fill you in from there.” He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
His handshake sent a ripple through me. It wasn’t sexual attraction, but it still shocked and left a lingering jolt of surprise.
It wasn’t all bad. In fact, I felt better, younger, more at peace as I looked into his eyes.
His face registered my reaction to the spark and he grinned. He gave my hand an extra squeeze.
“You go now. Lem’s waiting for you.”
Yeah, right. But I didn’t say anything but, “Thanks,” as I turned and walked out of the pharmacy.
The hardware store at the end of the street seemed to glow in the noonday sunshine. I tried to walk slowly, but my feet wanted to run. Skip. Jump. And, God help me, cavort down the street.
Maybe I should have lunch before I went to the lumber yard?
I stopped walking, bent down, put my hands on my thighs, and took a deep breath. I couldn’t get sick now. I had to find a job first.
“Hey, there. You okay? You need help?” a concerned voice asked.
Looking up and over my shoulder, I watched two guys who were holding hands walking toward me.
“Naw.” I stood and shook out my hands and arms. “Just a little winded. Probably altitude or something.”
With puzzled brows, they exchanged a glance that looked like a quick debate.
“Where you headed?” the taller guy asked.
“Uh, over to the lumberyard. To see Lem. Doc sent me.”
They grinned, the taller putting his arm around the shorter man and giving him a squeeze. The shorter glanced over at him, bent toward him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
You could have blown me over with a feather.
Where the hell was I? Two guys walking down the street in a small town holding hands? One putting his arm around the other and essentially hugging him? And to cap it off, the other one kissing him in public, in the middle of town?
I scanned the street to see who was watching. People were going about their daily business. Nobody paying attention to the gay men who approved and practiced PDA.
Where had I landed?
Wherever it was, I felt deep in my soul I needed to stay here forever.
My usual misgivings about something being too good to be true and no free lunch had vanished. Where was my cynicism when I needed it? I’d been disappointed too many times in the past to be taken in by these two crazy, potential victims who had no sense of self-preservation.
Even as I warned myself to be careful, I worried they were either teasing me or maybe even luring me into danger. I searched both sides of the street, but still, no one seemed to care about what was going on.
Was I still in America? Where were the homophobes and bigots with their belligerent shouts of outrage? I glanced around. Nowhere. There were none I could see.
I looked again at the two men who were now grinning at me insanely. Something was going on. I glanced around quickly. Nothing. Whatever was happening everyone else here was in on it, but me.
Even as we stood here, was there a stake being erected at the lumberyard on which they’d burn me for my sins? I couldn’t believe it. Still, something wasn’t right.
We parted amicably. They strolled away, chuckling and whispering to each other. The shorter one peeked at me around his partner’s shoulder.
I shuddered, turned, and started walking to whatever the surprise was.
When I opened the door to the hardware store, I was greeted by Gloria Gaynor telling me in a hushed voice that she would survive. I bopped in response. “Me too, GG, me too,” I muttered as I walked up to the counter.
“Hi, there. May I help you?” The older guy behind the counter was dressed in well-worn jeans, black T-shirt, and blue-on-blue striped apron with big pockets. He had the happy, open face of a store owner facing a first-time customer.
“Hope so. I’m looking for Lem. Doc sent me.” I gestured toward the door and in the direction of the pharmacy.
The guy smiled even wider at me in surprise, his eyes starting to tear.
“You stay right here. I’ll get him for you.” He turned and yelled, “Brian, get in here! You don’t want to miss this!”
Then he all but ran toward the back of the store.
Well, shit and Shinola. Was it too late to hightail it out of town? What was wrong with these people?
Another man—Brian?—entered the store from a back room and walked up to me.
“Hello, there. Can I help you?”
Before I could answer, or actually ask him what was going on, men and women flocked in through the front door. They stood in clumps to the side, staring at me and whispering to each other, but standing back as if giving me space.
Was this a town ritual? Had they all been watching me walk down the street? Had Doc set me up for…? When I took a step toward the door, they silently closed the gap, barring my way out.
I turned, hoping the guy who’d asked if he could help me, could…uh, help me.
Just then the original guy bustled his way through the crowd.
“Step aside. Step aside. Out of the way.” He said it like a litany, pulling someone by the hand behind him.
When he stepped aside, I could see the guy he was tugging.
Instantly, my heart and soul said this man would be the love of my life. He was gorgeous. Black hair and eyes, he was dressed in overalls, a striped tee, and Converse. As befitted someone working in a lumberyard, he was covered in dust.
He looked up and smiled at me.
I smiled back. I ached to fold him into my arms. We took a step closer to each other.
Then someone started clapping and the crowd took up the rhythm.
The noise knocked my attention on the guy—Lem?—back to the weirdness of the day. What the hell was going on?
Sudden pops like champagne bottles being opened made me turn to the older man who had fetched Lem.
“Uh, look. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m getting real uneasy about all of this. Can we go somewhere quieter so you can explain what’s happening?”
Lem rushed up to me and grabbed me in a hug. His intensity reassured me a bit but also made me try to step back.
“No! I won’t let you go. I’ve waited too long.”
I looked up to his face. His arms locked around me as I breathed in the wood dust around him. I sneezed.
“Look, I’m not going anywhere,” I said, sniveling and ignoring the celebration going on behind me. I swiped at the moisture dripping from my nose. “I just want to know what’s happening.”
Since Lem looked like I’d hit him, I added a soft, “Please.”
He grabbed my hand. Like the handshake I shared with the Doc, our hands tingled from something that felt like a power surge.
I glanced at Lem in surprise. He smiled and nodded.
“Now you know,” he said softly.
“No, not really.” I raised our clasped hands. “All I know is we’re holding hands, everyone around us is celebrating something, and I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t be here.”
Lem nodded.
“Got it.” He turned, dragging me with him. “Let’s go to the back and talk about this.”
Did I want to know? Or did I want to run?
I noted all the doorways as he pushed through the crowd. Along the way we picked up Doc, who joined our little parade.
Except for everyone congratulating Lem and me, visions of Shirley Jackson stories I’d read in school kept flashing through my mind. What was the endgame here? Was it as gruesome as some of hers?
The four of us piled into a broom closet sized office, meant to hold two at most. Lem pulled me around the desk and gave me a little shove to sit in the chair behind it.
He sat next to me in the guest chair. The other two men stood along the wall, Doc leaning on a filing cabinet, the other back against the closed door.
Lem snuggled close, taking my hand in his. His touch felt good and settled me to listen as Doc took the lead.
“We’re sorry if we made you feel uneasy.
It wasn’t our intention.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“The story begins forty years ago with twenty-five-year-old me moving here to get away from city life.
I built a little store on the road from the valley to the mountains, a waystation, if you will. Others joined me.
“Then something odd happened. I started seeing connections between people. Love lines. I started pairing people up in my mind. When they paired up for real, I began telling people about my visions.”
Lem turned to me.
“Don’t worry. If you don’t believe him, I don’t blame you. I didn’t believe it either at first.” His excitement and outpouring of love energized me. Seeing or feeling this, he leaned over and kissed me.
The world lit up in fireworks and exploded with sweet feelings.
My jaded self tried to scoff, but I was too caught up in the excitement of the moment.
Slowly, softly Lem pulled away.
“I’m the only one left unpaired. Unloved,” he whispered. “I thought Doc had forgotten me. Or was shunning me.”
“Lem…” the Doc began, but Lem waved him away.
“I know this is hard to believe. That you and I are fated or whatever. You don’t have to believe. Just stay long enough to give it a try.” He sighed and squeezed my hand. “Please. I know you want to run. But, please, stay. At least for a little while. Is it too much to ask?”
My inner cynic scoffed.
My inner romantic sighed.
My always practical self asked, “Why not? What have you got to lose?”
Like I said before, knowing when to run is easy. Knowing when to stop takes time.
After forty years, Lem and I are happy I stopped.