I want to celebrate Christmas. It has been too long that I
have done so.
It is not for lack of trying. There have been too many long
pauses and silent moments between phone calls, E-mails and text messages.
Family disconnected from me. There are too many reasons to spell out as to why.
There are too many fingers worth pointing.
Nothing is OK at home, either. My so-called partner left.
Again, there are too many reasons to parse out. My so-called friends already
took sides on social media. I know why – I am the auslander. I was not born
here. This is not my home.
Perhaps this Christmas is my getaway. Going way from what?
Leaving behind an ex with a list of crimes against my own humanity. Leaving
behind a clique who decided to close the wagon circle in front of me. Leaving
behind a three-quarter empty apartment that was supposed to be full of life and
vibrancy.
What do I really have left? What about my so-called job? It
never fulfilled me to the point of wanting to do more with the company, my
superiors, my co-workers and anyone else involved in what I do. Maybe I should
leave that behind – albeit temporarily.
On the Friday evening before Christmas, I plotted my course. I need to get away from Ice Station Zero – Minneapolis. My destination – a manicured detached home in Northern Virginia where my family called home way before I was born. It is a place where memories were born – my first fastball, my first solo rumba, my first intimate moment…and my last argument with my parents and siblings.
It did not take long to start packing. A 25-inch upright
will do for what I need. I will throw in enough for a mixed climate, as the
Weather Channel foretold. My backpack will have my laptop and my camera. I
could throw in my drum – a companion on even the quietest night. It will be a
two-day drive, I figured. My credit card is in good standing for an overnight
halfway there.
My iPhone is charged up, but a connection to the USB in the
Dodge Dart would help it along. My Tungsten-colored baby is all turbocharged
and ready. No need to plug in the address in the navigation. I know the way
there.
After a call into work telling them I was sick and a full
pump of premium, I set off eastbound on Interstate 94. It was a quiet Monday
morning. The temperature was just zero. I heard of icy conditions further down
the line. Knuckle down and hope for the best, I told myself. The turbo was
cold, but willing to get through Saint Paul traffic towards the Saint Croix
River into Wisconsin.
The cloud provided every song I ever bought from Apple.
Songs I used to think were cool all of the sudden popped up through my
speakers. Did I really buy that Buju Banton song? Lady Saw? Montell Jordan? What
is Adam Levine doing on that song? Tim McGraw?!? They all have my money.
Bypassing Madison, I was reminded by the worst moment I had
with someone I was intimate with. There were choice words to describe said
person. I wanted to vomit as I drove past the Beltline, but I had many miles to
go.
Supposedly, I am good at chucking coins into tollway bins. I
figured I knew how much each gate cost without reading the signs. I am in
Illinois. Wild times…why does Chicago bring out my evil side? It seems I left
my morals behind for a number of Memorial Day weekends. Yet, I would come home
safe, sane with a Cheshire grin every time.
The path beyond the South Burbs had never been traversed by
car in a very long time. It is as I was arriving in uncharted territory. Still,
Indiana appears on my navigation. I am almost eight hours on the road from
Minneapolis and my fatigue has set in. Rest? I did a few stops along the way.
My adrenaline tells me to keep going down Interstate 65 towards Indianapolis.
Where would I make a bed? There? Or, further once I merge on eastbound
Interstate 70?
Somewhere between Indy and the Ohio border, I pulled out my
iPhone to find a place to sleep. I figured I was three hours from Columbus,
since I did not feel that Dayton would be a good place to rest. A motel popped
up on my app somewhere near Ohio State. I booked it and drove the Dart right
towards it.
Ah, Columbus, it has been too long my friend! The last time
I was here, I had plenty of friends I could drink and become very intimate
with. While I was a sinner in Chicago, I was almost a saint in Columbus. The
motel was a familiar spot. I wished I could instantly recall why. Maybe it is
best that I forget about it.
In my mental Rolodex, everyone I knew here had left. Some of
them went to San Francisco, some to Raleigh-Durham, a few to Palm Springs – the
places where others would leave after they tire of this place. I was again
alone. I suppose there is an app for that.
The next morning, I had atoned any behavior I incurred my
only night in Columbus. A Tim Hortons breakfast was my penance for my sins.
Back into the Dart, I went. My only way was on Interstate 70 and the mountains.
I was really looking forward to this drive.
The points of contention in Minnesota fell away in
Southwestern Pennsylvania. The Turnpike welcomed me onto the first big barrier
of creating this nation. I love mountains. I love elevations. I love the
freshness they exude. Why can I not have these every day?
The mountains were behind me. I became angry again.
Perhaps I think too much in my driving, or that I do miss the mountains. I was
on Interstate 81 around nightfall just crossing into West Virginia when this
came about. I needed to stop the car. I want to sort it out.
The rest stop was West Virginia’s welcome center. It had
become colder, but warmer than I left Minnesota. I needed to get away from
people, including the church group that was serving coffee and punch at the
rest stop. I saw a deep part of the rest area that I could calm down. I simply
walked straight to that area, found a bench and sat down.
There was stillness in my space. My boots felt comfortable.
My parka fit just fine. My pants were dry. I was covered in my skully, though I
could use the hood from my sweatshirt to further comfort me. It took time to
process my anger. Flashes of the past year, compounded by scenes of holidays past
with my family. I needed clarity. I needed an answer.
There was so much to think about that I forgot to cry. I
felt like it. I needed to grieve. Yet, I am a state away from my destination.
Perhaps I should attempt the final leg before it is too late.
The journey onto Interstate 66 was nerve racking. Traffic
was running smoothly. I had more than enough fuel in the Dart to make it. Yet,
something jarred my mind back on Interstate 81. It felt like an emotional wind
shear just hot me as I turned off Interstate 70. There was no time to analyze
my emotions – my destination draws near.
Manassas made way for Fairfax County. Interstate 66 made way
for the Beltway. I exited near Tyson’s Corners and meandered into McLean. I
began looking for that manicured detached home that belong to my parents. It
was not far.
The house was in sight. It was lit., but only from the
windows. Where were the Christmas lights? Where was the tree? Where was my
mom’s Mercedes-Benz E-Class sedan?
Yet, the place looked immaculate. I did spot my sister’s
Lexus ES in the drive. I parked the Dart behind it and simply walked up to the
house. There was a spooky feeling about it, but perhaps that was some lingering
memories of the place.
The door opened. It was Carol. She looked like she just saw
a ghost. She slowly opened up the storm door and welcomed me in lukewarmly. We
never got along, but perhaps something had changed. She examined me to see I
was indeed who I was. Then, she gave me a hug.
“You never got our letter,” Carol said, “I am so sorry…”
“What letter?” I asked.
“Mom and Dad were killed a month ago,” began Carol in a calm
manner. “They were on vacation in Florida when their car was hit head-on by a
drunk driver.”
Emptiness took over my body. My parents and I had many disagreements
in the past – politics, lifestyle, and the choices I made for myself. Yet, I
came all the way to make amends and…they are gone. Dead.
“I was not sure how to get a hold of you,” Carol try to
explain the rationale for not letting me know about the death of our parents.
“I had an address, but not sure how current it was…”
“It’s OK,” I tried to calm the fears of my loss in
communications to my sister. “I would have not been able to handle it.”
Carol looked at me wearily as we sat at our parent’s dining
room table. “I was worried about you,” Carol began. “I knew that the four of us
had our disagreements in the past. He knew that how your life was different
than ours, but I never knew how to accept that and love you at the same time.”
I looked at her with concern. Was this some sort of attempt
at an apology? How sincere was this? Carol certainly chose her words very, very
carefully. Yet, I was wondering if this was something sincere, but contrived,
as in a soap opera or reality television series?
Carol asked: “Were you planning on staying out here for a
while?" I replied that I would be in the area for a few days. She offered the
house to stay in. My siblings had their own families to tend to – dotted on the
northwest side of the Nation’s Capitol. I was alone, but the house was
unoccupied. It still had all of my parent’s furnishings and a bed I could sleep
in.
I finally agreed to stay at the house. It was Christmas Eve.
I figured I had a better chance to get through the next day inside of this
palace than at some nearby hotel.
After Carol left, I brought my bags inside. I did not want
remember each piece of furniture and art that remained in tact a month after
Mom and Dad perished further south of this place. I just wanted to truck my
bags upstairs to my old room and go to sleep. As an extra measure, I took out
my drum out of its case and placed it by my bed. It is moments like these where
I need my drum by my side.
It was the first good sleep I had in a while. The sun blazed
across my room as the doorbell rang. I looked out the window below to see who
it was. I could not recognize the BMW parked behind my Dart. I slipped on some
sweatpants and a University of Minnesota t-shirt and headed downstairs.
Behind the front door was someone I forgotten about for
years. Chad. He was my best friend from elementary school until I left the area
for college. The last time I saw him was at his wedding. He married a bright
young woman who was destined for greatness in Washington’s legal circles. Chad
turned out Ok in the tech business, having survived a few layoffs, contract
recompetes and mergers – some at the same time.
He was dressed impeccably – just as I remembered. His first
words were simple: “Merry Christmas and welcome home!”
I ushered Chad inside, as he wanted to hug me. I had not
showered, but he did not care. He said he missed me. He was so happy to see me.
He wanted to know what I was doing in town. He offered his condolences for my
parents. He asked me what has been happening with my life.
What was I to tell him? Would my ex be a good story to tell?
Would my life be worth discussing with or without self-editing? Should I have
offered him anything to eat or drink, not knowing the condition of anything in
the fridge or the cupboards?
Chad was fine. He wanted to take me out to breakfast
somewhere. Gee, what would be open on Christmas and what should I wear? I
excused myself to shower, shave and get dressed. Chad decided to join me
upstairs anyway.
After all, we were childhood friends. He was allowed, though
I tried to be a polite adult about it.
A nice set of clothes later, and we went to a pancake house
that was open near Tyson’s Corners in his BMW E90 3-Series. It was a few years
old, but it does the trick for him. It seemed like clockwork that we were
seated as soon as we walked in the door. It was efficient, but homely. Perhaps
it was supposed to be like this.
We had silence for a bit as we looked at our menus. Chad
wanted to probe into my post-last-time-we-saw-each-other life. I still struggled
with what to offer as a response. Should I talk about my last relationship?
Maybe, but as a bullet point. Should I talk about my job? Maybe, but, again, it
would have to be a bullet point. Should I talk my so-called lifestyle? Maybe…
He remarked how good I looked for our age. This remark came
from a frat-boy-turned-into-a-man. I was less frat-boyish. I was a native
Northern Virginian that became a Minnesotan with a lifestyle that not a lot of
folks want to know about.
My bullet points and nervous laughter did not work. Chad
went into what was up with in his life. The wife became an ex and he came out
of the closet. I never saw any of that coming. Alimony? Of course there would
be. His family? They dealt with it better than mine – on both points.
The door was open to spill the beans my life. Yes, my family
knows I am gay and they never accepted it. Yes, my ex cheated on me multiple
times. Yes, our friends became his friends after the break up. No, I am not
dating anyone now. Yes, I still have a job in Minneapolis.
Chad cleared his throat. He was happy to hear about my life.
He also had a surprise for me.
“Did I ever tell you that I had a crush on you?”
I almost dropped a pancake on my sweater. Who? Me? I was
average…nothing to write home about. I was articulate, intelligent…whatever you
called me during high school, college and so forth. I was a quiet guy with a
mean fastball that never got me a scholarship somewhere because I never gave
the effort to do my best. I was dealing with my identity – the root cause of my
failed attempt at baseball greatness.
He wanted to cry right there. He gave a good face, as we
stopped our conversation. The food was finished and Chad paid the check. He
drove me home and we walked together into my parent’s home. That was when he
started to cry.
He took me in my arms and cried. I began to cry, too. I
never revealed that I had a crush on him, too. Perhaps this embrace opened up
my secret to him.
An hour later, Carol came by with her husband Bill and their
daughter Chloe. They looked so beautiful. They wished Chad and I a Merry
Christmas and waited until my two brothers showed up. They soon arrived with
their families – Mark with his wife and two children, David with his wife. It
was the first time the four children were at least civil to each other.
About an hour into our reunion, they ushered their spouses,
children and Chad away. My siblings wanted to meet with me. They explained the
estate, which was something I was unprepared for. They knew I was out of the picture,
but they had a caveat.
You see, Mom and Dad loved me. They quietly accepted my
homosexuality and knew it was going to be reversed, as they hoped. My siblings
loved me, but hoped that I would return to the fold after being angry with them
and our parents. This was our moment – reunion in the wake of news I was
unaware of.
The house will not be sold. Neither of them wanted it. What
about me, they asked? It is paid for. All I needed to do was pay taxes and keep
it up. In Northern Virginia? Would that mean I would have to move out of
Minnesota?
Considering what I went through this past year – it does
sound attractive. That mean I would have to find work in the DC Area. My oldest
brother talked about savings, securities and other monetary divisions of the
estate. It is not about the money, as it is keeping up the family home in our
name. It is as I felt welcomed back to the family and this was my gift in
return.
I accepted the house as terms of the estate. I agreed to
meet with our lawyer on this. We comforted ourselves that it was the right
thing to do. I was warned about neighbors who were less than friendly to people
like me – despite having grown up in this neighborhood.
There was no longer a desire to drive back to Minneapolis.
After our meeting, I went to Chad and asked for a date. He
laughed. He thought I would never ask. He accepted.
It is now April. Chad ended up moving into the house with
me. I since quit my job, ended my lease at my old place, and moved my stuff
halfway across the country. I kept the Dart, but had to sell one of the
Mercedes. I figured I’d keep the one they own outright, a W126 300SD Turbodiesel.
It was a classic and held many memories for me. Dad brought it new and kept it
up for 25 years and 189,000 miles. For Chad and I, it was our car. Chad kept
his BMW.
I found a new job in the District. I even rediscovered
friends who moved out from the Midwest to the DC Area. These were people who
never cared for the ex – and loved me as a brother. Our histories were
maintained, even as social media imploded at the epicenter.
They accepted Chad as one of us. My family has, too. Happy
endings are always the best.
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