-----
Used to be, if I was asked when I knew I was gay I’d pop off with a glib, “The first time I saw Gene Kelly’s ass.” And that isn’t far wrong.
I happened onto a Saturday afternoon showing of On The Town on TV, while living with my grandmother – around the time he meets up with Miss Turnstiles and they do their little duet – and got locked onto his derriere in that white sailor suit.
But reality is, that was merely the first time I began to understand what I wanted in life. The first time I caught an idea that I wasn’t like the other guys was when I went on a camping trip with my Boy Scout troop.
We had recently moved back to San Antonio from London so were staying in the same area of town where my mother had grown up. We even joined the church where she had belongs to. Which wasn’t bad. Presbyterians tend to be religion-light.
I had been a scout in England and was at the Second Class level, two or three badges short of being First Class. Which was pretty good for a twelve year-old who had lived in three different cities in the previous six years...and who spoke like a Brit.
Only I didn’t like it. Wasn’t really one of the guys, and camping was pure boredom. Though I didn’t mind sitting around a late night campfire telling ghost stories. It being Texas, everybody knew at least three, and since I’d lived in England I knew five. But sleeping under the stars was uncomfortable and I never got the hang of cooking in the wild...except for charcoaling a hot dog.
Then one weekend we drove up near New Braunfels and went on a hike to stay overnight along the Guadalupe River. Canyon Dam had recently been completed and a lake would soon cover an area of gullies and ravines that was saturated with towering Cedar Trees, bubbling springs of ice cold water, and limestone cliffs...and my first thought at seeing it was, “What a shame to do that.”
It was a June weekend and hot, the time of year where the air surrounds you in a blanket of stillness. A rain the night before added to the humidity, and by the time we reached our chosen campsite we were dripping with sweat and near heat exhaustion. So the leader of our troop said, “Let’s drop everything and hit the water.”
Took the other guys no time to become a dozen tweens in shorts and trunks splashing around in a pool shaded by ancient pecan trees. Wrestling. Swimming. Making noise.
Thing is, I can’t swim, therefore couldn’t join them. Instead, I was off by myself, transfixed by a series of rapids and tiny waterfalls gurgling along at breakneck speed. My joy came from sitting on the stone as the water whooshed over me and twigs and leaves raced by like little boats.
Now, we also had an assistant scoutmaster named Mr. Prescott. who was an Airman with a wife and soon to be a father. He was around 6 feet tall with dark hair, tight and trim, and tanned skin. I'd thought he was so adult...even though I know can see he was barely twenty-one. But he was really nice to me. Very patient.
Like when he showed me...for the tenth time...how to do a simple square knot. Something I still have problems with and have to make a conscious effort to do properly.
Of course, part of the issue might have been how focused I was on his elegant hands instead of actually learning. I was already something of an artist and I wanted to sketch them, sometime. So I thought my interest was just me being artistic.
Well...he joined our party by standing on a rock at the top of the rapids cascade. Straight and proud. Broad shoulders. Trim hips. Legs in perfect proportion. His elegant form framed by deep green trees, slashes of white rock and clear blue sky. Water splashing around his ankles. His hands on his hips as he surveyed the majesty of the area. And all he was wearing was a tight bright red, square cut Speedo.
And my heart nearly stopped. He was like Adonis descended from Olympus with that perfect body, a smile that outshone the sun, and RayBans shielding his eyes. Such a complete vision of Steve McQueen cool, I actually cried out, “Mr. Prescott, you're gorgeous.”
My voice echoed off the rocks. And everyone heard it. And it got very quiet. But all Mr. Prescott did was look at me...and smile...and say, “Thank you.” Nothing more.
At that moment, I would have killed to be held by him.
The rest of the camping trip I was teased by the other boys, who called me a girl with a crush...though never when he was in earshot. I didn’t really understand what the problem was, so just shrugged it all off. Then when we got back to the church, the scout master took me to one side and told me I should leave the troop, saying, “We know how uncomfortable you must feel, here, because we feel uncomfortable, too.”
I just nodded. I was never going to gain First Class status in Scouting because I couldn’t get the swimming badge, and you had to have that to advance.
Of course, my parents were informed. They shrugged it off as being something he'll grow out of. But I’d caught my first real glimpse of how the world treats those not straight and simple.
I didn't see Mr. Prescott, again, after that. He was transferred to California, and not long after his wife brought a new little boy into the world. All the ladies in the church were buzzing like crazy, about it.
I grew depressed, when I heard. I thought it was just because I knew I'd never see him, again. But in truth, it was because his life had been completely separate from mine and always would be, and I hated the reality of that.
It was about a year later that I finally saw Gene Kelly and really began to understand why.
For years afterwards I would conjure him up, sometimes, standing on that rock like the knightly gentleman he was. And at those times...sometimes, when I dreamt of that day...all I would do is hold him...as he held me…and nothing more. And for those few moments, I would feel whole.
Which helped me make it through the hell that was to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment