Chapter 73: Gay Boy To Grey Boy

I missed the introduction completely. My phone had buzzed and in my frantic attempt to silence it, I hung up on the caller. Caller ID confirmed it was John. I vowed to call back at the next break. When I looked up, a tall, disheveled man of the crowd’s vintage walked to the podium with a little agitation and a larger dose of  purpose. His head was covered with delicate whisps of gossamer white hair that made him appear to be a cross between Einstein and an ostrich.

            I chuckled to myself at the description. I should make a note of that one for my next novel.

            The speaker began. The voice, after forty-plus years, was unmistakable.

            It was Henry. Fetal-curled, wild-eyed, desperate, suicidal Henry.

            I was at once relieved, and gratified that Henry, after such a shaky and pain-ridden start our first year, had not only made it through one year, but many more years of advanced learning. As many of us had suspected, Henry was likely a genius, wrapped in a damaged child, hiding in a gay man. The last was the weakest link of the conjecture, but, his talk, entitled ‘Gay Boy To Grey Boy,’ was projected behind him in giant red letters. It cemented my guess.

            “I came to the University with baggage.” Henry’s voice floated in and out of my ears. I had often wondered what happened to Henry. At first year’s end, Henry had returned in time to complete spring exams. Jeff, our RA, wasn’t at liberty to say more about Henry or his future at the University.

            Our paths had clearly diverged. Once I had renounced my plans for medical school for a double major in English and economics, the likelihood of crossing paths with Henry diminished to almost nil. Seeing his credentials in the morning’s program—BS, MD, PhD Neuroscience and another PhD in Behavioral Psychology—I realized we could have easily missed each other for the duration of our time there. And, I realized, with a fleeting feeling of guilt, I had not made the effort to stay in touch. I had cared, but not with any degree of loyalty. We had, in a distressing but common fashion, lost touch.

            “It was a difficult first year. A lonely one for a geeky kid—hard to image isn’t it—(pause for laughter).”  Henry has a sense of humor. Who knew? “Difficult and lonely to be a man with intense and socially-reviled feelings. For other men. For the men he was surrounded by. And no one to tell. No place to confide. It was, as they say, a different world.”

            You tell ‘em, Henry. It sucked. Big time. His words drew me back to my own frustrations and battles. In retrospect, our fears—Henry’s and mine—seemed so wasted, so unnecessary. My mind raced for other words I could use to damn the senselessness of our fears. Of Tayloe’s senseless end.

            “Anyway, I’ve rambled a little here. Suffice it to say, my feeble attempt to take my life with booze and pills, was, obviously, not successful. Thanks to the intervention of my Resident Advisor and three of my hall-mates, I didn’t die, curled in a fetal position, alone in the common room of Metcalf West. And, I understand that my unsung saviors, through chance and some through coaxing, are here with us in the room today. Please stand and accept my heartfelt thanks.

            “My RA and the faculty advisor for UVaLGBTQ+, Dr. Jeff Jenessee.”

            A wave of applause swept the room.

            “Dr. Charlie Kline, Class of ’77, on staff at Sloan Kettering.”

            It hit me. It was Chas. Chas Kline. He had been there on that day with our resident curmudgeon in the spring of 1974.

            Continued applause.

            “Mark Newsom, Class of ‘77, married to Marjorie O’Brien, Class of ’79. And by the way, their son, Mark, Jr. graduated Class of 2002. It’s in the family, folks.”

            More applause, building. I felt my heart in my throat.

            “And Drew Carter, author and therapist, Class of ’77. Married to his husband, John Catelli, architect, and also an author. You might have heard of them.”

            The applause reached a crescendo as I stood, incredulous, both ambushed and honored at the same time. I felt a rush of tears I couldn’t hold back.

            “Please, all of you, come up here. Let me shake your hands.”