The Last Lovers on Earth: Stories from Dark Times

  The Last Lovers on Earth

  Stories from Dark Times

  Charles Ortleb

  Rubicon Media

  New York City

  The Last Lovers on Earth: Stories from Dark Times

  Published in the United States by Rubicon Media,

  Copyright © 1999 by Charles Ortleb

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the express permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.

  Publisher's note: These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any actual resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Rubicon Media Edition: August, 1999

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  “Everywhere, on billboards, in the newspapers, on the screen, we encountered the revolting and insipid picture of ourselves that our suppressors wanted us to accept.”

  —Jean-Paul Sartre

  The Republic of Silence

  “The horrible can be not only ludicrous, but downright funny.”

  —Hannah Arendt

  Eichmann in Jerusalem

  “The one weapon against which Robespierre was helpless then struck him down: Laughter.”

  —Simon Schama

  Citizens

  The Retraction

  The parents started to feel a little nervous when their son called ahead and said that he wanted to sit down for a talk with them as soon as he got home from work. He had sounded edgy and they both remembered the last time he had anxiously requested a heart-to-heart with them. Their lives hadn’t been the same since. What could it be now?

  When he arrived home he quickly bounded up the stairs, took a shower, and donned his signature outfit of khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. He asked his mother to make them all double vodka and tonics and to wait for him in the sun room. That he seemed to think they all needed such strong drinks was disturbing.

  When their handsome, sole offspring entered the glass-enclosed room, the sun was just setting, and there was a soft, evocative light in the room that was kind to his mother and father’s weathered features. For the mother, who had already gulped down half her drink, a kind of incipient numbness had set in, perhaps as protection for what her son might be about to say.

  The last time they’d had a talk that was set up like this, she had ended up loaded and in tears. Her husband had carried her to bed. She was now a little angry. She was getting too old for surprises. She thought people should be careful about what they say to anyone over fifty. She anxiously focused her eyes on her son.

  "How was the office, son?" asked the father.

  "Disgusting."

  "Well, maybe you should look around," said the father.

  "Maybe they’ll fire me, and I could collect. My nerves are shot. I can’t make cold calls like that all day long."

  "Well, son, most jobs involve some selling, some calling," said the father.

  "If it was something else, maybe I wouldn’t be so frustrated. But people just don’t seem to want to buy cake decorating equipment by phone."

  "Maybe you could go back to cooking school," the mother chimed in.

  "That was a disaster," he said. "I just need to find some time to figure things out."

  The father, somewhat relieved, said, "So that’s what you wanted to talk to us about—your career?"

  "No," he responded.

  "Oh," the mother sighed.

  "No, it’s bigger than that."

  "Well, shoot then, son."

  "I really hate breaking things like this to you. You’ve both been through so much. I feel so guilty for what I’ve already put you through."

  "It’s a terminal illness isn’t it?" the mother blurted out, with her hand over her eyes.

  "No, mother, I’m in perfect health."

  "Your mother always likes to jump to the worst conclusions. Well, what is it then?" asked the father, his voice cracking a little.

  "I’m not gay."

  "Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" screamed the mother.

  "Now wait just a minute, young man," said the father.

  "I made a terrible mistake coming out to you last year. It turns out that I’m not gay. I’m sorry."

  The father fell back into the chaise lounge but then abruptly sat up.

  "Let’s all take a deep breath. I don’t want anyone to panic," said the father. He always liked to assume the role of the captain at sea.

  "I should have known it," the mother said.

  "That’s what you said when I told you I was gay."

  "I should have known it when you didn’t try to write a gay novel. That should have been the giveaway. I looked for first drafts in your socks drawer, but I never found a single page."

  "Well, I’m glad to hear that you’ve been looking through my things."

  "I was only hoping to find condoms," said the mother. "Your father and I are always worried about safe sex."

  "I’m sorry I’ve made you worry about anything."

  "This is a little crazy son. Are you gonna get us both drunk next year and change your mind and tell us you’re gay again? Is this a revolving door we’re all in?"

  "No, Dad. This is real. This is sure. I just made a terrible mistake and wasted a year of your life. You’ve both been so supportive about this. I’m very grateful to both of you for that."

  "You mean we won’t be riding on the ‘Parents of Gays’ float this year?"

  "No, you don’t have to do anything. You can stay home or go to the mall or play golf. You don’t have to fight for gay rights. I have all the rights I need, because I’m not gay."

  "Son, are you absolutely sure about this? After all, you are very effeminate."

  "I know Dad, but I’m not gay. I’m just an effeminate heterosexual male. I’m a flaming straight, I guess. You’re not exactly John Wayne either, Dad."

  "The more I think about it, though, you really might be wrong this time," said the mother.

  "Why?"

  "You used to dress up in my clothes when you were a little boy."

  "I still do, mother. But I’m not gay."

  "You will still do my hair for me every Friday evening, won’t you?"

  “Yes, Mother."

  "What are we supposed to tell everyone?"

  "That it was all a misunderstanding. That I’m not gay."

  "We can’t tell your grandparents," said the mother.

  "Why not?"

  "Because they’ll be so confused. They’ll think we’re all crazy."

  "But all of our friends have become so sensitive and understanding. Son, I hope you know what widespread repercussions this is going to have," said the father.

  "Do you really have to guilt-trip me?"

  "Will we still have brunches on Sunday, son?" asked the mother as she looked out the window at a black bird in the distant sky. It seemed to connect to the tiny forlorn feeling that was flying around inside her.

  "I don’t see why not," replied the son.

  "I’m going to miss the Parents of Gays meetings. I got so good at comforting mothers who broke down about their gay children," said the mother. "They’re all going to think that we’re in some kind of denial. They may send out a team of parents for an intervention. Your father was great with the other fathers, especially the distraught ones. He’d pat them on the back and say, ‘Chin up, pal. This gay thing is not such a big deal. It’s just a special buddy relationship, afte
r all, don’t you think?’ It always did the trick."

  The mother decided right then and there not to second-guess her son’s sexual nature, but it did seem to be changing on an annual basis.

  "I never thought I’d say this," the father said, "but it’s very strange to suddenly not be the parents of a gay."

  In the weeks and months that followed, they tiptoed around the giant hole where the gay son had been in their lives. One son had died and another one had risen from his grave. It was very unsettling, for in some ways, over the last twelve months, the father and mother had thrown themselves so aggressively into understanding and defending their son, that each in their own way had become just a little bit gay.

  Once they had gotten over the initial shock, they adopted the role of supportive parents with a vengeance. Not only had they immediately joined Parents of Gays, but they also had a big coming out party for their son. They invited all their friends and relatives. With a few exceptions, everyone had been team players and the party turned out to be one of the liveliest they had ever given. A couple of the son’s cousins even chose to come out as trendy bisexuals at the party. But now they were faced with the question of what to do with the presents. The mother insisted that they should just follow the same etiquette used for bridal showers when the wedding is cancelled.

  The coming out gift they were most concerned about was from the mother’s parents. The grandparents were wealthy liberals who lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and they gave their newly gay grandson a brand new BMW. They didn’t want to be outdone by their friends with gay grandchildren. The mother said the grandparents would be furious if the son tried to give the car back.

  It was difficult to tell who took the retraction hardest, the mother or the father. The father sheepishly told some of his closest friends that his son might not be gay, just to see what the general reaction would be. The father sensed that his best golfing buddy thought that the son had simply gone back into the closet, which was just fine with him. Most of the father’s friends didn’t much like the son anyway.

  The mother took more time to spread the word in her social circle because, frankly, she hadn’t had many friends before her son came out. Most of her phone friends now were mothers of gays, lesbians, or bisexuals. Much of the mother’s day had consisted of gossiping with other mothers about the problems of their gay children. Just keeping track of everyone’s relationships was a full-time job. The mother kept a chart of all the friends’ sons and daughters, along with the names of lovers and ex-lovers. There were so many names crossed out and so many arrows going in all directions that the chart looked like a map of a football coach’s wildest strategies. It had become a totally engrossing and surprising occupation, and as odd as it seemed, the whole enterprise had made the mother feel more alive than she had felt in years. When you have a son who is a wee bit swishy, after years of thinking the worst, and putting every kind of spin on your own intuitions, it comes as a peculiar kind of relief when he tells you that he is gay. But that weird relief was now history.

  After the son had come out, the parents’ calendar was full of events that were supportive of gays and lesbians. They quickly found themselves attending weekly meetings and volunteering for all kinds of gay organizations. They subscribed to the Advocate and several other gay publications. They sent a generous check to the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force. Within a few months of the son’s coming out, the thought struck them that they were doing more for the gay cause than their son was. They found themselves bowling with the siblings of gays and lesbians, hiking in the Catskills with the uncles and aunts of gays and lesbians, attending Broadway openings with the nephews and nieces of gays and lesbians, and perhaps most surprisingly, they spent one weekend helping a bald lesbian put together a cabaret act with her father in their garage. The parents had even joined a Parents of Gays bridge club and had subsequently come to the conclusion that may gays and lesbians have card sharks for parents. (That said, they enjoyed the evenings and hoped they would still be welcome.)

  They had been determined not to let their son down. They had wanted him to know that their love was unconditional. The gay movement had become their movement. They were not political people. The anti-war movement had passed them both by. From an activist point of view, they were letting the environment and the ozone layer go to hell. What they had thought was their son’s struggle for gay civil rights had become their lifeline to the public square. They had become citizens in the most robust manner; they marched and they protested and they carried around signs that were simple but defiant, signs that said things like "Our Son is Gay and We Like Him That Way," and most outrageously, "We Wish We Were Gay." Until their son had come out, the annual Gay Pride Parade had always appeared to them as some kind of lurid freak show, but when they found themselves in the middle of it, on one of the colorful floats with disco dancers in G-strings cavorting around them, they suddenly were full of empathy for all living creatures, straight and gay. The event lifted their spirits and seemed to connect them to freedom fighters everywhere. This had truly become their cause. By suddenly not being gay, their son had taken away some of the meaning of their lives. They thought about the possibility of starting an organization for parents of nongays, but the prospect seemed awkward and unwieldy.

  As the reality of their son not being gay sank in, things began to change in their household. For some reason, after their son came out, the mother had started to keep fresh flowers around. The son had not asked for them, but it seemed appropriate. Now the vases were empty. With the exception of Lesbian Homes and Gardens, the mother let all the other gay subscriptions expire.

  Both parents found themselves doing things they couldn’t quite explain. The symptoms of some mild, mysterious depression began to materialize. The father began to do something he hadn’t done since he was a kid: stutter. And sometimes, when he was alone in the car driving to work, he would start to sob uncontrollably for no reason at all. Instead of getting closer to his son, he found himself spending more time alone. At first he thought that his son not being gay meant that they would start doing more guy things together. He thought he should show his son more about the intricacies of fixing a car, or take him to the country club to play golf, or even do something they had never done—go on a hunting trip together and kill something.

  The mother found herself talking to herself more. She tried to keep up some of the relations with the mothers of gays she had befriended, but it just wasn’t the same. In the colorful circle that had formed around her, there was an unspoken disdain for parents who didn’t have any gay children. For the first time in her life, she was sorry that they had decided to be prudent and have only one baby.

  The following autumn the mother got in her car and took a trip to the outskirts of their town to dispose of the secret thing she had created shortly after her son had come out. Subsequent to joining Parents of Gays, the mother and father had accompanied parents from around the nation to visit the AIDS Quilt in Washington. The AIDS Quilt was bigger than a hundred football fields and consisted of panels from all over America sewn together to create a mesmerizing and gut-wrenching image. Each panel represented one person who had died of AIDS. The leaders of Parents of Gays had insisted that the AIDS Quilt was a very important thing for every parent of a gay to see. Even though the mother and father were not the parents of a dead gay and did not know anyone who had died of AIDS, they found themselves sniffling and trying to console the relatives and friends who were overcome with grief as they gazed upon the colorful sea of the departed.

  When she returned home, the mother did more than take to wearing a red ribbon around the house. She didn’t only warn her son about the dangers of unprotected sex. Wanting to prepare herself for the absolute worst, she clandestinely began to work on her son’s panel for the AIDS Quilt, just in case. It had not escaped her attention that many of the panels were expertly crafted acts of love and affection. Some of the panels, even though they were only a few square fe
et, looked like Martha Stewart or Vera Wang had created them. Some parents and friends had captured entire life stories in the panels. The taste represented by many of them was exquisite. Some had expensive jewels sewn into them. Some had teddy bears or Ken dolls affixed. Surprisingly, a few had soccer shoes, footballs, or baseball mitts expertly attached, which especially got to the fathers. Each panel tried to embody the lost essence of a gay man. Each panel was the expression of the tortured and imploring hands of friends or parents reaching up to heaven. The mother was worried that if her son died of AIDS, the grief would be so overwhelming that she wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to construct a panel for the AIDS Quilt that wouldn’t embarrass their family and friends. So she surreptitiously began working on a panel for her son so that she would always be prepared for the worst. She didn’t want her son’s potential AIDS Quilt panel to look like they had just stopped and bought it at a Kmart on their way to Washington.

  During the days that followed their visit to the Quilt, when her husband and son were at work, the mother began to put together the most meaningful tribute to the memory of her not-yet-dead son. She crept into her son’s bedroom and opened the sliding door to his extremely cluttered closet and explored its dark recess, as if she were extending her arms into her son’s past itself. From the closet she plucked items that summed up his life and brought nostalgic tears to her eyes. His first baton from when he tried to be a majorette. A tiny feather boa from his first Halloween in drag. White gloves he insisted on wearing with his Cub Scout uniform. A small blond wig from when his third grade class tried to do Follies. As she clandestinely removed these items from her son’s bedroom, she felt like she had a transcendent armful of her gay son’s precious time on earth.

  The mother pensively wove the items into an imagistic narrative about her son’s life. Of course, she had to leave part of the panel unfinished. The date of her son’s birth on the panel was followed only by a dash. She never showed the panel to the father and she was always terrified that the son might find it and never forgive her.