The Strangest Summer of My Life

Previously, on Battlestar Galactica…

I knew my first summer back at home after flinging open the closet door at school might be a little…strange. Little did I know how truly bizarre it was going to be.

It started only a couple weeks after classes ended, with the celebration of my 19th birthday.

I had decided to invite a dozen or so of my friends from Louie’s (at least the ones who were still in the state) up to Phoenix to help me celebrate. The only problem was, I still hadn’t come out to my family, and my folks didn’t really have a clue as to what had happened in Tucson during the previous five months. How on earth was I going to pull off having a bunch of (potentially) screaming queens in the house without tipping my my own tiara to Mom and Dad?

Fortunately, Dad suggested that the night of my party would be an excellent opportunity for he and Mom to have a much needed night out on the town. My sister was also away doing something, so I’d have the place to myself. Problem solved. But oh, how I agonized!

Phil was the first to arrive that afternoon—on a motorcycle, wearing chaps, no less! I thought, “Just shoot me now.” Mom didn’t bat an eye.

Since Phil was the only one of my guests who would be staying the night and not turning around and going back to Tucson after the party, I got him situated in the guest room—even though neither of us had any intention of him actually sleeping there. (Yeah, despite all my angst about this extremely flammable situation I still liked to play with matches.)

As the other guests began arriving, I was amazed. Everyone was on their best behavior—at least until my folks drove off. Then the glitter and chiffon broke loose.


My merry band of butt pirates: Don, Phil Chas, Kent, James, and Eduardo—May, 1977

Well, not exactly. My friends—as a rule—were not especially flamboyant (except for Chas, who could camp with the best of ‘em) and one incident of some dirty dancing notwithstanding, the evening was actually kind of dull. It was therefore a bit of a relief when 10 p.m. rolled around and it was suggested we adjourn to Maggie’s for some real fun.

I don’t remember anything that happened at the bar that night, other than I tried poppers for the first time and the resulting migraine made me swear them off forever.

The next morning, as Mom was making breakfast for Phil and I, she asked if the party was a success. I told her it was okay, and hastened to add that I probably wouldn’t be doing it again next year.

About a week later I got a call from a high school buddy who was absolutely imploring me to go with him to see this new movie called Star Wars. I declined. I’d seen the ads for it and I wasn’t particularly interested. It looked like cowboys and indians in space.

But Gary wouldn’t let up. He’d already been once and was itching to go again. “You have got to see it,” he said. “I guarantee it’s not at all what you think it is.”

Finally, reluctantly, I agreed.

As if my life weren’t already in enough of a state of flux, along came George Lucas and his goddamned double sunset, prompting a wholesale spiritual transformation. Not only was I now floating between two physical worlds (gay and straight), my personal beliefs began a fundamental shift from traditional Christianity to something very, very different.

The summer of 77 was also the first time I’d read Frank Herbert’s Dune. My first foray into that world was also disconcerting, not only being faced with new words and terminology, but also a new way of viewing the universe itself.

You would think that with all this going on, and with my previous belief system laying in tatters at my feet, the Universe (capital U) would at least give me a little while to regroup before throwing anything more my way.

Ha!

That summer I also I went to work for my dad. Fascinated by architecture since I was in junior high, creating architectural drawings all through high school, and finally majoring in the subject in college, I had become rather accomplished at putting a viable collection of construction documents together—a skill set sorely needed in his office. My dad and I had never been particularly close, but one day after we’d returned from lunch we were talking about the summer-long trips that my mom, sister, and I would make back east to visit my grandparents when I was a kid, and he blurted out something very personal. “When you guys went back east, I’d go down to the Ramrod and hang out with Oscar from down the street…”

I seriously don’t remember anything he said after that.

Ramrod? The Ramrod?!? That’s a gay bar! That’s a gay leather bar. It’s always been a gay leather bar!

Oh. My. God. The light went on.

Now I knew where that newspaper article had come from.

I wasn’t the only one leading a double life.

Cue up the Twilight Zone music…

(To be continued…)