The Closet Door is Ripped off the Hinges

Previously, on Battlestar Galactica…

I will say this much: after my Dad’s unexpected confession, I felt no need to keep up my charade any longer. When I told him I was gay, he said, “I know. I’ve known since you were a child.”

Great. Maybe you might’ve said something to me before now? In all fairness to my dad—who reads (but doesn’t publicly comment on) this blog—it would’ve been just weird if he had approached me any earlier in my life and said he knew what was going on. And I would’ve denied it all anyway.

“Does Mom know?”

“About you or me?”

“Either one.”

“No. And I’d prefer you keep it that way.”

“About you or me?”

“Your life is your own business.”

Great. So now my dad’s closet was my closet.

Later that summer, sometime in early July I believe, I was at The Forum with some friends when a guy walked up seemingly out of nowhere and asked me to dance. This was unusual, because no one ever asked me to dance (I was a bit of a wallflower, not developing my any real social self-confidence until a couple years later), and to make it even sweeter, he wasn’t even bad looking! However, just as we made it to the dance floor, the song ended and the DJ put on a slow number, Saint Tropez’s Violation. (BTW, if after listening to it any of you can actually translate the lyrics I’d be eternally grateful. It’s vexed me for the last 30 years and I’d like to finally know exactly what these girls are saying!) Since I didn’t think this was the song David wanted to dance to, I moved to leave, but he grabbed me and drew me close. I’d never slow danced with a guy before, but I quickly discovered how much I loved it.

David lived in northern Arizona, outside Flagstaff in the small town of Williams. He drove down to Phoenix on a regular basis to go clubbing since there was nothing in that part of the state that was even remotely gay-friendly.

The fact that he wasn’t local, coupled with the fact I was heading back to Tucson in less a month’s time pretty much precluded anything happening between us, but we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch. I saw him a couple more times before returning to school, at one point even giving him a copy of the St. Tropez album that contained “our” song. (I caught up with David again shortly before I left SF six years ago. He was living in Phoenix and said he still had the LP. We both promised to keep in touch, but life got in the way and he’s once again disappeared into the ether.)

Hard to believe I was such a romantic at one time, isn’t it?

After the string of fiascos that comprised the previous year’s housing situation, I vowed that this year was going to be different. I was going to be open and upfront with my roommate—whoever it ended up being—from the beginning. That way if he didn’t like it, he could get out early. Or vice versa.

The first guy they paired me with was amazingly someone I’d known since grade school: Richard Garcia. It took less than fifteen minutes for me to realize this was not going to work (I hadn’t even unpacked), after Rich started talking about “all the goddamn fags” that were in his last dorm.

I said, “Richard, we’ve known each other since 1st grade, right? Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m one of those goddamn fags.” I picked up my bags and went back out to the lobby to find the R.A. for a reassignment.

When asked why I needed to be transferred to another room, I said, “Rich and I just realized it wasn’t going to work.”

He wasn’t happy about it, but put me in an unassigned room on the opposite side of the building. With any luck, I thought, I’ll end up with another single this semester.

Oh, that it were it so simple…

My new roommate arrived the next day. I don’t remember his name, but he was a Camaro-drivin’, beer-swilling redneck from somewhere in the deep south. Great. Just. Great.

I told him I was gay, hoping he’d freak and want to move out. “No problem,” he said. “I’m not.”

And so began our tortured relationship.


Kaibab-Huachua Hall, 1978

As the semester began and I realized what a total loser my roommate was, I started hopping on a bus and returning to Phoenix almost every weekend just to get away the whole situation. It actually worked out nicely, because David was also making simultaneous pilgrimages to Phoenix, allowing for multiple spit-swapping rendezvous at the bar. Things were starting to get pretty sweet—if not yet sweaty—between us.

Both David and I were big Fleetwood Mac fans. Hell, in the late 70s, who wasn’t? We learned that the band would be bringing their Rumours tour to Arizona for one night—and playing in Tuscon. I immediately went out and bought tickets for us.

Where were they playing? Why, the University of Arizona football stadium of course! How convenient!

David drove down the afternoon of the concert, and while it’s embarrassing to admit it, I don’t remember much of his visit or the concert itself other than the opening band was atrocious, seemingly playing forever—and that once Fleetwood Mac was on stage we abandoned our stadium seats and ended up down on the field—along with most everyone else in attendance. (It was shortly thereafter that the University banned concerts at that venue because the entire freshly sodded field had to be completely replanted before it could be used for football.

What I also remember is that David’s trip to Tucson prompted me to accept his invitation to make a trip north a couple months later. Not having a car of my own at the time, I was at the mercy of public transportation, but thankfully Greyhound did have a route that would take me there. The only problem was, it stopped at every backwater hick-stop between Tucson and Williams, making what would ordinarily be about a four hour trip a full-fledged day from hell.

Admittedly, once I got there—and for the next two days—I had a good time. David took me up Bill Williams Mountain, where the aspen had already changed color, bathing everything on the mountain in a romantic golden light.


David Martinez, October 1977

I learned that one of the favorite forms of recreation in a small town (population <600 at the time) was to sit in a bar, drink, and gossip about everyone who was not in the bar. I was ready to poke sticks in my ears after the first afternoon. I was originally supposed to stay with friend of David’s (he too was still living at home), but once I discovered the friend didn’t even have a shower, I opted for a motel room.

I also figured that if I had a motel room—finally allowing us a private space to ourselves—our relationship might actually be consummated. (Yes, boys and girls, we’d been dating for two months and we still hadn’t done the nasty. Sad, isn’t it?)

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. We tried. We really did. But it was just one of those situations when you finally get to the point where you look at each other and realize that sex wasn’t the real reason the Universe brought you together. Then you start praying that you find out what that reason is—soon—to make up for the lack of release.

Looking back on it now, the reason was crystal clear. It was to provide the framework—and the opportunity—to finally rip my closet door completely off its hinges and come out to the rest of the family.

But how?

Being a borderline passive-aggressive (okay, full-blown passive aggressive) and knowing that my mom went through my room on a regular basis (looking for…?), I decided to leave a copy of Loving Someone Gay (a book currently making the rounds at Louie’s) somewhere that she couldn’t help but find it. Hopefully this would at least prompt a conversation, while at the same time giving me a few more days to finalize what I was going to say.

I took a much more direct route back home that afforded me an afternoon-long stop in Phoenix and provided the opportunity to leave the book in the most obvious place I could think of: my top dresser drawer.

I taped a note to the cover that read, “You need to read this.”

Midweek I called home. My sister answered the phone. All she said was, “Mom found something in your dresser. I think you’d better plan on coming home next weekend.”

(To be continued…)