SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

In fond memory of Thee Duke, who fought the good fight with admirable courage, fantastic humor, and more than just a dash of outrageous flamboyance. 

“If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended:

That you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream.

Gentles, do not reprehend!” (William Shakespeare)

—CHAPTER TWO—

Having completed everything on our to-do list while in the canoe and water, Hannah and I returned to Linda’s flat for more merriment. After Hannah went to sleep, I took the opportunity to wash my clothes. At 7 a.m., I heard an emphatic knock on the door and my name being repeated.

I had no clothes to wear, so I answered the door wearing a towel.

Who needs to get in at 7 a.m.? Probably Hannah’s boyfriend. That’ll be great. I hope he’s not too big. 

Opening the door, I saw an unusually concerned Duke.

He looked at me. “Sorry, Dear. Regret interrupting you in mid-debauch. Need you to prop me up. Second call for “Annie.” Oliver Warbucks, of all people. Hold my hand? The smell of the crowd is unusually poor. Say, yes.”

In English, Duke had a second audition as Oliver Warbucks in the play “Annie.” He asked me to provide moral support as the people he’d be auditioning for were unpleasant.

I responded with, “Oh, yah. Mongo help. Mongo take shower? Sorry. Mongo no smell pretty. Need soap. Make quick.”

“By all means. Please. Quick is thoughtful. After winning best supporting, I shall include that fact in my speech.”

I showered, bid farewell to Hannah, jumped into Duke’s car, and headed to his audition. He drove like a PTA mother, never exceeding twenty-five miles per hour. He was oddly nervous and resorted to breathing exercises during the entire trip. In my experience, breathing exercises were reserved for the minute before going on stage. 

There was no small talk. 

We rehearsed his lines. He had them down cold. He sang a few lines from “Younger Than Springtime,” a song from Annie. He sounded incredible, especially considering the role is for a middle-aged man. 

I attempted to provide moral support. “The good news is you don’t have to do anything you didn’t already do on the first call. You know you will kill it. You killed it the first time. They’re not asking you to do anything you haven’t already done.”

“Sound like I was forty years old?”

He did. “No question. I’m not kidding. Keep the resonance as is. And the singing is bang on target. Don’t change a thing there.”

“Need to dazzle the little turds. Competition’s a bitch. What should I add…?”

I gave him a pearl of wisdom I wish I had followed more often: “You won’t know what to do until you get on stage. You know that. You have the instincts. Trust them. Let the moment decide your next move. If you think about it, then it won’t be you. Being you is what got you the callback. As the Bard-Man said, ‘To thine own self be true.’ He also said, ‘Don’t fuck up again.’ But I don’t think that was specifically directed at you. We could ask him, except he’s dead.”

We walked around the studio. To take Duke’s mind off current matters, I told him about a Saturday night party at a fraternity house in West Virginia. I was a freshman. It was the first campus event I attended. The party made the movie “Animal House” look like something from Masterpiece Theatre. This little innocent, family-value-oriented frat party bore a close resemblance to an ancient Roman orgy but without the livestock.

Well, I didn’t notice any livestock. Put it that way.

The selection of alcohol was limited. Option one was bland, flat, watery beer served from kegs that saw their best days during the Spanish-American War. The second and most prevalent choice was grain alcohol. It was rumored to have been spiked, but no one knew what with or how much. I took a whiff and decided it hadn’t been spiked with flavor. Lastly, you could have rolled the dice and tried the moonshine floating around in Mason jars. My strong advice is to think long and hard before accepting the offer of moonshine because you have no idea what is in the Mason jar. The person who made the moonshine doesn’t know. Drugs were an integral part of the party, as the lack of inhibitions among the guests was stunning. 

Barbaric, mostly.

I heard frantic noises coming from one room. The door was ajar, so I peeked and saw a pile of six or so naked bodies with their arms and legs flapping around. I’ve never had sex with six people simultaneously. Sometimes, I can barely manage one. I didn’t know the mindset of the folks involved, but since the door wasn’t closed, it must have been informal. 

Fine. Okay. Why not? Who am I to judge? Enjoy. It works for them. How do they know who’s doing what to whom? I’ll ask them right now. Maybe not. 

I walked in on an S&M display in another open room. A woman and a man, both blindfolded, were hanging upside down from the ceiling. They both looked like they were having a wonderful time and were delighted to be whipped by a couple of girls while three observers chanted something sinister. Do you see the appeal? I don’t.

I don’t remember this being part of college orientation. Everyone is having a lovely time. Hanging my lady friend upside down is not my go-to foreplay strategy, but that’s me. I mean, I’d play along if she specifically requested it only after I get the answers to clarifying questions like, “Does your insurance cover this sort of thing?”

Sex en masse was not restricted to just that night or in the frat house only. For the entire semester, the whole campus population continued like a barn full of cats—demented, perverted, shit-faced, unhinged cats with syphilis.

West Virginia: Where everyone knows each other exceptionally well. You’ll always be treated like family. You probably are.

As I’ve said more than once, I am not a prude. If all participants/combatants are consenting adults, then sex, and all its variants, are jolly good by me. Go for it. I’m sure some of those magic moments will be stories you can tell your young grandchildren when they are sitting on your knee. “Ya know, Amber, back in my day, we didn’t give a rat’s ass. If plenty of penicillin and cheap beer were around, we’d bang away 24/7. You name it. In utility closets, trash dumpsters, classrooms during class, back seats of cars, trunks of cars, churches, nursery schools, on tops of buildings, parent’s bedrooms, middle of the interstate, where the hell ever. With who the hell ever. Didn’t matter. We didn’t bother with formalities like introducing ourselves. One time, Grandpa met these four cheerleaders. Whoa, Nelly, that was a fun day. The first thing we did was find the nearest church and…”

The debauchery extended to a few heroic individuals continuously drinking beer until they fainted. I watched in bewilderment while people guzzled beer, urinated on themselves, fell backward, crashed on the floor, and, most likely, died, for which they received standing ovations. I’m not kidding. It was a contest to determine who could drink himself into a permanent coma first. 

I witnessed a few fights between guys too drunk to know who they were fighting. Or, why. They flailed around, punching the air, a wall, or themselves, but rarely each other. Three furious women were pulling each other’s hair, slapping one another, and saying who would be sleeping with whom later that night.

When they weren’t vomiting out of the third-story windows, party attendees threw an occasional piece of furniture out of them.

People used the floor as the bathroom, contending the actual restrooms were gross. 

I was sternly advised not to enter one room as “they’re doing aqua sex in there.”

I didn’t know what aqua sex was. I still don’t know. I can’t begin to guess the steps involved with aqua sex. It must be weird. I could walk into a room where two people were hanging upside down, slapped around, and no one batted an eye. I can look it up on Google, but I don’t want to. My guess is I’m either too old or too young to understand the allure of aqua sex.

The sound system was distorted, which was just as well. Popular music in those days was awful. Just awful. It was soulless, annoying, cutesy, and boring. If you took the beat away, it was no more interesting than elevator music. Everything sounded like sludge. Recording studios, by law, had to be covered in shag carpet. Rock bands ran out of ideas and were releasing records that had one song that ran forty-five minutes, forty-four minutes of which involved someone noodling around with a synthesizer or a singer mumbling some esoteric, psycho-drool about velvet whales, dancing rainbows, and extraterrestrials who could sing and fart at the same time. In moments of desperation, bands would take majestic pieces of classical music and turn them into toxic waste.

Anyway, the only song played all night at this frat party was “I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night” by Kiss. (I’m exaggerating, but they played it a lot.) It was at total volume. Each time it played, people sang along with gusto. As people kept drinking, they started forgetting the lyrics. Think about that. The song’s lyrics are one sentence. It’s not like Lord Byron wrote the lyrics. “I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night” isn’t filled with nuanced satirical realism or ethereal romance. Imagine how drunk you must be to forget the one-sentence lyrics to a song you sang an hour ago.

Outside the building, unconscious people littered the front lawn., Two women thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company outdoors for all to see. Okay, it was dark, but still.

Sex in public. Okay, that’s fun. But pick your spots! And be covert about it. In the theater’s balcony during a performance of the 1812 Overture? Absolutely. At the library, behind the psychology books, while one of those proper BBC female news anchors reads a copy of The Virgins by Pamela Erens? Sign me up. At the Parthenon, discreetly behind the gold statue of the goddess Athena, while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sings “Why Don’t We Do it in the Road” by the Beatles? Who could say no to that? But, come on, in front of a building covered in puke? Really? Stop that.

One amusing moment in all this was when the three members of the local police showed up around two in the morning. They walked past the people lying face down in the yard, stepped in the front door of the frat house, and carefully surveyed the crowd. They saw the orgies, random folks hanging from the ceiling, furniture flying out of the third-floor windows, fully paid ladies of the night working diligently, poop on the floor, vomit everywhere, youngsters suffering seizures due to alcohol poisoning, and a pile of illegal drugs. 

What do you suppose these three high-minded public safety bastions did? They walked out of the frat house, past the deceased people sprawled out on the lawn, got in their squad cars, drove back to the station, and watched Roller Derby on TV.

I assume it was Roller Derby. Four channels were available then; at that hour, Roller Derby was the best choice.

The highlight for me was the morning after when I spotted the same people walking to church—church! I recognized more than a few faces from the night before. Eight hours earlier, these devoted model citizens were engaging in some unholy behavior, such as boinking everything not nailed down, causing severe bodily injury, trashing personal and public property, stealing, getting lights-out shit-faced, and destroying as many little gray cells as possible. 

There they were, waddling to church, hoping to find true faith’s purity and enlightenment.

No, no, no, no. Uh-uh! Are you serious? I missed the Bible study class at the frat party. After what you maggots got up to, you have the gall to show up at someone’s church.

Where do they start? “Lord, forgive me for my atrocities, I mean, sins. As you may or may not know, I violated nine of the Ten Commandments last night. These transgressions include, but are not limited to, the following:

“Involving myself in unusual carnal behavior with, and I’m guessing here, eight individuals, none of whom I could pick out in a police lineup in a million years.

“Participating in what might be considered, based on agreed-upon definitions, as ‘sadomasochistic conduct’ that resulted in two, perhaps three, people being rushed to a local ER. It’s not entirely my fault, as the adversary caused me to forget the safe word. Please, Lord, let them live. Otherwise, I will have broken all ten commandments. Once they leave the ICU, I shall give them my testimony and lead them to your Word.

“Vomiting on my Bible in order not to puke on the cocaine.

“Taking a dump on the hallway floor, although I don’t believe this is an actual sin because I haven’t read in the Bible where it says you can’t do that.

“Stealing the church offering plate. Due to a lapse in communication, I assumed the offering plate was being offered to me. I know to assume is to make an ass of you and me, although you are the Lord All-Mighty, Creator of the Universe, and not an ass. This distinction has been evident to me for quite some time.

“Doing Linda-Lou. Again. I know this has been a recurring issue. In my defense, I was lured. Linda-Lou led me to believe she would only give me… never mind. After much prayer and spiritual counseling, Linda Lou consented to marry me as soon as she gets a divorce. She advised me that we could have sex because, while we’re not legally married, we’re spiritually married, so having sex won’t be a sin anymore, which makes me double blessed by your love and righteousness.

“Lord, I shall always be your humble vessel; continue setting a superior example for others to follow while being your beacon of light in these troubled times by leading those lost souls, which, in this school, includes everyone, to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. 

“Again, based on the student population, there’s a lot to work with, so this should work well for both of us.

“Can I be forgiven now?

“In Jesus’ name. 

“Amen.”

What a load of shit. 

Bunch of half-wits praying that God will perform a great miracle. “Lord, forgive us for our trespasses and heal us as we are afflicted with a hangover.”

I passed this story on to Duke. He laughed aloud. His stress improved to an appropriate level of nervousness for a minute, but he quickly returned to being a fidgety mess. “Read me another story, please. One unfit for public consumption.”

I told him about my third callback when auditioning for the chorus in “La Cage aux Folles.” During the first two calls, we could wear regular clothes. We had to wear some stage clothing for the third audition. If you’re unfamiliar with “La Cage aux Folles,” let me explain. The play revolves around a gay couple who run a drag club. The chorus members wore very short and exceptionally tight dresses. So, my call back involved dressing in drag, which I had never done. This audition occurred forty-five years ago when I was young and cute. I could get away with dressing in drag. I found an outfit in their wardrobe. It worked, if I say so myself. The dress wasn’t the problem. The seven-inch stiletto heels were.

Women deal with a lot. They give birth. That entire process seems intrusive from start to finish. Plus, it looks annoying as hell. They must raise the little maggots because hubby is always “working late.” There is, of course, the issue of dealing with men. That must be a severe pain in the ass. I’m a man. I don’t know how my wife puts up with my behavior. I’m a total nuisance. I can’t help it. I could do better, but I’m too lazy to try. There’s the glass ceiling, of course. The pay is lousy. The monthly cramps are horrendous. They’re sexually harassed at work, at home, in public, and at all other times. They can’t walk anywhere at night without hiring security teams composed of men, so she can’t trust them.

Those are issues. I understand that. But nothing is as painful and ridiculous as wearing those seven-inch stilettos. Being forced to wear them should be considered a war crime. Anyone who must dance while wearing them should be getting hazard-duty pay. I’ve done skydiving, rock climbing, motocross, mountain biking, skiing on a mountain at a ninety-degree angle to the bottom of the mountain, and mountain biking. (Not that I was any good at any of them. I wasn’t.)

None of those activities were as dangerous and frightening as trying to walk wearing seven-inch stilettos.

My practice time dancing in stilettos was limited. Unbelievably, size thirteen stilettos are hard to come by, even in New York City. On my first day rehearsing in them, I twisted both ankles.

My singing voice was bass-baritone in those days. I would have been the comic relief among the chorus members. Still, I needed to move around on stage with some degree of elegance. That was a problem. By the time of the audition, both ankles were swollen, so putting the stilettos on was impossible. The next barrier was an ear infection. I could barely hear anything, including my voice, and my balance was off. I had a tough time standing straight before putting on high heels. Once in costume, I staggered around like Frankenstein’s monster, except in makeup, a tight dress, and seven” heels.

Oh, I was hilarious. I had the casting people rolling in the aisles. I explained the ear infection, but I doubt they believed me. All I could tell them was that I fought the heels, and the heels won. 

Duke lightened up again and, at that moment, was called for his audition.

It wasn’t like Duke to get nervous about auditions or jumpy about anything. As with the previous auditions that day, I heard Duke’s. He blew the competition away despite being tied up in a hundred knots. That’s not my prejudice talking. Others felt the same way. When we left the facility, I told him he was Secretariat at the Belmont with a thirty-length lead over the field. (He eventually got the part.)

He looked relieved but, based on Duke’s standards, reserved.

I continued. “I hope you don’t think I’m being economical with the truth. You killed. I doth not prevaricate on this point. Half the people in the green room agreed. The other half pouted. They hadn’t auditioned yet and knew fate was not on their side.”

“Thank you for being my knight. Wouldn’t have made it without you.”

We jumped back in his car and drove to a nearby coffee shop at a laughably slow pace. Duke barely spoke except when he snapped at all the crisscrossing bicyclists who were, as is the case in the US today, rude. 

I glanced at Duke, slightly askew, while he pretended not to notice. I was left with the opening serve. “Well?”

“Well, what, Dear?”

“The agitation. Yours. Are things in order in the valley?”

Duke was frustrated. “Fine, I’m fine. Just need some time.”

Figuring silence was better than anything I could say; I sat and endured Duke driving five miles per hour and assumed he’d say something if he wanted, which is what he did.

“Anwar moved out last night.”

“What?!” I was shocked. He and Anwar had been an item for quite a while. A day earlier, Duke did not indicate any trouble in paradise. Anwar was nowhere to be found, either. Also, Duke had only mentioned Anwar’s name once all day.

“Told him to leave. So, he did around two in the morning. I discovered he found his true love. Been having it off with him for a couple of months. Isn’t that cute? Told Anwar he had to make a decision. Either me or his new little boy-toy. So, he made his decision. Where was I when he stopped loving me? What do I..? Thought we, I dunno…damn.”

Ask a question and nothing else. No statement. No answer. No humor. No advice. And, no, “There, there. It’ll be okay.” Don’t say anything stupid, Dipshit.

I did the best I could. “What did he say to you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

He stared ahead but kept silent.

Don’t say one fucking word. He’ll say something if he wants. Otherwise, shut up.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Oh, I’m too serious, conservative, boring, or whatever. And he’s too young to commit. His precious freedom! New boy lets him frolic, cavort, and discover his exquisite little self!”

That sounded weak to me. “What’s the real reason, do you think?”

Duke’s emphatic reaction was, “To screw the back nine! What else?” He had a death grip on the steering wheel. Staring into the middle distance, he said, “Promises and love are just words and illusions. I’m a fool. Had the audacity to tell him he had to get a job. How awful of me.”

“Well, they’re words and illusions from Anwar, at least. I’m just not sure…”

“And I’m just a possessive, unlovable queen. Pretty, silly little boy you invite to parties ‘cause he’s just so much fun. ‘Amuse my guests, you freak. Dance when we tell you. Keep ‘em smiling. Leave through the back door when you’re done humiliating yourself.’”

After a pause, Duke continued, “Let me entertain you. Let me entertain you! I’ll be anyone you want—just not me.”

Right. I didn’t see this one coming. He’s gonna fall apart in a minute. Think of something helpful to say, Dipshit. 

“You’re not thinking I came all this way to be entertained, are you? If I wanted entertainment, then I could have stayed home with an eight-ball, a bottle of tequila, and a couple of hookers.”

Duke, still staring straight ahead, said, “Continue. Please. More.”

“I like you. That’s why I came over to play. I enjoy the company. You’re admirably fast on the uptake. Plus, you’re ten times the actor I’ll ever be, which is despicable on your part. Apology accepted. Don’t let it happen again. So, that’s why I showed up. Those of us in the orchestra section would prefer you be yourself. Or, if you’d rather, be anyone else you want. Just don’t do it on my account.”

“Not sure who I am anymore. Do you know? Who you are.” 

“No clue. I don’t have the faintest idea.”

We finally parked and walked in the direction of a café so we could wobble around town after smoking their pot. 

We never stopped at a café. Duke wanted to keep meandering through town, so we walked side-by-side. It was close to twenty minutes before one of us spoke.

I opened. “Gone for good?”

With an air of heavy resignation, Duke replied, “Down the commode and in the sewer with the rest of his family. Will get my list of insults ready for the next time he creeps near me.”

I suggested the following insults, “Just remember God loves you even though no one else does. How’s that?

When you look at yourself in the mirror, does the mirror laugh or cry? Either of those work?”

Duke was amused and offered, “Try shaving. It’ll look much bigger that way.”

I countered. “Ouch. Let’s see. Try this – Do society a favor: Die.”

“Looks like they still haven’t found a cure for penis envy.”

“Whoa. That’s good. Remind me not to piss you off anytime soon.”

Duke was enjoying this. “Face it, you’ll never be the man your mother was.”

“You were so disgusting when you were born that the doctor slapped your mother.”

“The best part of our relationship is that you’re not in it.” 

I responded, “I just don’t understand, but I don’t care, so it works out rather well, don’t you agree?”

Duke was lightening up. “You’re not cute enough to be this stupid.”

And I hit my stride. “You insipid seminal remnant of a gang bang gone bad. Nice zits. Keep working on your toilet training, and don’t forget that the first fifty years of your childhood are the toughest. That work?”

Duke laughed and then said, “I was considering, ‘Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whore-son obscene greasy tallow-catch.’ But it’s too subtle.”

“Macbeth?”

“Henry the Fourth.”

We returned to silence. 

Amsterdam, as we strolled through it, wasn’t overwhelming. It was lovely and unique. It had a strong, easy-going provincial vibe. Of course, tourists were staggering around stoned to the gills, plus the government-sponsored window women were in full view. Flower shops were on barges in the canal. There were plenty of houseboats in the city’s two million canals. Some were hotels, but not exactly where you might not want to stay. I’m sure they’re better now. They had a run-down motel in the Eastern Soviet Union feel to them.

None of the houses had window blinds. Of course, the window women didn’t stand behind blinds. But that part of town wasn’t all that huge. I don’t think I saw any blinds in houses or apartments. You could investigate anyone’s living room or bedroom. Spying in Amsterdam looked like an easy gig.

There were bicyclists. A lot of them. They rode in packs of two hundred or so. Bicyclists in Amsterdam paid no attention to cars, street signs, pedestrians, panhandlers (of which there were quite a few), infants, older people, or anything else. They flew around the way John Riggins, the NFL fullback, carried the football. They didn’t go around. They went through. If you didn’t want to get run over, then it was all on you to do something about it. You could be a ninety-year-old in a wheelchair. It didn’t matter. None of the bicyclists intended to avoid running over anyone. It’s the same in New York City. But what wasn’t the same as they all had those little bells you had on your first bicycle when you were five—the one with the training wheels.

They all rang those bells. All the time. It was worse than scraping your fingernails on the chalkboard. For those who have listened to Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon,” think about all those alarm clocks going off but never stopping. I cannot tell you how aggravating that was. 

If the bicyclists tried doing that in America, then the homicide rate would have quadrupled overnight.

If you firmly believe in political correctness and insincere politeness, then Amsterdam is not the place for you. That was the case in 1977, but I have a feeling nothing has changed. About everyone spoke English. And they were all honest but made up for it by being blunt. It’s not like they were trying to be mean. They were being brutally, painfully, shockingly, alarmingly honest. 

I overheard this conversation while in a store in Amsterdam. I realize I’m embellishing quite a bit at the moment. But not here. This is precisely what I overheard:

– Man: Would you like to go to dinner with me?

– Woman: No.

– Man: Come on! Why not?

– Woman: I don’t like you.

That was it—word for word.

You must admit, it’s a time-efficient way to do business.

There was none of this “I’m pretty busy at the moment, and can I get back to you” or “I would love to, but my bandwidth is tight, but let’s talk once tax season is over” or “I am so sorry but I have stage-4 cancer, and I’m on my way to the hospital and the treatments run about eight months and hopefully the herpes will clear up so, please don’t take this as a ‘no’ but let’s just see if I survive first and if I do then let’s set up a date.”

I’ve sat in on hundreds of business meetings where someone has produced some stupid project—a project that, once proposed, caused your frontal lobe to no longer work. The meeting time could have been reduced from forty-five minutes to five seconds if the conversation went like this:

– Person: What do you think of my proposal?

– Boss: I don’t like it.

– Person: Come on! Why not?

– Boss: It’s stupid. Meeting adjourned.

Back to Amsterdam…

Duke and I continued walking. There was a line of people waiting to tour Anne Frank’s House. Duke stopped, stared at it, and turned to me. “Go inside and…?”

“Uh-uh. No how, no way. I wouldn’t last two minutes. When it comes to stories of crimes against humanity, I bury my head in the sand. I’m a complete and utter coward. It’s pathetic. I can’t manage accidentally stepping on the cat’s tail. The cat forgets all about it in ten seconds. I’ll be devastated for weeks.”

“You’re so soft.”

“Ah, very wise. Sharp sum’ bitch. ‘Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence.’”

“Macbeth?”

I replied, “You are correct, Sir. I commend thee. We are both being ourselves, too. We must both be commended-eth.”

“You haven’t run away yet.”

“Neither have you.”

More comfortable silence. 

We bought dinner from one of the numerous street vendors. There’s a lot of cheese in Amsterdam. I thought I should let you know.

As we returned to his car, Duke exclaimed, “I’m scared.”

Uh, oh. Don’t say anything stupid. You’re always saying something stupid.

When it came to having a meaningful conversation, I needed more confidence. You noticed.

Ask a question. Don’t offer an answer.

That was something I learned years earlier. I also learned never to ask why. Ever.

“So, what’s scaring you the most?”

“Living here. Stuck. Alone. Will need support. Here for another six months. At least.”

At an early age, I also learned never to offer a suggestion—no matter how practical it seemed.

“No one here. Friends. Family. No one.”

I was surprised. “I thought your parents lived here. Was I wrong on that?”

“No. They’re here.”

Don’t ask why they’re not an option.

“Mom and Dad forced me into a psychiatric institute—high school. Last time I saw them, they were driving away. Disapproved of their deviant son. Thought they could cure me of my gayness. It’s an illness. Like cancer but worse. ‘Do what you want. Shock the bastard. Get him in line.’ Cut me a big check to make me go away. ‘Don’t return until you’ve rid yourself of these unholy instincts.’ The shame is too much for them.”

He is being himself. So, that’s good.

“Duke! That is horrifying. How the hell could they do that to you?”

“Doesn’t play well in high society. Status must be protected. Queer kid can reduce their standing. Can’t have that. No. Never going back—too many insults. Remember them all. Might need to use your parents for now.”

That last sentence caught me off guard. “Just don’t mention my name when you talk to them.” After a pause, I said, “I am such a disappointment to my father that his shame is turning into hatred. He just hasn’t realized it yet. My mother regrets the entire experience. It’s mostly contempt. And anger for the years of happiness I robbed from her.”

“No! Can’t be.”

“They’re right to feel that way. They had high hopes. They’re ashamed in their way.”

We found his car and went to Duke’s flat. When we walked in, I said, “You’re stronger than you think.”

Duke looked disbelieving. “You saw what a wreck I’ve been today.”

“Yes, I did. When the time came to audition, you killed it despite your head spinning. Are you one of those suspicious people who come unglued on the outside but keep cool inside? I think you are.”

“Perhaps. Yes. Will see.”

We decided to crash. Duke needed to wake up early. He said, “The sofa has your name all over it.”

“Indeed. Until tomorrow.”

He shut the bedroom door behind him.

Well, that was educational. Is all that grandiose behavior Duke’s way of getting back at the parents? Probably. His parents despise him for all the wrong reasons. Mine, on the other hand? It’s for all the right reasons.

As I drifted off, I wondered why I went to Amsterdam in the first place—something I did after every trip. Before this venture, I spent as much time driving around the US as possible. I didn’t want to be home.

For the first time, I asked myself a couple questions:

Is it just something to do? Am I running away and hiding? Is this about being somewhere else?

Probably.

No, that’s not it. 

Well, why?

I don’t know why. I may always wonder why.

—THE END— 

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