Starting From the Top (Starting from 5)

“Yeah, I definitely felt like I had to wait. I was raised in a religious household. Being queer wasn’t an option, which was strange because my parents weren’t overly judgmental. They weren’t unkind. They didn’t preach fire and brimstone. But that understanding was reserved for those less fortunate. It wasn’t a hall pass to do or be whatever you wanted. My sister and I both followed the rules. I did everything according to plan. I went to college, got a good job, married a nice girl, bought a house, had a kid. I lived like I was checking off boxes. Some things made me happy, others didn’t. I figured that was just life.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it was just one thing. It was a gradual pileup of…”

“Shit you don’t talk about?” he offered, relighting his cigarette.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s it. Tale as old as time. You achieve, you collect, and then what? You look across the table at this person you’ve been sharing a life with and realize you don’t really fucking know each other.”

“God, I’m glad I’m gay. That’s depressing.” Johnny took a drag and sighed.

“It happens to gay people too,” I commented. “We tried. We went to couples therapy and faked it for everyone else’s sake, but we didn’t have anything other than our kids in common.”

“Did you come out before or after the divorce?”

“After. I’m not naïve. I knew my sexuality might be a hurdle for some people, but there are plenty of queer parents and unscathed kids of queers in the world. And I figured as long as I put them first, we’d eventually be okay.”

“Hmm, so when did you start the Superman act?”

I shot an irritated glance his way, then sipped my Scotch. “Don’t be a dick. I’m not a hero. And I’m not trying to be one.”

“Hmm. If you say so,” he singsonged. He let the quiet seep in for a moment before he spoke again. “For what it’s worth, which probably isn’t much since I don’t know your kids well…I think you’re doing a good job.”

“Thanks.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“You need to lighten up.”

I fixed him with a harsh stare that only made him laugh. “Thanks for the advice.”

“It’s not really advice. It’s more of an observation. I’m no shrink, but I’ve been to quite a few, and I guarantee you a good one would tell you that you’re overcompensating. You feel guilty and you’re trying to patch holes by being an exemplary citizen, business dude, and dad. You’re not just a control freak, you’re a martyr.” Johnny passed his cigarette to me and smiled.

“Fuck you,” I said without heat. I stared at the burning tip for a moment before taking a hit and setting it in the ashtray.

“Since you just admitted you want the best for your kids, I’m guessing that pertains to everything that might touch them…including your reputation. No one talks about Sean Gruen, the gay nightclub owner. Tegan told me that. He said everyone goes on and on about your philanthropy and business acumen. I’ve learned a few things from Charlie over the past couple of years. I see it. You control the message. You created this new queer you, and it’s working well. As long as everyone cooperates and no one gets too close. A clingy lover is a complication I’m sure you’d never chance. Am I right?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how that makes me a martyr.”

“You don’t live your life. You organize it. And coming over tonight with a fucking pizza is a perfect example. Butter me up with carbs, express interest or worry about your kid to soften me up a little more, then kindly request me to not fuck with your deal…just before I was about to suggest we get naked. You still get to play the good-guy card while I come across as a selfish prick with a dirty mind.” He frowned through the veil of smoke, stubbing out the cigarette with more force than necessary. “You don’t get to organize me. No one does. And I can’t believe I haven’t kicked your ass out yet.”

My lips twitched in amusement at his over-the-top tone. The touch of campiness was incongruous with his emo goth vibe. “Are you going to?”

“Hell, yes. Eventually. But first, I just want to reiterate that I’m going to do my job for my band. My manager asked me to meet with Clay, and I agreed. It’s a done deal. And I don’t see how a dinner in any way jeopardizes your deal. It’s not like I’m going to fuck the guy,” he grumbled. “Why does it matter?”

“Because reputation matters.”

“Whose? Mine, his, yours? Look, I get it. Sort of. But is there a chance you’re protecting facets of yourself too?”

I furrowed my brow. “Like what?”

“Sex. Who you fuck,” he replied glibly.