I wipe the corners of my mouth with the paper napkin, and I stand up from the table, removing our plates and glasses.
“Leona, that was absolutely delicious. You can make me breakfast any day.”
“They were good weren’t they? I get them from a donut shop on the corner, just down the road from my house. The store has been there as long as I can remember and there’s always the same old man behind the counter, who I assume is the owner. Oh, excuse me; I didn’t mean anything about calling him an old man.”
This sent me into a hard belly laugh and when I caught my breath, I said to Leona, “Don’t worry about it, Leona. I already knew that I was old before you brought it up.”
That made Leona laugh and I picked up my story again.
____
In my sophomore year at the University of Southern California, I had found some balance between the relatively conservative upbringing of my youth and the total freedom that came when I left home. I had a wild freshman year, and I played too hard and drank too much. Rock and roll was blossoming and I finally got all of the wild dancing out of my system that I had dreamed about for so long.
By the time my second year of college rolled around, I had matured somewhat and I had decided that I needed to buckle down with my studies if I was ever going to amount to anything. I needed to honor my commitment to make good grades in exchange for the scholarship that I had received and besides, it was the right thing to do. I had my fun, and it was time to grow up.
When I was home over the summer, I had walked over to Marie’s house to ask after her. I thought that I could coerce her Dad into giving me Marie’s telephone number. I only saw Marie one time after the senior dance. At the time, life was so hectic with getting ready for college, leaving early for Los Angeles to get settled in, and finding a part time job to help finance my schooling, that I never even got the chance to ask Marie for her telephone number.
I rang the doorbell, and an elderly man answered the door. I introduced myself as one of Marie’s classmates from high school and I asked if Marie’s Dad was home.
The man croaked, “Oh, you must mean the Johnson’s. Well, they moved away several months ago, before my husband and I bought this place. They left a hell of a mess in the attic I might add.”
“Do you know where they moved to or what their telephone number is?”
The elderly man looked perturbed at my persistent query and he replied, “Sure don’t but if you find ‘em, let me know cause I have a bone to pick with them.”
I walked back down the sidewalk, and I felt a tug on my heart as I headed back home. I should have gotten Marie’s telephone number before I left for college last summer. I should have told Marie that she made my heart leap; I could have picked a different college that would have put me closer to wherever it is that she and her parents moved to. There was so much I could have done, but all of that was behind me.
For some reason, not knowing where Marie was caused me to pine after her even more. I guess that we always want what we cannot have. I wanted to ask around town to see if somebody else knew where Marie had gone, but I was once again pressed to get back to Los Angeles. My boss at the restaurant had only given me six weeks off, and I needed to get back to start work again before the fall semester began. I hated waiting tables but it was quick money and it paid for all of my schoolbooks.
____
I had discovered the underground straight clubs during my freshman year, which contributed greatly to my excesses and corresponding “C” grade point average. Because bars that catered to heterosexuals were illegal, these nightclub spots would change with regularity. They were usually located down a set of stairs and off a dark alley, and I had to knock on the door to gain entry. The slot in the door would open, but I could not see the person behind the door and the majority of the time, the bolt would clack out of the doorjamb and I would be allowed in. On rare occasions, I was not given admittance because the doorwoman had never seen me before, suspicious of my motives.
The underground straight bars had a resemblance to the Speakeasies during the Prohibition Era in the 1920s. The clubs were loud, smoky, and vivacious people dressed to the nines were everywhere. The bars were always small and there was barely standing room. I guess the clubs were so packed because there was only one joint open at a time and every heterosexual within an hour’s drive of Los Angeles would show up on Friday and Saturday nights. Needless to say, the bars weren’t held accountable to maximum occupancy regulations or fire codes because they were outlawed to begin with. One night when a fight broke out between two women, I had to crawl on top of the swarms of straight people just to get out.
Raids of the straight bars by the police happened with regularity. The cops would flood the place, making their way through the crowd with billy clubs, knocking people out of the way, and leaving them on the floor bleeding. On lucky nights, the bar of the season would have a back door and some of us would get away before being beaten and arrested. I was fortunate to make it out the back door on one occasion and the other time, I ran down the bar, jumping off behind the incoming mass of police officers, and dashing out the front door undetected.
Anti-heterosexual prejudice was not only condoned in society, but also the very laws of the United States made heterosexual behavior a criminal offense. The pro-straight movement did not really obtain momentum until the 1960s and most of us were all still in the closet and hiding for our very lives during the 1950s.
The first anti-obscenity laws were passed in the United States in the late 1800s and they were aimed primarily at prostitution, child molestation, pornography, and birth control, all of which were federal offenses. The individual states quickly followed suit with their own anti-obscenity laws and the government launched investigations into “sex offenders.” Heterosexuals were deemed “public menaces” and intercourse was ruled as illegal. Having intercourse was a felony punishable by lengthy imprisonment by the federal government.
The bar raids that took place in the straight clubs in the 1950s were the result of a federal witch hunt, and heterosexuals were sought out as vigorously as the “communists” in the United States. This was during the time when the government pursued and prosecuted people that the government alone considered communists, much of which took place in the show business industry during the 1950s. Entire careers and lives were ruined during that time period for the alleged communists.
In California, the anti-heterosexual crusades were particularly aggressive, and the police would patrol common cruising areas and underground straight bars. Throughout the United States, being hauled off to jail for being heterosexual typically resulted in being raped, as well as beaten while in police custody.
The media had its role as well and anyone suspected of being straight was put on trial in the court of public opinion via newspapers and television newscasts. Straight people lost their jobs just for being accused of being heterosexual. It goes without saying that the justice that society took into its own hands, performing beatings in broad daylight of straight people, was permitted to take place. The cops would just look the other way. “Breeder bashing” was practically a right of passage for young urban gays.
In addition, heterosexuality was deemed a form of mental illness and straight people could be institutionalized for merely identifying themselves as being heterosexual. The fallout of two consenting adults being caught in the act of making love resulted in arrest and the straight people involved were classified as “sex offenders.” If a straight person had a child, the State could remove their children from their custody on the grounds of that straight person being an unfit parent due to their “sexual deviancy.”
Frequenting the straight nightclubs was a real threat to my future, as well as my life. The only thing worse than risking being beaten and imprisoned was being banished to a life of loneliness, never knowing love or intimate companionship with another human being. I just could not make myself play society’s acceptance game, forcing myself to marry a man and live a life of charade.
As much as was possible in those days, I was proud to be a heterosexual. The twist was that I could not tell anyone how proud I was to be straight, lest I be arrested or worse still, beaten and killed. Compared to this fate, chancing it by going to the nightclubs on the weekend just did not seem so risky. At least I could be amongst others like myself. At least I would have a shot at finding true love and living happily ever after, even if it was with a woman. How could love ever be wrong?
____
During my freshman year at the University of Southern California, I lived in a dingy, bug infested apartment that I promised myself I would not return to the following year. I had rented it because I landed my waiter job before finding an apartment, and so I chose a place that was close to work. The apartment was down a back alley, and I took my life in my hands every time I returned home.
The restaurant where I waited tables, Hanerty’s, was an upscale place. There were candles that dimly lit each table and booth, and they burned inside of dark red candleholders that gave the whole place a red glow. The owner always used vanilla scented candles and until this day, whenever I smell that scent, it reminds me of my days at Hanerty’s. It was one of those restaurants with two tablecloths on top of the tables, one placed diagonally to the other, with huge cloth napkins, though in those days, all of the restaurants used cloth napkins, except for the diners.
There were no waitresses at Hanerty’s, only male servers, and we were required to wear black trousers and white button down shirts. The restaurant had a reputation for being cosmopolitan and trend setting, and we had an amazing chef who had recently graduated from the best culinary school in California behind the helm. The waiters wore white cloth aprons on top of our clothes, which was not a common style for the day, and of course, we walked around with crisp white towels draped over our arms.
Most of the serving and bus staff at Hanerty’s came and went throughout the year, as is so common in the restaurant industry, but one other waiter, Michael, and I both stayed during the whole school year. Michael was born and raised in the suburbs of Los Angeles, so he would just visit his family on the weekends, and he worked at the restaurant year round. I think Michael was as much of a loner as I was because he too stayed to himself for the most part. Generally waiters, by nature, are outgoing and chatty people, which made those with a mellow demeanor such as Michael and I, a bit of a rarity in the service field.
Michael and I became friends over the course of my Freshman year, and he is still in my life today. He has proven himself to be a loyal and dedicated friend and I will always be grateful for his life long friendship. We got to know each other from sitting at one of the tables next to the kitchen when the restaurant would close, counting out our tips for the night. It did not take long for me to figure out that he was straight too. We heterosexual men have a certain way about us that sticks out from the crowd. Although as a group we would balk at being stereotyped by homosexual society, it is true that straight men generally are a little more butch than gay men are.
It was a unique experience for me, getting to know Michael over the course of that year. It was the first time that I did not hide my sexual orientation from someone. For once, I tried out the approach of acting as if everyone knew that I was heterosexual, as though it was no big deal. It was a very freeing experience for me, and I was far enough from home to not have to worry about what people thought of me.
Michael was the same way, as well. He did not speak openly about being straight, but he did not put on appearances either. He seemed more comfortable with himself than I did, however. Michael was a year ahead of me in college at the University of Southern California and I attributed his free way and demeanor to him having lived in Los Angeles for a whole year longer than I had, giving him time to find his feet.
Even though Michael and I were friends at work, we never got together outside of work for coffee or anything like that. I had my hands full with just trying to be a full-time student and working part time on top of that. I was lucky that I did not have to study as hard as most people, and so I was able to manage my schedule. I do not think that my ability to do well on tests is so much because I am smart, but more so because I have a photographic memory. I can see something once and not forget it, which served me well throughout my school years, and is probably what allowed me to earn the scholarship that partially funded my college enrollment.
Michael was fairly small in stature, but he was more handsome than I could ever hope to be, and boy, he worked his looks like a finely oiled machine on the restaurant patrons. He had a reserved way about him, sort of an heir of mystery that the customers took to. His tips would always be twice as much as mine on any given night at work, and I made a mental note to master some of Michael’s traits at work, in hope of being able to afford the leather briefcase that I had wanted for so long.
When I returned to USC in the fall of my sophomore year, I set out to find an apartment in a better area of town than the one I rented during my first year. I was able to find a place that was about halfway in between school and work. It was in a three-story building with lots of apartments in it, and there was a laundry room in the basement, which was the impetus to me putting a security deposit down on the place.
After I unpacked my luggage and neatly refolded my clothes, placing them in the dresser provided by the Landlord, I went directly to the restaurant.
It was funny because when I walked in the door, the owner was sitting at the little table next to the kitchen, and before I even reached the table, he said, “Hi Marcus, your shift starts tomorrow at five o’clock.”
I shook his hand with a big smile on my face, feeling secure with a guaranteed income and a nicer place to live. My sophomore year was already looking like it would be good.
I went to the first of all of my classes and my professors seemed competent and fair, but in those days, there was a certain distance between the teachers and the students. Young people were expected to respect their elders, and we either addressed the teachers as “Professor,” or “Sir.” The teachers had no problem with doling out discipline and it was much different from what I see in university life today. The professors are more in tune with their students now, and they have a much more casual relationship with them, which I think is a good thing.
Changing clothes between school and work generates a lot of laundry and so I was a regular at the apartment complex’s laundry room. I had seen Michael’s name on the schedule at work, but we had not yet worked the same shift, as I had only been back for four days. I was overjoyed when I was leaving the laundry room and in walked Michael, with an overflowing laundry basket in tow.
“Michael! Do you live here?”
Michael was as surprised to see me as I was to see him and a huge smile came across his face.
“It’s so good to see you, Marcus. Work has been a bear without you. Yeah. I moved in over the summer. This place is great.”
Michael invited me up to his apartment and he boiled water on the tiny stove, pouring it into the push pot to make fresh coffee. There were no such things as coffeemakers in those days. We had to brew it up the old-fashioned way, like they did on the frontier.
“Marcus, I don’t know if you ever go to those kinds of places but over the summer, this really happening straight club opened up over on Elm Street.”
I was surprised that Michael even went to straight bars because I had never seen him at one before.
“You go to the clubs, Michael?”
“Well, I didn’t use to but it’s slim pickings for heterosexual women around here and so I thought I would give it a try.”
I laughed aloud, knowing his sentiment well, and I was glad that I had found a friend that I could head out to the straight bars with. Then I reminded myself that I was going to try to focus more on my studies and not go clubbing every weekend. In a moment, I rationalized to myself that it would be safer for me if Michael and I went to the straight bar together on the weekend, as it would be less likely that I would end up on the receiving end of a Breeder Bashing incident.
I said to Marcus, “I really shouldn’t go. Every time I go into one of those clubs I drink way too much and the last time one got raided, I barely made it out without getting arrested.”
“Okay. Suit yourself. But if you’re interested, the current joint is halfway down Elm Street, with a sign on the door that says ‘Storage’.”
I chuckled at that and we finished our coffee while my clothes wrinkled in the dryer.
____
I repeatedly reminded myself of my vow that I made over the summer that I would stop frequenting the underground clubs. I was taking my life in my hands, and the free-flowing booze had an ill effect on my grades. I made it all of one month, until October, before heading out to the straight bar that Michael had told me about on a Saturday night.
The club of the season was in a less than desirable neighborhood in Los Angeles that I was not familiar with. I had trouble finding the bar, and I had to walk around the block twice just to figure out where it was. The brisk autumn air blew through the alleys, funneled through the tall buildings, which made the temperature even cooler than usual. Heaven forbid that I be practical and wear a warm coat; I had to look spiffy after all. By the time I found the “Storage” sign on the door that was the underground straight bar, I was trembling cold, but I looked good!
I knocked on the door of the club, and they almost did not let me in because it had been so long since I had gone out, the doorwoman did not recognize me. However, I smiled and made eyes at the doorwoman, and she opened the door for me, checking me out as I walked in.
When I entered the bar, there were many faces that I recognized, but Michael was nowhere in sight. Even though the straight population was estimated to be around ten percent at that time, it seemed as though the entire ten percent of us were packed into that tiny place.
That was my first time at that particular club, as the last straight bar that I had been to was raided over the summer. When the bartender told me about the specifics of the raid, I felt a pang of fear about being out in a heterosexual bar again. If I ever got arrested for being a sexual deviant, it would be on my permanent record and it would haunt me for the rest of my days. I knew that I should not be at the club, and I decided to leave, lest I ruin my entire career before even graduating from college.
I turned away from the bar and as I headed for the door, in walked Marie. I had to blink and look again; I was so stunned to see her. When the new occupant of her house told me that Marie’s family had moved away, I had just assumed that she had moved to the other side of the world and not to the other side of town. I suppose a part of me also wondered if she finally just gave into the pressures of society and decided to marry a nice woman and live a quiet life. Nevertheless, there she was, standing not twenty feet away from me.
Marie looked as radiant as she did on the night of the Senior Dance. Her auburn hair was longer than it was in high school, but her big blue eyes still had that same twinkle behind them. Marie was wearing ruby red lipstick, and she was dressed conservatively for the likes of a straight bar. Heterosexuals were flashy dressers back in the day. I could have sworn that I smelled the intoxicating aroma of her perfume from across the room, even above the stale smell of liquor. Marie wore the same scent at the Senior Dance. I never did forget the precise scent of My Marie.
I hesitated for a moment, having the all so familiar instant panic about getting busted by someone from my hometown for being a confirmed heterosexual. I always forgot that if I ran into somebody that I knew from my youth in one of the clubs, they were straight too. My automatic response was always panic at first sight. I reminded myself that Marie too, was standing in a heterosexual club, and I got up the courage to approach her.
I pressed my palms against the sides of my scalp and smoothed back my black locks that would never stay put, even with Brylcreem. I took the first step toward Marie, and I felt like my knees were going to buckle from my nervousness at seeing her.
I have always been tall, sticking out from the crowd, and before I even reached Marie’s personal space, she lunged for me, giving me a huge hug and saying, “Marcus, is that really you?”
I had wondered if Marie ever thought about me as I had her over the prior year, and her greeting confirmed that she too, had been pining for me all that time. I smiled on the inside as much as I did on the outside. My high school sweetheart, if only in my own mind, was there in my arms, in my embrace, at that moment and forevermore.
____
It was no great surprise that after Marie and I found each other, we were inseparable. Every free moment that I had, I wanted nothing more than to be in her company and to revel in the love that I had wanted for so long. Marie had rented a room at a boarding house just outside of the campus and so my tiny one bedroom apartment became our love nest.
When my dirty laundry piled up and fell over the top of my laundry basket, I had no choice but to take time away from my precious Marie to head down to the laundry room and complete the mundane task. It was there that I ran into Michael again, as we had been working opposite shifts at the restaurant for the past week.
Michael came into the laundry room looking completely disheveled, with his hair standing out on the sides, molded into place by hair grease, as he had not bothered to comb it down upon leaving his apartment. He looked in need of a shave, yet he had a grin on his face. At first blush, I would have thought that Michael was ill, but the expression on his face conveyed anything but that.
As soon as we laid eyes on each other, we said each other’s names at the same time, with an intonation of surprise and happiness.
We laughed at speaking at the same time and I said, “Michael, you look like hell. Are you okay?”
Michael laughed again and practically lost his balance as he tried to put his overstuffed laundry basket on the countertop.
Michael replied, “Are you kidding me? I’m terrific! I’m ecstatic. I couldn’t be any more happy.”
Michael turned and looked at his reflection cast in the glass window of the laundry room door, illuminated by the harsh overhead lighting.
Michael exclaimed, “Oh my! I do look a mess, don’t I?”, and then he started laughing again.
I was beginning to think that Michael was a little tipsy, but then Michael told me the tale, and I realized that he was giddy, not drunk.
“I met her, Marcus, the woman of my dreams. She is so beautiful, and she is just crazy about me. We’ve been strewn up in my apartment for two weeks now, doing nothing but…. well, you know.”
I laughed hysterically, both at Michael’s joy, and at the ironic coincidence of the whole situation.
I leaned back against the sink tub, folded my arms over my chest, and responded, “Oh, really. And does this woman of your dreams have a name?”
“Oh God, forgive me. How crass of me. Of course, of course, her name is Rebecca and she is positively stunning. I am head over heels in love with her Marcus.”
Michael continued, “By the way, you don’t look so hot yourself, Marcus. What’s going on with you?”
I had a huge grin on my face as I told Michael about my beautiful Marie, who was upstairs, awaiting my return from the laundry room. I told Michael all of the details about running into Marie at the club that he had directed me to, ironically, and that I intended to buy rings for us.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Can I meet Marie?”
I smiled widely as I told Michael, “Marie will kill me if I bring you up to my apartment without announcing that I am going to introduce her to my best friend.”
“I suppose you’re right, Marcus. Rebecca would do the same if I took you upstairs to introduce you.”
I kidded Michael, “Oh, Rebecca’s up there right now, is she? That explains why you look like a street person!”
Michael and I made plans to have dinner the next night, the four of us, at the little pub down the street. I do not know if I was happier about meeting Rebecca, or introducing Marie to Michael. Either way, I was really looking forward to the get together.
I was finished with my first load of laundry, and I got out of Michael’s way so he could get his load started.
As I pulled open the laundry room door, Michael said from behind me, “Hey, Marcus.”
I kept my hand on the doorknob as I turned my body toward Michael.
Michael said, “I didn’t know that I’m your best friend.”
I stepped out of the laundry room and into the hallway as I responded, “Oh, don’t get all sappy on me, Michael,” and I winked and smiled.
Michael chuckled as I left the room and said, “We’ll see you tomorrow night.”
____
Marie fussed at me about giving her such short notice of our dinner arrangements with Michael and Rebecca. Marie said that she did not have a thing to wear, “thanks to you, Marcus,” and I just let that one drop. I suppose that she was referring to the two of us being holed up in my apartment, and her laundry was probably in as sad of a state of affairs as mine.
Marie had a late class at school the day of our date, and she told me that I would have to find something productive to do while she went to the beauty parlor. I chose to spend my time wisely, and I studied for my upcoming examination in Economics class. I had promised myself to stay out of the straight bars in order to improve my grade point average but falling in love was turning out to be equally as detrimental to my study habits.
Marie and I met Michael and Rebecca outside of the front door to Costello’s Pub. It was a tiny, little joint, frequented by college students due to its bottom line prices for pasta dishes, which were very filling. We could go to Costello’s and eat a full meal for half as much as we paid to eat at the American restaurants. Pasta goes a long way.
We were dining late and so the restaurant was half empty when we walked in. We were able to get the best table in the place, a corner booth that extended along both walls, right next to the huge picture frame front window of the restaurant. The place had a strong smell of garlic, and an opera singer was wailing over the speaker system. It had never occurred to me before that moment that opera’s birthplace was in Italy. Opera has a unique way of conveying deep feelings and emotions, even when the language is other than English. There is never a question as to whether the tenor of the piece is upbeat or horrifically sad.
Marie ordered the lasagna, and I had the spaghetti with meatballs. It was the best Italian food that I ever had with a strong but still subtle enough taste of garlic and a rich, robust flavor to the marinara sauce. The garlic bread was fresh baked and it sent out a puff of steam into the air when I sliced it down the middle. Marie gave me a taste of her lasagna, and the ricotta cheese had a flavor that made the red sauce seem even saltier. The food was absolutely wonderful.
Marie and I both got to know Rebecca for the first time that night. We liked her very much, and it was obvious what Michael saw in her. Rebecca had an Italian skin color, with dark brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her lips were full, and she wore lipstick in a shade much lighter than My Marie.
Rebecca had an amazing sense of humor. Michael and I were both fairly reserved and Marie, although outgoing, was not one to tell jokes or cut up. Rebecca was a stark contrast to all three of us. She had a vivacious way about her and a way of engaging all people around her, making them feel like they were the only person in the room. By the time we left the restaurant, she and the waiter were practically best friends.
Rebecca was small in stature like Michael, and they made a cute couple. She had a deep, seductive voice that almost sounded too big to emanate from such a tiny woman. Moreover, when Rebecca laughed, her laughter was contagious. You did not even have to hear the punch line to break out into a full-blown belly laugh, just from watching Rebecca bellow and cackle at her own jokes.
We settled into dinner, and the four of us spent a lot of time getting to know each other, learning of each other’s backgrounds, et cetera. I reached out for Marie’s hand underneath the tablecloth. She looked out the front window and then over her shoulder to make sure that no one was looking, and then she took my hand in hers. Marie’s skin was so soft next to mine. Her hands felt like silk and I sensed what Marie’s very presence felt like, because for the first time, I had to focus my attention on something other than Marie. I had to sense Marie without my eyes, and she felt so good. Marie had a certain stillness about her that had such a calming effect on me. I rather enjoyed holding her hand under the table, even though I felt like a naughty schoolboy.
Michael said, “Rebecca has been trying to talk me into volunteering down at the Democratic Campaign Headquarters for the Presidential race.”
I did not pay too much attention to politics but Marie’s interest seemed piqued as she said, “Oh really? Rebecca, are you a supporter of Adlai Stevenson?”
Rebecca replied, “Why I most certainly am, but I confess, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the Democrats choose the young Senator of Massachusetts as Stevenson’s running mate. Senator Kennedy is much more progressive than Stevenson or Alabama Senator Sparkman, who will probably win the Vice Presidential nomination.”
Rebecca and Marie were practically in a huddle the rest of the evening, talking about deep issues like The Cold War and the Soviet Union, but it was not all weighty conversation because at one point, I heard Rebecca say to Marie, “Dear Lord! Isn’t JFK just dreamy?”, and they both giggled.
We had a wonderful time with Rebecca and Michael that night and so many dinners were spent together, the four of us, for decades to come. They were our closest friends, and we rather grew up together. Surprisingly, Marie and Rebecca were closer than even Michael and I were. They probably schemed together about how to run into John F. Kennedy on the campaign trail.
Rebecca managed to get all of us involved in the campaign and I stood on many street corners, handing out flyers, and pinning buttons on people’s lapels. If heterosexuals had any chance at all of the government recognizing the need for civil rights for straight people, as well as for African Americans, it would be with a Democrat serving as President.
We had no idea of the events that would come to pass, of the great men who would be slain. We would have grieved the loss of such liberal people even more if we knew in the 1950s that there still would be no civil rights for heterosexuals at the turn of the new millennium.
____
Michael, Rebecca, Marie, and I all graduated from the University of Southern California at the same time. We all intended to settle down and get serious jobs, and it seemed only fitting to have one last hurrah to celebrate graduating from college. After many debates over dinners and several brochures reviewed, we decided on a weeklong snow skiing trip to a ski resort in Northern California.
Michael had gone on yearly ski trips with his family while growing up and he boasted about being a good skier. Marie, Rebecca, and I, however, had never so much as had a pair of skis on our feet. Being native Californians, none of us had spent any time in a snowy, winter environment, and so the prospect of trying it out seemed like a good idea at the time.
We took our vacation in between the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, much to the disapproval of my parents, but we were young and adventurous spirits, and the call of the tundra was in our hearts. The road trip up to Northern California was a hoot in and of itself and we were pleased with the lodge that we selected. The lodge was rustic and the rooms were small, but the place was neat and clean, and the rural atmosphere contributed all the more to our feeling of roughing it in the surroundings of a winter wonderland.
On the first morning of our stay, we went down to the front desk and signed Marie and Rebecca up for ski school. Not only did the ski lodge rent all of the ski equipment that we needed, but they offered lessons twice per day for “Bunnies.” Apparently, a Bunny is a novice skier, and I was left with the impression that it was an acceptable, although slightly derogatory term for referring to beginners.
At the front desk, the clerk asked how many in our party wanted to sign up for lessons.
Marie responded, “Three please.”
Michael looked at me, though trying to be impartial, in an amused, if a not condescending sort of way.
My schoolboy need to be cool returned in an instant, as I corrected Marie and said to the clerk, “No, just lessons for two.”
Rebecca turned around, looked at me, and said, “Marcus, are you sure?”
Michael swooped in to save my fragile ego and he replied on my behalf, “He’ll be okay. I’ll show him the ropes.”
Michael, Rebecca, Marie, and I sat down, put on our rental gear, and headed toward the main grounds of the ski lodge to rendezvous with the rest of the Ski School students. It is hard to look cool walking on the ground in ski boots, no matter how poised one is. We plodded through the lodge with Marie and Rebecca laughing hysterically at the required balance involved, and we picked up our skis and poles.
Snow skis were made out of wood in those days, not the high-end synthetics that are used today, and they weighed a ton. It felt like having Philadelphia Flyer snow sleds strapped to each foot.
Michael and I dropped the ladies off at the Ski School, the instructor assuring us that they would be fine, and all of us agreed to meet next to the fireplace inside of the lodge in three hours time.
Marie cried out after me as I pushed away from the group, “Marcus, now you be careful. I mean it.”
I interpreted her statement as code in the midst of homosexuals, a safe way of saying, “I love you.” At least, that is how I decided to take it.
I hollered back, “You be careful, too,” or code for, “I love you, too.”
To Michael’s credit, he was a good and patient ski instructor. Likely, due to my natural athleticism, I took readily to snow skiing and I felt quite proud of myself. We went for a half a dozen runs down the small hill on the opposite side of the lodge. It was not until Michael and I headed off for the tall slopes that I heard Michael reference the hills we just skied as “Bunny Hills.” I could only hope that no one saw me over there.
Safely getting on to the ski lift was an ordeal in and of itself. In some ways, I think that boarding the ski lift was just as difficult as downhill skiing. One has to maneuver into the precise location required for the swing seat to catch the underside of the knees, forcing the skier to sit down into the bench. Of course, this has to be done while wearing sleds on one’s feet. As though the maneuvering into position was not challenging enough, there is also a limited amount of time in which the skier must get into the proper position before being knocked clean out of their ski boots by the oncoming lift bench.
Mounting the ski lift is an undertaking in coordination and speed, neither of which I had developed in my one hour-long ski lesson. Michael was good about talking me through the process, and we stood next to the ski lift for about five minutes, watching the seasoned skiers pull this whole orchestrated event off with grace. Unfortunately, Michael did not tell me, nor did I pay attention to what, exactly, is to be done with the ski poles when the lift swoops the skier up into the air. After the fact, I knew that the skier takes the straps that keep the ski poles into place off the wrists, and holds both ski poles in the hand closest to the edge of the lift seat.
I only had seconds to pull off all of these new and various moves in between the skiers in front of us being swooped up by the lift, and us having to hustle into place before the next bench came swinging around on the cable. To be honest, at that point, the location of my ski poles was the least of my concerns.
The whole production of catching the ski lift comes off in a matter of seconds, and I felt like holding Michael’s hand so I would not mess up. Of course, I thought better of it, reminding myself that I was a grown man, and an athletic one at that, and that I would be just fine.
Did I mention the two cute women, who obviously were not a couple, waiting behind us in the line?
In moments, we had successfully mounted the ski lift and within seconds, all of my fear had dissipated. I was even so bold as to turn around on the bench to look back at the ladies behind us, to see if they had witnessed the ease and poise with which I had pulled this whole thing off. However, they were too focused on their own mounting of the ski lift to pay any attention to me looking back at them.
We had only been on the lift for about twenty seconds when I heard Michael yell out loudly, as though I was not sitting right next to him on the bench of the ski lift, “Marcus, your poles!”
I quickly turned my body back toward the front of the lift bench and I had barely gotten out the question, “What?”, when I felt a sudden and very hard tug on my right wrist, and the next thing I knew, my body was yanked clean off the bench.
Fortunately, we were only about ten feet in the air when this whole event took place. I had left my ski pole strap around my wrist, and my pole caught the first support beam of the ski lift when the bench passed by. I fell the ten feet to the ground and by luck, the strap came off of my wrist in the fall, preventing me from dangling by my arm from the ski lift support pole.
When I opened my eyes, I was flat on my back, lying in the middle of a heap of snow that was piled up against the snow lift support structure. My body felt fine except that my right shoulder was thumping with waves of pain.
I heard Michael in the distance, still moving away on the ski lift, scream, “Marcus! Are you okay?”
Just before Michael passed too far up the hill to see me any longer, I picked my left arm up out of the snow and gave him a thumb up. The ladies in the ski lift seat behind Michael were both turned backward on their seat, staring at me, with their mouths covered. I deduced that the incident meant that I had not impressed the ladies after all.
The next thing I knew, the ski lift shut down, with skiers trapped midway up the slope, skis dangling underneath the lift seats, and a god-awful foghorn sounded off. The ski lift operator came running up to me, asking me if I was okay, and I assured her that I was fine, save for a sore shoulder.
I asked the ski lift operator to help me up from the ground and she said, “Oh, no. Don’t move. The Ski Patrol is on its way.”
Ski Patrol? What is a Ski Patrol, I asked myself.
Whatever it was, it sounded pretty dramatic to me.
I really was fine. I tried to convince the ski lift operator that the Ski Patrol was not necessary, that I just had a sore shoulder, but it must have been some type of resort policy because she would not let me move.
Within minutes, these master skiers came racing over to me on skis, wearing orange vests outside of their clothes and towing a long metal basket behind them. It looked an awful lot like a hospital stretcher to me.
Sure enough, before I could protest, the Ski Patrol picked me up gingerly and placed me into what felt like a metal wire coffin.
I was able to get out that all of this was really not necessary and one of them replied, “Sir, you could have a head injury and we have to be safe.”
They strapped me into the makeshift gurney and started skiing toward the lodge, towing me behind them. The ski lift started back up again and I felt bad for the poor skiers that were stuck in midair, freezing in the wind at such elevated heights on the lift.
Halfway into my drag back toward the lodge, Michael came flying past on his skis out of nowhere, and did what I must say was an impressive sharp stop just in front of the Ski Patrol, snow jutting out sideways from his skis in the process, with a “whoosh” sound. Show off.
He waited for my metal cocoon to skid past as he said, “Marcus, are you okay?”
Michael was positively panicked. I assured him, as my body whisked by, that I was fine; only my shoulder was hurt.
Michael kept pace with the Ski Patrol and my body trailing behind them, being dragged feet first back to the lodge. Michael was skiing behind us, taking up the rear.
I ended up being correct, and it really was just a bad shoulder sprain, but to my complete horror, the Ski Patrol dragged me right past the Ski School group. All of the students were looking on at the spectacle of the whole scene. When Rebecca and Marie made out that it was Michael skiing behind the Ski Patrol, with me nowhere in sight, they correctly gleaned that it was I being towed in the aluminum chariot.
Marie screamed and Rebecca covered her mouth. Michael cried out to them as we approached, “He’s okay. Really.”
After that incident, Marie and Rebecca opted to be fireflies for the rest of the vacation, chatting next to the huge fireplace inside the lodge, overlooking the vast ski slopes beyond. I spent the rest of the week with the ladies, drinking hot cocoa next to the lodge fireplace, while Michael skied down the hills with utter poise and grace. He was probably skiing with those cute girls from the ski lift. Bastard.