I WASN’T expecting much from life to begin with. I wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense. I mean, I wasn’t terminal, but no one would stop on the street to give me a second glance. I wasn’t athletic. I wasn’t fat or too skinny, just average. I didn’t excel at school, didn’t join the basketball team or the swimming team or hell, even the chess team. I sort of faded into the background. I graduated 110th out of 180 students with about a C average. I blended into the background. And I was sort of fine with that.
I dreamed, sure, like everyone. I would imagine holding a microphone onstage and singing to thousands of adoring fans, or being in a recent Hollywood blockbuster, giving my thank-you speech on Oscar night. But truth be told, I was terribly nervous and sort of awkward in large crowds. Or medium crowds. Or, even worse, intimate gatherings where, in my nervousness, I had a tendency to say inappropriate things and tell stories people wouldn’t understand.
Everything about me was simply average. My height, my weight, the length of my penis when I measured it one night in a vain attempt to find something endearing about me. The only thing that made me stand out in any way, at least to myself, was that I was gay. And by “stand out,” I mean in a bad way. I was sort of effeminate. And people in school, mostly the jock types, smelled that on me like a shark smelled blood in the water. I received attention, oh yes, but it was the attention no one really wanted and as a matter of fact, sort of loathed. I wished I could just fade back into the shadows and be as invisible as my other features were.
I was gay. Still am. That isn’t something that goes away like acne or baby fat. No, that stays with you. But I had done things to try to change that. I watched the way the jocks walked and tried to imitate it. I lowered my voice, forcing myself to speak an octave lower. After I graduated from high school, I even joined the military. Because let’s face it, in a hypermasculine environment where homosexuality was not allowed, surely that would change me. Like I said, I wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. All it did was tone up my body somewhat and allow me the space in which to grow up. And it also gave me the courage to tell my parents the truth of who I was—even though their reaction was less than stellar. Being the son of an evangelical minister, that tends to happen. But it was okay. It was my life to live, my burden to bear, and at least I had the wherewithal to understand that, unlike my parents, whose religion forced them to bear the burden of not properly raising their son. If it hadn’t been this issue, it would have been another, as I would have extracted myself at some point from the petri dish of Independent Baptist living. It was truly a cesspool, a philosophical pond with no fresh water and a vacuum of foul intellectual incest. They had all of the convictions of the Amish but lacked the dedication to truly separate themselves from the world. No. Luxury cars, splendid churches, and private extramarital affairs were far too frequent in the supped up theocratic monarchists and religious oligarchs within fundamentalism. The only thing you needed to do to become king, was to wave a Bible, have a swinging dick between your legs, and express an insatiable need to subject people to those two prior things. I couldn’t take the hypocrisy.
Almost as long as I had known about the Internet, I had also known about blogging. And as a young man, through my Army years and even up until recently, I had maintained an anonymous blog about how I felt being outside of the normal. An alien of sorts. Sent here to observe the weirdness of humanity and how I didn’t fit in.
I must admit the earliest entries were terribly angsty. Sort of flowery in prose. That probably had to do with hormones and my body changing as I went through puberty. You know, that time when the seven plagues of Egypt erupt all over your body as a form of birth control? When there is enough oil and grease on you to fry chicken? When your voice cracks and your palms sweat and suddenly you stink? Like, really, really smell bad?
Heh.
Anyway, as I grew older, I maintained this little blog that, oddly enough, attracted a huge following. As an outlet, it gave me great comfort to know that people who replied—who stayed as anonymous as I did—were hanging with me through the entirety of my life. And looking back, when I didn’t really have much to look forward to, it kept me from heading into the bathroom to dispatch myself the way some teenagers did when their lives were a living hell. And for me, mine was.
I was the walking poster boy for depression. Or maybe that isn’t exactly right. While, there were no heights of ecstatic joy, no high emotional cliffs to fling myself from, and no deep cavernous depths in which to fall, my life was sort of flatlined. Sort of level. No movements up or down. It was gray with a side of gunmetal; it was cloudy with a chance of overcast. Hmm, now that I read that, maybe it was depression. Anyway, it was all sort of level. Either I was ignored, or I was tormented. The “people of the blog,” as I referred to them, were never so far away nor unsympathetic. I found a measure of happiness with them. Even when I came out as gay to them, they congratulated me on my courage and told me to ignore those who couldn’t handle it. Which again acted as a buffer against the attention I did receive from my family or neighborhood bullies.
That’s not to say I didn’t have friends on the outside. Sure I did. But even with them, sometimes I felt like the odd man out—the pop references they made that I didn’t understand, the bands they talked about that I didn’t know because rock music was forbidden in my house, the books I had never read. And so on. I felt as if there was an invisible glass wall between me and the rest of the world. I tried to catch up. Honest. As a matter of fact, today music and books, poetry and prose, entertain me to no end. I devour these things like a starving man might devour food at a buffet. I could stay up all night and watch YouTube videos, following the strings of the suggestions it makes like an explorer follows long-dead paths through pyramids or caves. Or I will listen to a song fifty million times until I parse out each nuance, each change in the inflection of voice, the tempo. I will reread a bit of poetry or a speech given by some great person’s voice before thousands until I can recite it.
And I would also talk about this on my blog. Sort of poke fun at myself for being so obsessive over things. Those entries didn’t receive much attention: a few likes, a few shares, a few comments. People liked it, however, when I was introspective over being in some sort of conflict. I guess that’s the thing with art. What’s treasure to one, is trash to another. However, one person stayed with me through every single blog post over the years. It was a familiar name: Universal47. Well, familiar to anyone who was an avid Star Trek fan.
Out of curiosity one night, I went back to the earliest blog posts I’d written, and he didn’t show up until I had written, like, seven. But after that he was a constant. Always commenting, liking, and encouraging me.
I say he, because once he’d alluded to himself as being male. I didn’t know one way or another. Like I said, it was an anonymous blog post, and out of respect, I let everyone know that there was no pressure on my page to be who they were. It was a judgment-free zone. And they, in return, didn’t pressure me to tell them who I really was. Which, given the YouTube generation of commentators, personalities, and people struggling to “go viral,” was a rarity. Out there everyone wanted to know who everyone was. But not here, nope. None of that.
But Universal47 was the exception to the rule. Where commenters would come and go, some who’d been with me, like, forever would stop commenting, and it made me wonder what happened to them. Did they just move on? Did they get married and get busy with life? Did they die?
I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. But Universal47 was always with me.
Late at night was when he’d comment. I’d stay up to read whatever it was he had to say. He and I would go back and forth discussing certain things. Always ideas. Always imaginative conversations about the universe. It was never small talk. I loathe small talk. People use that to fill space, uncomfortable silences when they don’t know what to say. I don’t mind the quiet.
Depended on the topic, depended on the commentary, but it was never dull. We talked things out as far as they could go. Winding with words and unraveling the possibilities that seemed endless even if they wound up in the world of the fantastic or silly. And we’d laugh and bid each other a good night. Other commenters would read and comment on the exchanges as well, and we’d be polite to them and engage, but there was something between the both of us, exclusively. I knew that, and so did some of the others. Sometimes it was met with humor, sometimes with suggestions that we knew each other IRL (in real life) or that we were romantically involved. Those latter comments always brought a smile to my face. Especially at night as I lay in my bed, my arms folded under my head, and stared up at the ceiling, trying to conjure up a face to the name. Sometimes he became a famous person, some stud in Hollywood who used anonymity to reach the outside world. Other times it was some aged politician, some elder statesman who was suave and debonair and couldn’t be gay in his real life. Then I would think about Lindsay Graham and end up giggling myself to sleep.
Other times Universal47 was a university professor, a media mogul, a lonely man writing to me on a deserted island where he’d moved to write great novels. Needless to say, he was always some gorgeous man who was just cultured enough to know a little bit about everything, handsome enough to stop traffic, and who’d taken notice of someone like me. On occasion, however, when I tried to enquire about who he was or where he was from, on the side and away from other readers, of course, he would tease me about anonymity and shame me about wanting to break my own rules. And I, chastised, would cut it out and go back to my dull life when the sun came back up.
Don’t feel bad for me. I mean, I guess there’s something to be said about living a normal, boring life. I don’t think I could handle being famous or infamous. I like the idea of people liking me, and I fantasize over someone loving me, just like everyone else. But I knew at the time that there were people out there in the world who went their whole lives without knowing what that was like. They got up, went to work every day, or to school, and came home to meals taken by themselves in their kitchen, and on to watch their television sets. They had a few friends and associates, just people they’d go out to dinner with on occasion, and maybe they were even married with kids. Their spouses “just made sense.”
I guess being alone with people beats being alone all by one’s self. I get that.
My romantic life hadn’t been much to speak of. In searching for love I put up with more things than a confident man would have endured. I wasn’t bereft of passion; I just tended to waste it on people. Especially one dude in particular. Joseph.
Gods, I once thought the sun and moon rose and set on Joseph’s whims. Looking back, though, I realize he was probably just as shattered as I was. He was older than me by ten years, and like most of his relationships, ours was founded online in some AOL chat room back in the day. The picture I had of myself was backdropped by a messy room. His first message—and this should have been an indicator of what was to come—was critical of my housekeeping abilities.
Throughout the length of the relationship, three years to be exact, I tried to make up for whatever shortfall he saw in me. I worked harder, slaved away at everything I did, trying to prove myself worthy of his affection. But he was always critical. Always pointing out where I had shortcomings, and I took it. Mostly because I agreed with him. Finding everything I had been used to in him, the relationship felt normal. Even though I had become cuter than I’d been before, around him I felt like five miles of bad road, someone who could disappear into the background if he willed me away. Which he often did.
I broke up and got back together with him more times than should be allowed before a person gets put in a funny farm for going back once more. And, of course, in typical George fashion, I went back again. Hey, negative attention was still attention, right?
During that time, Joseph became the subject of many of my blogs. For anonymity’s sake I changed his name as well. On those threads, however, Universal47 always shied away. He wouldn’t comment at all, or if he did, it was short one-liners like “I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time.” Or “That’s a shame.”
Our dialogue would disappear, and while others would seize on the moment to advise me on what to do or what to say, when they would suggest Beyoncé’s new album with the song “Irreplaceable,” I felt sort of abandoned by my friend. However, after the final straw that broke the camel’s back—when I found out, after Joseph had been raising the bar on me in regards to what it took to win his affection, that he’d been cheating on me the entire time—I walked away for the last time. That revelation had come in a series of e-mails from Universal to the e-mail associated with the blog. He’d found Joseph on a hookup website and engaged him, flirted with him, and even set up places for them to meet.
I was heartbroken, of course. Angry at Universal and Joseph and life itself. I had been a good boyfriend, honest and true. But like they say, the first cut is always the deepest.
However, I printed out the conversations Universal and Joseph had had and left them on his computer desk when I gathered what little I had at his house. The usual angry phone calls and text messages never came. Off to the side in private chat, one night after I’d had a couple of beers and was feeling sorry for myself, I bitterly thanked Universal47 for showing me the truth. I was angry, hurt, and felt betrayed.
Universal47: Are you angry with me?
Me: I’m just disgusted in general.
Universal47: I don’t know why you put up with him for so long.
Me: Then where were you?
Universal47: I was here.
Me: Here, where?
Universal47: Waiting for you to see.
Me: What is that, some kind of joke? Waiting for me to see what? That I’d been taken for a sucker?
Universal47: That you were blinded by love.
I remembered choking back a laugh, and I felt particularly nasty when I typed: Love. What would you know about that?
I grabbed my cigarettes and the beer I was drinking and walked out onto the porch where I stewed in my misery for a little while. Standing out there I looked up at the heavens and contemplated my place in the cosmos, wishing on stars that were as distant as any happiness I’d ever known. I was drunk and angry. And after I threw out my cigarette butt, I felt like shit for being so nasty to someone who’d at least stood up for me.
As I walked back into my little office, in my little house, and sat down in my chair, I saw Universal47’s message waiting for me when I returned.
Universal47: I love you.
I snorted and brought my fingers down on the keyboard.
Me: Oh, is that right, Mr. I Don’t Want You to Know Anything About Me? That’s sweet of you, but I don’t think you know me.
Universal47: I know a great deal about you.
And then a thought dawned on me that I hadn’t even considered. Something I’d overlooked in the flurry of my drama with Joseph. Something that struck me as odd, and something that made me sort of recoil in horror.
Me: How did you know who my boyfriend is? This whole thing is anonymous. Did I give you his name by mistake?
I sat impatiently awaiting an answer.
Universal47: You’ve alluded to where you lived, your community, you’ve described what your ex looked like, it was simply a matter of deduction.
Me: Oh. So you probably know my name.
That sort of made me feel better. Or maybe it made me feel worse. Either way it was out now. And thinking back, someone could have put everything together from clues and hints I’d dropped on the page. I sighed and sat back in my chair, my drunkenness turning into fatigue.
Universal47: George Underwood.
Me: You have me at a disadvantage, sir.
Universal47: My name is Elijah.
I sat up straighter in my chair, the fog clearing from my mind. This was the most I’d ever gotten out of him. And I hesitated to go overboard in demanding that he tells me everything about himself, but curiosity being what it was, it was chewing at me. Instead, I thought I would try to ease into it.
Me: I like that name.
Universal47: I like George.
I rolled my eyes and, despite how I’d been feeling, smiled.
Me: You said you loved me.
Universal47: I love you. I like the name.
Me: Touché.
Universal47: So I am sure you want the skinny on me.
Me: Nope.
I was dying for it.
Universal47: No?
Me: I have you inside my head. I have what you look like, what you do, where you are, all inside my head.
Universal47: Wow. You’ve given it that much thought?
I laughed aloud.
Me: Me and everyone else, Elijah.
Universal47: I knew they had. But I didn’t know that you’d done so.
Me: Is that weird?
Universal47: I don’t think so. At least I hope not. I’ve done the same.
Me: Why didn’t you just say something?
Universal47: I didn’t know if you could handle it.
Me: Handle it? What are you? Some drug lord? A prince in a castle? Wait… you’re not a Republican senator from the Carolinas are you?
Universal47: LOL! NO! I am not Lindsay Graham.
Me: Thank goodness.
Universal47: I am Elijah. That’s the truth.
THAT’S THE truth, he’d said. I hadn’t expected much out of life. Like I said, I was just average. But the night I learned Elijah’s real name was the beginning of an extraordinary tale. One I’d like to share with you if you’d let me. One that I love. About someone I love. And someone who loves me back. That in itself is extraordinary, I think. But how this all came about?
Well, that’s a bit more difficult to explain.