Life is constantly in flux. People come into our lives, some stay a short time, others stick around. Things change: addresses, weight, roommates, hairlines. The clothes we looked spectacular in just a few years ago are now the clothes we wouldn't be caught dead in. Many of those "until death do we part" unions only worked well until something better came along.
It's rare when something comes into our life and stays. That best friend you met in grammar school who you still love to catch up with; the relationship that continues to improve year after year, a favorite childhood toy you keep stowed away in a closet, a few photo albums of family pictures. And a really nice memory:
The other day I realized that 2009 will mark the 30th anniversary of the first time I ever walked into a gay bar. 30 years! It was 1979, the same year I graduated from high school. I was two weeks shy of my 18th birthday (not exactly legal drinking age) and have absolutely no idea what I thought I was doing. Someone I knew had mentioned the name of the bar (Chaps) to me and its location in Boston. So, armed with just that little info,a map of the city of Boston that I couldn't read and very little common sense, I became a gay teenager with one mission: FIND THAT BAR!
Looking back, I don't know how I managed to find it or how I thought they would let some 17-year old kid inside. I don't know that I even gave it a second thought. All I knew was that I was going, no second thoughts. I remember driving into Boston in my first car: a pea-green oil-burning 1972 Ford LTD who's radio only worked when it rained. I remember parking in an illegal spot a few blocks away from the bar and praying the car wouldn't get towed. Then, without pausing or thinking, I headed inside Chaps. For some reason, the person at the door didn't ask for my ID. He just waved me in and I found myself walking inside, terrified out of mind and completely, totally thrilled.
I tried my best to look cool and relaxed as I walked around. In reality, my mouth was probably hanging open as I stared wide-eyed at all the men packed in around me. I remember the bartender asking me what I wanted to drink and, having never ordered a drink before, I didn't know what to say. I remember the mad rush to the dance floor when the song "Enough is Enough" was played. I remember thinking "I'm walking around in a gay bar! I'm having a drink in a gay bar!" But mostly I remember standing off to the side having no clue as to what I was supposed to do.
I got lucky that night (not like that). A guy who apparently took pity on the scared kid in the corner came over and started a conversation by asking point blank what I was doing there. He walked me around the bar, introduced me to a couple of his friends and very gently issued a few warnings on someone my age being here alone. He told me a bit about what life as a gay man was like, told me that coming out to my parents would make things a lot easier, gave me a very soft kiss ("I'm getting kissed in a gay bar!") and walked me back to my car to make sure I was OK. I've never forgotten how kind he was and I've never forgotten his name: Nolan Jeffries.
Over the past 30 years, I've been in a lot of gay bars but the memory of my short time in Chaps with Nolan back in 1979 remains very clear in my head. Apparently, it's another thing that can stay with us for many, many years: an unexpected act of kindness.
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