Life is a fairly precariously balanced entity. It often times only takes one oddly shaped apple to upset the entire cart. Sometime, it can be something as minor as a piece of paper. I suppose we are all prone to a certain degree of mistakes and unfortunate events. My only wish is that we weren't forced to display them in public. More often than not, life is very much like standing in a gigantic kitty litter box and playing a lengthy game of Show and Tell with all of your friends and relatives. It was late Spring in 1977. My parents had just returned after a relaxing weekend at Detroit Lakes. I refused to go within a ten mile radius of the place. The air absolutely reeked with the scent of dead fish rotting in the sunlight. How anyone could derive any enjoyment from spending two days wading through a murky swamp of mosquito larvae and pond weeds exceeded the scope of my imagination. It ran a close race with our vacations at Yellowstone. In truth, I no longer ventured anywhere with my parents. It was now common knowledge that every time my parents chose a spot to stop and smell the roses, they most certainly would be standing near a septic tank. Their brief respite from the hustle and bustle doldrums of small city life had a marked change in their behavior. They returned home as congenial as two wolverines in a Kosher Deli. For some unapparent reason, my butt appeared to be the only course offered on the menu and they were continually taking small bites out of my hide without the slightest provocation. Troublesome as this was, I had more important matters to tend to. I was in the process of getting dressed and ready to go out. During the course of this, my hair blower recreated nuclear fusion and I now needed to devise a method by which my dripping locks could be fluffed and dried into a vision of beauty salon splendor. With several brushes in hand, I prepared myself for battle in front of a large floor fan in the living room. My parents were obviously very upset about something. My mother was in the kitchen stirring vegetables with the frantic pace of a rotary motor. My father sat quietly at the dining room table. I wasn't certain whether he was just hungry or perhaps foaming at the mouth signified a much deeper emotion. My mother finally turned to face me. Her eyes were ablaze with bloodshot vessels. "Did you write an icky letter?" she roared over the whirling sound of the floor fan. "I haven't the slightest idea what you’re talking about, " I replied with a smirk. To say I was perplexed is an understatement. Her question seemed better suited to win the final round of Jeopardy. "Did you write an icky letter?!" she repeated, as though emphasizing such key words would simply matters for my limited comprehension. "I got that part," I said. I turned my face away to keep them from witnessing my eyes clank together like two loose marbles. As hard as I tried, I could not grasp the meaning of an icky letter. It was an expression right out of Ozzie and Harriet's Old World Dictionary. I had grown quite accustomed to the fact that my parents were capable of saying some pretty strange stuff. I thought they had peaked at "You know what checkers can lead to". I now understood they had no limits. They were well on their way to becoming the Nietzsches of Nonsense. "I warned you about swimming in that polluted water," I mocked in a patronizing tone. My mother dropped the wooden spoon into the fry pan and placed her hands on her hips. "You know what I'm talking about!" she yelled. I giggled. "Sorry ma, but I don't think I'd know what you are talking about if you had charts and graphs. Can we talk about this later?" Mom and Pop were never well suited to tackling a subject head on. They could talk in circles until it seemed as though I had just stepped off a ride at Six Flags Magic Mountain. It would be easier to derive a musical composition from the high pitched whine of an Emergency Broadcast Systems test. I had completely given up all hope of bringing this conversation to an enlightened level and decided my time was better spent remaining steadfast to my hair wargasm. "DID YOU WRITE AN ICKY LETTER?" she roared again. I relaxed my grip on the brush. "No!" "Yes you did!" These continual interruptions were not only beginning to annoy me but they were hampering the already complicated mission of gaining control over the unmanageable mop on my head. I dropped the hairbrush, raised my arms into the air and surrendered. "All right! I confess! It was me! I wrote the icky letter! I don't know whom it was written to , what it said or even what an icky letter is, but if you say I wrote one, then I throw myself upon the mercy of the court. I am guilty of icky letter writing! Burn me at the stake! Blindfold me in front of a firing squad,..but for God's sake, whatever you do, please do it quickly and put me out of my misery." "Don’t get smart with me, young man!" my mother warned. There was that damned young man thing again. Yet, for the first time in my life, I was of an age where I truly was a young man. The chances were good that she meant it more as an observation than a threat. Either way, it really didn't seem to matter much. A Paddle Ball hadn't entered through the front door in well over a decade. Even if it was a threat, without her battle gear there was little to be concerned about. My mother's expression slowly pruned as though she were about to spit forth a brick of moldy cheese. In an unparalleled tone of disgust, she snarled, "What are you?" If nothing else, the questions were certainly becoming easier to answer. Equally pointless, but certainly on a commuter flight back to planet Earth. "Male, Caucasian, 19 years old,..." I proudly stated. I was certain they were well aware of these facts but they were beginning to worry me. I was afraid if I didn’t put forth some effort to gain intellectual momentum, the phone would ring and Alec Guiness would be on the other end of the line telling us the discussion had just qualified as The World's Most Dick-brained Conversation Of The Twentieth Century. My father, who had previously been sitting patiently on the sidelines like a lawn mower stuck in idle, decided to contribute some well needed direction to our verbal exchange. When it came to the old adage, "shit hit the fan", Pop was an expert. He could evenly distribute an eight foot high compost heap in less time than it takes to sexually excite a Button Quail. "So tell me," he said in a snide manner, "do you like girls too or do only men turn you on?" His tone was more caustic than an eyeful of battery acid. I hated when my father tried to act hip by using phrases like "turn you on" or "groovy". It was like hearing Mrs. Butterworth cut loose with a rap song to a pancake. This was certainly an interesting development. A frown of concern tugged at my eyebrows. And then it happened. My computerized brain chips screeched to a dead stop. Bells rang and sirens wailed. At that instant, icky letter suddenly had a definition. I could barely see straight. My head couldn't have felt worse if Bruce Lee had put on a pair of combat boots and delivered a flying drop kick to the side of my head. My eyes rolled around inside my head as though they were riding the rim of a roulette table. The letter in question was written several months ago to Brenda's sister, Polly. Brenda had recently moved back to attend college at Moorhead State University. Polly was attending college in Duluth and living with two gay room mates, Trent and Jeff. Brenda and I had decided to take a little mid-winter break, hopped aboard a Greyhound bus and rode up to see them. The ride to Duluth was entertaining, to say the least. Our bus driver had obviously inhaled too many toxic exhaust fumes. At the outskirts of each town and city, he would either break into a song or celebrity impression. As we pulled into a small town diner, we were treated to a half baked version of Peter Lorey announcing over the intercom, "We will be stopping at,...Motley,...for tea and biscuits." When we hit Frazee, we were brought to our feet with a rousing chorus of Frazee, Frazee, Tell Me Your Answer True (I'm half crazy, all for the love of you). At Deerwood, we heard Edward G. Robinson quip, "You Deerwood rat! You killed my brother!". The man was one sandwich short of a picnic and we were entrusting him with our lives. Things went downhill from there. Brenda and I were at Polly, Trent and Jeff's apartment for only a few short hours before I allowed Jeff to seduce me. Though this greatly simplified the sleeping arrangements, it produced disastrous consequences. As it so happens, Jeff and Polly shared one common factor. They were in love with Trent. I guess with all of this free flowing adoration, it stood to reason that it was only fair for Trent to be in love with himself as well. Unfortunately, everyone failed to communicate this household theme to Brenda and I. Jeff had purposely snared me into this love diagonal in hopes of making Trent jealous. Quite to the contrary, at the same time Jeff was luring me into his bed, Trent was already in his own room and enjoying the fruits of passion, so to speak, with some man he met at school. The following morning, Jeff was filled with remorse for his actions and spent the remainder of our four day visit acting as though I were dead. Worst of all, he would not explain why he was treating me with such utter contempt. I became like Patrick Swayze in Ghost. He could not see me. He could not hear me. I concluded this meant one thing. I was such a lousy lay that he couldn’t decide whether I needed a sex manual or a mortician. On the second day, two old friends of Trent's unexpectedly dropped by to stay the weekend. In keeping with the general motif, they too, were in love with Trent. "What's with this guy?" I thought to myself. "What's he got, a Pulitzer Penis or something?" I couldn’t understand it. Trent was at his peak. His apex of charismatic appeal. Everybody is allowed at least one of these moments during their lifetime. The world is their oyster and they are the pearl. It can arrive at any time, at varying degrees and for an undetermined length. It was like Lewis back in the school yard. He reached his peak in sixth grade. From that point on, he all but vanished from schoolyard society. Some people blossom during high school, others during college. Some people have to wait until their thirties and forties. Then of course, there are always those unfortunate few who become immortalized after death. I've always felt they should be allowed to attend their own funeral. It just doesn't seem right that they should miss their peak by just a few days. Needless to say, the few days Brenda and I spent there were a complete disaster. Jeff's plan misfired, friendships became permanently marred and my little heart ended up torn into a million tiny pieces. The icky letter not only detailed much of what had transpired but also exposed much of the emotional turmoil which had resulted. However, after writing it, I was too insecure with my own feelings to send it so it just sat in a notebook. Not only was I incensed by my parents' total disregard for my privacy but they were reviving a very painful experience which I still had not recovered form. I glared at my mother. "And just where did you find this letter?" I asked through gritted teeth. "In one of your notebooks," she indignantly replied. "What were you doing reading my notebooks?" I asked in an accusatory manner. I kept a lot of personal information in the pages of those spiral binders. Things I didn't share with anyone. There were things I didn't even let myself read. "I was looking for a sheet of paper to write a letter on," my mother countered without the slightest hint of guilt. I didn't buy one word of it. My mother treated letter writing as more of a religious ceremony than a means of communication. It was an activity solely reserved for such revered occasions as birthdays, Christmas and funerals. However, it was June and to the best of my knowledge, none of my relatives had been playing Yahtzee with the Grimm Reaper. I feigned a look of surprise. "Really? Expecting a death in the family or are you just getting an early start on your Christmas list?" "What's that suppose to mean?" my father shouted from the kitchen table. "Forget it," I sighed. Without any further prompting, my mother continued with her defense. "You do a lot of writing, so I knew you had paper in your room." As I stated earlier, lying is an acquired skill. My mother was no better at it than I was. In fact, she was worse. Her foot was caught in a trap and she knew it. The best outcome she could hope for was to chew off her leg and limp towards the hills. "I see," I said with a nod. "Why didn’t you use the tablet of stationary in your desk?" "I couldn’t find it." "You couldn’t find it? It's been in the top drawer for the past seven years." "Someone must have moved it." "The last time that tablet got moved was when you rearranged the furniture!" I snipped. "I couldn’t find it!" "Maybe a desperate band of origami students broke in and stole it! Why don't you just admit you were snooping in my room!" "I wasn’t snooping! I was looking for a clean sheet of paper! I just happened to see the letter while turning the pages." I sat back in shocked surprise. Now this was truly an amazing feat! The last time my mother picked up a book it took her almost two years to finish reading it. Suddenly, she could comprehend an entire three page letter at a mere glance. "Oh, I see. This was not a direct and deliberate violation of my right to privacy. You took a speed reading course and this is all just the innocent result of your newly acquired skills!" "All right!" she huffed. "I sat down on your bed and read the damn thing!" Seeing as I was getting the upper hand, my father decided it was time to balance the load once again by tossing another scoop of manure into the propeller. "So, what are you going to do,...bring home another guy some day and say,... Mom, Dad,..this is my honey?" Actually, I didn't see the problem with that. My hope was that I would one day be fortunate enough to share such an occasion with them. Yet, the sarcastic inflection of his voice clearly indicated that this was not something he was looking forward to witnessing. The statement was intended as a sexual slur. I felt my childhood pains rise to the surface like sour milk. "I'd rather have a root canal done by candlelight," I flatly snapped. "Humph," my father grunted. "You realize that when your friends find out, you won't have any friends, don't you?" "All of my friends already know." Of course they knew. It wasn't the sort of thing I could hide. I had already slept with most of their boyfriends. "Well that's just great!" he exclaimed. "All of your friends know, but your own parents are the last to find out. That's a fine way to treat us!" I didn't know it was any big secret. Let's face it. One only needed a quick glance at me to realize I was fruitier than a twenty pound cornucopia of Lifesavers. "Oh, please," I moaned. "As it is , you can't decide whether you're more disgusted by the news or insulted because I didn't tell you. I knew you two would get all bent out of shape about it, so what would be the point in my saying anything?" "DO WE SEEM BENT OUT OF SHAPE TO YOU?" they roared. "Uri Geller's spoon collection is less twisted!" I blared. "You spoiled our entire weekend at the beach," my mother sniffed. It was a paltry attempt at instilling a little Jewish guilt. However, neither of my parents were of the Jewish faith. They were Protestants, so the comment fell flat on its face without me so much as batting an eyelash. I still don't fully understand what the Protestant faith is all about. I figured they just wandered around Minnesota and complained about shit. "No pun intended, but let me see if I get this straight. You chose a time to go into my bedroom, snoop through my notebooks, read intimate details of my personal letters, completely violate my trust and personal life, confront me with something I wasn't prepared to share with you and now hold me responsible for ruining your weekend?" "Didn't we ever tell you to never write anything on paper that you didn't want us to read?" they chirped in unison. They said this as though it is a parent's right to pry, meddle, wiretap, intrude, spy and totally manipulate the lives of their children. "No,...I must have been absent the day you discussed that little lesson!" My mother crossed her arms and cast off a quick glance to the ceiling. "Well." I scanned my parents' faces several times. "Who the heck did you take parenting lessons from, J. Edgar Hoover?" "We told your sister the same thing after we read her diary." "Privacy is such an ugly concept, isn’t it?" At least now I understood why my mother had the same stationary tablet since the birth of her first child. The written word was an open invitation for public viewing and blackmail. As a family, we probably could have survived this untelevised episode had my father refrained from sharing that one last blow to the fire. That one last kick to the groin. "So tell me," he said. "Is it more fun with another man?" That was the apple which spilled the cart. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. I threw off my kid gloves. War was declared. "I can't believe you can actually sit there and wonder why I never told you when you can't even extend the slightest degree of common courtesy! You have nothing to say but rude, snide and cutting remarks! You have no interest in understanding any of this, how I feel or how difficult this is for me. And let me tell you something,...my idea of happiness may not coincide with your personal beliefs but that doesn't mean I have no right to it. Nor does this give you the right to treat me as though I have less worth as an individual and no feelings. I am of your own flesh and blood and if this is the very best you can do for your own children, then I feel sorry for you. I've got but one thing to say,... fuck you!" Appropriate as this may have been, something got lost in the interpretation and I ended up voicing a slightly abridged version. I simply turned to my father and said, "Fuck you!" It wasn't what I had intended to say, but it certainly was to the point. Naturally, this did not go over well, nor was the basis of my meaning fully understood. These two well chosen words landed with the grace of a wrecking ball in Tiffany's. It was the first and only time I saw my father lay a dozen eggs. He got this pained sort of look, as though he was passing a kidney stone the size of Devi's Tower. My mother appeared to have just had the wind knocked out of her lungs with a sledge hammer. For the next couple of minutes she just kept making these strange squeaking sounds like she had two floorboards rubbing together in her throat. It signified a landmark occasion. It was comparable to that wondrous moment when Neil Armstrong said "One small step for a man, a giant leap for mankind." I just didn't know my small step was going to be through my parent's front door. "GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE!" they began to shout in unison. "GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE!" I felt like James Brolin in The Amityville Horror. I suppose I can understand why they were so incensed, but considering how unbearably difficult they had made my coming out, I thought I had handled myself with a measurable amount of diplomacy. Once you understand what diplomacy is all about, it can be quite fun. In simplified terms, diplomacy is the art of saying "Nice doggy" until you can find a rock. *1 Immediately thereafter, my father began to rant, "If you think for one minute I'm going to let you speak to your mother that way, you've got another thing coming!" First, I had said it to him. I considered correcting this minor zoning error but decided it wasn't worth quibbling over. Besides, it would be considered overkill to drop two atomic bombs in the same neighborhood. Secondly, the situation was perhaps not as bad as it seemed. For as Albert Einstein once observed, "In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity". I figured if I had another thing coming, I was going to make damn certain it was something I wanted. "After a reception like this, you didn't actually think I was planning on staying here, did you?" I quipped. "However, I'm going to need the car to move and go to work, so you're going to have to give me the keys." I held out my hand and narrowed my eyes as I added, "..on a permanent basis." My father was so overwhelmed with anger that he actually reached into his pocket and threw the set of keys on the dining room table. Had I known it was going to be that easy, I would have included moving expenses and a new hair blower. The thought of a new hair blower immediately threw my priorities back into sync. I reached up and grabbed my head. "MY HAIR!" I screamed, running towards the nearest mirror. Amidst all of the emotional turmoil, I had totally forgotten I had tickets to see a play. One look at my reflection was more than enough. Squatted upon my head was a combination of Patti LaBelle, Rod Stewart and Mary Tyler Moore. I stormed back into the room and snatched the keys off the table. "Great!" I shouted. "You at least could have waited to destroy my life until after I finished doing my hair!" It didn't particularly disturb me that my life had completely fallen apart, that my parents had forcibly dragged me out of the proverbial closet and then tossed me on the street like last week's garbage. I began packing the car with the bare essentials needed to last for the next several days while I attempted to establish some form of housing. In some respects, it was a relief to stop wondering when my parents were going to come to terms with my sexual orientation. Granted, I suppose the outcome could have been improved upon, but there was a great sense of emotional cleansing in no longer having to dread the day the hinges got yanked off the door. Regardless of the square footage, there is something about a closet that even makes a skeleton restless. *2 *1 Will Rogers *2 Unknown