Public Places, by Will Stanton

Gee
willikers!  What am I supposed to write
about the topic “Public Places?”  We all
have been in public places many times all throughout our lives, unless one of
us always has lived under a rock.  Were
we expected to write about something we did that was wonderful and spectacular,
or was it something embarrassing? 
Regarding myself, I can’t think of anything exciting enough to be worthy
of describing.  I haven’t led the most
adventuresome life.
I
assume by the term “public places,” the person who selected the topic was
thinking of areas where there are lots of people around, where whatever
occurred was witnessed by a large number of people.  Well, I can relate incidents that I witnessed
or was told about that might have some modicum of interest to the
listeners.  So, here goes.
When
I was in college, I was friends with one guy, Jeff, and his younger brother,
Jim.  They had very different
personalities.  My friend often displayed
a weird sense of humor; his brother always preferred to appear more serious – –
– that is, until they were together. 
Occasionally when they got together, the situation turned into a folie
à 
deux, that is, a “madness shared by two.”  
Having been in Army ROTC, they both ended up as army lieutenants in
Vietnam.  Jeff returned first and rather
let himself go, not doing anything in particular, not bothering to shave, just
taking it easy.  Prim Jim, however,
returned in uniform expecting a similarly neatly dressed brother to pick him up
at the airport.  Instead, Jeff appeared
wearing an old, torn raincoat and looking bedraggled. Spotting
Jim, he shuffled over to him, mimicking a demented Quasimodo.  Jim, already terribly embarrassed, became
even more so when Jeff, imitating some kind of transient who was truly off his
rocker, mumbled in a very loud voice, “Can you tell me where the really big
planes are?”
  
Naturally,
everyone within ear-shot turned around to look, regarding Jeff with great
suspicion and discomfort.  I assume that
this incident qualifies for happening in a very public place, an airport with
hundreds of people around.  I hasten to
mention that this occurred long before 911, so Jeff was not hauled off by the
authorities.
Jeff
and Jim also were rather disdainful of university-fraternities.  I recall one day their walking together past
a row of fraternities where a large number of frat-brats were sitting out on
their porches.  Now, this was back in the
day when fear and disgust of homosexuals was far more prevalent than now.  Realizing that they were being watched, Jeff
and Jim suddenly threw their arms around each other and began dancing gayly
down the sidewalk, merrily singing.  The
expressions on those frat-brat guys’ faces were priceless, and I enjoyed seeing
it all.
Speaking
of gay, I wrote earlier about the gayest person I ever saw on campus.  In everyone’s eyes, Peter was obviously
gay.  He looked rather androgynous, had
long golden hair, and was considered remarkably beautiful.  His choice of cute little clothes added to
that perception.  But, Peter was far
different from most gays at the time. 
People found him to be so remarkable looking that he had gained a
surprising sense of self-esteem and confidence. 
Usually,
people simply stared at Peter in astonishment.  If
anyone might have said something nasty to him, I imagine
that Peter did not let it bother him.  He apparently
rarely had any such experiences.  I do know
of one occasion, however.
I
recall one evening walking into a campus-bar where
both
straight and a few gays went. I saw Peter entering ahead of me.  Once inside, some college-stud, sitting with
his date, looked at Peter in complete disgust, and said
in a loud voice, “Look, here comes a fagot!”  Everyone
turned to look at the speaker and Peter.
As
Peter passed by, and without hesitation, he spoke up loudly stating, “This man
just called me a ‘fagot.’  Yes, he called
me a ‘fagot.’  What is a ‘fagot’?  Can someone tell me what a ‘fagot’ is?”  Everyone stared at the homophobic
college-stud, whose face quickly had turned a deep red.  He then sank down in his chair, as though he
wished he could disappear, thoroughly humiliated.   Peter, head held high, proceeded on by to
seek out some friends.  There sure were a
lot of people in that public place, and stud-guy sure drew a lot of attention
to himself that he didn’t plan on.
Last
of all, I remember my trip to Fort Lauderdale for spring-break from
college.  Late one afternoon and evening,
I was at a night-spot on the beach.  In
addition to lots of college guys, there also were some older, wealthy Cuban
emigré-men, all enjoying themselves.  I
noticed a young stud who looked no older than seventeen, very buff and very
smooth, wearing a tiny swimming suit.  He
occasionally dove elegantly, smoothly into a small swimming pool.  Then he would climb out, deliberately seeming
to ignore the crowd, and quietly stroll around the rim of the pool as though he
were on parade at a fashion-show.  He
knew exactly what he was doing.  With
regularity, one or other of the Cubans would walk over to him and slip a
large-denomination bill into the boy’s tiny swimsuit.  This went on for a while.  Finally, he must have received some rather
impressive amount because he quietly proceeded to strip naked, stand for a
moment to be admired, and then smoothly dove into the pool.
Well,
I would say that night-spot certainly qualified as a public place, and he
certainly drew attention from the crowd. 
I can understand why, too.  Hey!  I’d be satisfied just having a body like
that, even without all that money.
© 17 May 2016  
About the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Writing is Like a Gondola Ride, by Carlos

Writing is an Exploration.
You start from nothing
and learn as you go….E. L.
Doctorow
Last
week when my husband Ron and I first boarded the Venetian-inspired gondola
intent on riding the canals of Fort Lauderdale, I felt a bit self-conscious.
After all, we are not overt crusaders of gay rights, instead changing the world
one grain of sand at a time. Yet, here we were about to draft a testament
declaring our emancipation. As sole passengers of our flat-bottomed boat decked
out in sensuous cushions, billowing curtains, and floral bouquets, we were making
an emotive and political statement about our right to love as our gondolier
guided us through the circuitous waterways. Tito, our gondolier, greeted us
warmly, taking pictures of the happy couple as we smiled in romantic bliss, I
probably smiling more like a shy bridegroom than a well-seasoned lover. At the
table next to a divan in which we reclined, we laid out a feast, cold English
ginger ale, honeyed matzo crackers, a disc of Boursin cheese flecked with
cracked black pepper, and strawberries with sensuous nipples begging to be tongued,
nibbled and devoured. Having requested classical romantic music, Chopin,
Debussy, Rachmaninoff, I soon discovered that the music wafted out into the
canals and walkways, enrapturing the world around us with love’s hymns. We made
an adorable couple, as we lounged and fed each other blissfully, basking in the
gentle heartbeats of lyrical watery refrains. 
The
gentle waves beneath us gurgled in a rhythmical flow as they massed and fell like
the breathing of my beloved sleeping under a field of stars keeping watch. The
gondola sliced through the water slow and steady, its bow knifing through the
glassy reflection and creating undulating waves measuring a beat out to shore.
The sound of the waters kissing the shoreline commingled with the soft strains
of piano and violins billowing around us. We nuzzled against each other, toasting
our relationship like a candle flame damning the night as we drifted off into
inner worlds so infrequently traversed. Visually, we could not get enough of Camelot;
with every turn, we were met by tiered pagodas crowned with brass finials, red-tiled
Mediterranean villas, and by expansive lush grounds populated by strutting
peafowl, colorful Muscovy ducks, and oblivious loons sauntering amidst Eden. Although
I subconsciously rebelled at the ostentatious wealth surrounding me, where
money built empires on the backs of the working class, at this particular moment
in time, I decided to suspend my political sensibilities, recognizing that my
own feet are often unwashed.
Around
us, the scarlet pendants of flamboyant blossoms dangled from leafy canopies
like ruby earrings worn by a royal Persian bride, contrasting with the rosy
fingers of the tenderly setting sun in the horizon. When the sea breezes tickled
them, coconut palms sashayed in unison, like a well-syncopated troupe performing
a choreographed repertoire. We drifted through the sun-dappled canals,
surrounded by a Crayola calliope of rainbow colors, citron, Bahama water blues,
egg yolk yellows, and the ever present shades of island paradise greens.
In
the downtown section of the canals, boatloads of tourists shared the waterway
with us. On the river walk, they sauntered along the meandering sidewalks graced
by restaurants, art galleries, and parkways. Ron and I noticed numerous interesting,
but for the most part gratifying, reactions to our presence in the slow-moving
gondola as we cuddled and kissed openly. Certainly, we were not attempting to
be the standard of a gay couple in love. We simply sought our rightful place as
two men standing before the altar of history.  Some people, especially older men with paunchy
bellies and Republican scowls on their face, simply ignored us as though choosing
to deny our presence by cloaking themselves in the vestments of moral
indignation. Some just gawked at us with an incredulous
did-we-really-see-what-we-thought-we-saw open-mouthed gape. However, most, and
especially the millennial generation, smiled and waved at us, clearly conveying
that despite the Scalias and Alitos slithering under their rocks, despite
homophobic political and religious ideologues, America is changing. Violators
of human rights may continue to reject our rights to love, refusing to condone
our way of life to justify their holier-than-thou prejudices, but America is
evolving as it comes to recognize that I love him and he loves me, and that’s
all that matters. Fortune has sided with those who dare!
Writing
is the equivalent of a gay couple gliding on a gondola scrutinized by the
world. Writing requires courage and conviction. It requires standing up against
the fear that we will divulge too much of our souls, placing ourselves in a
position of being misunderstood, judged, rejected. When we write, we open
ourselves up to the eyes of others, never knowing whether our creation, our
lives, our authentic voices will be validated or whether reviewers’ accusations
will have us shrivel up, becoming small and voiceless. Thus, to be a writer requires
taking risks, recognizing that fear has the potential to open up new venues,
new worlds, new ideals for the writer as well as for those fortunate enough to
be a part of the sacred journey. A writer needs to unleash her/his fears,
embrace his identity, and glide, not necessarily fearlessly, but with
conviction that only when he is true to himself, will others smile back and be
transformed. The writer himself shall be transformed. He will give himself
permission to sit on a beach and witness the rising of the sun; he will recline
upon the earth and in a blade of grass commune with the cosmos as it unfolds
majestically before him; he will dance with the stars above him, and know that
he originated from some deep longing out there, as well as within him. Writers
do not work in a vacuum. We are aware of the coconut palms’ calypso waltzes, of
the droplets of water that nourish the countless ancestors of our pasts as well
as the progeny of our futures. As Toni Morrison wrote, “all water has a perfect
memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.”  As a writer, I capture, awkward and unevolved
as it may be, a moment of time, a beam of sunlight glistening on the surface, a
coiled blossom whose epicenter holds intangible truths. I am a wayfarer
blissfully celebrating as I glide  down
the currents that are but a Mobius strip of eternity. Writers are listeners and
observers and thus responsible for capturing moments that will dissipate as
quickly as a lifetime, but in surrendering to those moments, our explorations
come to an end, and we arrive where we started, recognizing the point where it
all began. Like all artists and philosophers, we embrace what and where we are,
we face our fears, swim the currents, and remind our fellow wayfarers that we
are all enlightened mediators on the canals in which we are carried. Therefore,
if my good reader will excuse me, I will return to the embrace of my beloved
word, knowing that the journey begins with a cadenced breath.
© 27 July 2015 – Denver
About
the Author 
Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter.  I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands.  I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.