It’s been 347 days since I first thought...
It’s been 347 days since I first thought I might be gay, and not a day has gone by that I haven’t hated myself for it. It’s been 347 days since I last didn’t hate myself. 347 days. It’s funny - you seem to lose track of the days with one night rolling right into another and whatnot, then suddenly when you don’t even know what day it is - you know it.
I didn’t exactly have the best family to grow up gay in. As if my hardcore conservative mother - who once called Susan B. Anthony a “commie” because she advocated for equality - wasn’t bad enough, my father was a pastor. And he was a drunk. It was a match made in heaven - two people who were so dedicated to doctrine that when they lost their inhibitions, they appeared to move closer to divine thought. “Don’t hit your father even if he strikes you,” she said. “The fifth commandment says to honor thy father and thy mother. Do you want to go to hell?”
My sister was the smart one. I mean she really was the smart one. No grade ever seemed too high, yet every ‘A’ seemed to be too low. She could never disappoint my parents, but she always seemed to disappoint herself. She went off to college and everything, got her degree, and now she does fuck all. She graduated from college nine years ago and she’s currently a waitress at Macky’s - at least, she was last time I checked.
My brother was a real fuck up. I mean a real waste. Along the way to dropping out of high school, he discovered some real crazy shit. He never knew when not to take a drink. He never knew when not to take anything someone offered him - coke, LSD, meth - you name it, he did it. He would come home absolutely shitfaced - I mean totally wasted - at two every morning from whatever far out trip he had been on. He never caught hell from my parents, even as he stumbled through the hall, knocking over the occasional vase. My parents would wake up to conclude that Henry had been the culprit. Henry was my family’s cat which was hit by a car a year or two after my only brother had been born. (It might also be noted here that one of my brother’s trips turned out to be a little too far out - he overdosed on heroin two weeks after he dropped out.)
My sister - my other sister - was the strong, independent child who took after my mother in having the courage of her convictions. My mother always felt so proud that her “little bird” was going to “take off someday” and take after her. My sister did take off one day - she took off to Tennessee - and she never came back.
Then there’s me. I don’t know what I would be. I guess I take after my brother. I would challenge him for the title of “Family Fuck-Up” but I guess his overdose ruined any hope I had of that. I always felt a little weird in my family. When my sisters would sit and smile during my father’s slurred sermons, I had a tendency to roll my eyes and stare intently at my watch. Each one of the kids could bullshit a conversation with my parents - except for me. And when it gets to be in a situation where you live alone with two people you can’t talk to, it gets really fucking awkward.
Anyway, it was 347 days ago. Thursday. There was a kid in my English class - Alex. He sat a row to my left and three seats up. I was lucky enough to sit in the far back corner - right next to the door. I couldn't’ have cared less about what the teacher was mumbling and muttering about - something to do with Francis Scott Key or some shit’s tone in The Great Gatsby or something. I tried to pay attention as you do, but I always found myself looking in Alex’s direction. He was good-looking. I mean - I’m not gay, but I can see why someone would think he’s good looking. He kept himself in good shape. He had hair that looked so soft you almost wanted to run your fingers through it just to make sure it was real. He had a well defined jaw line, I guess. He had a really weird habit of staring at you - just right at you. It wasn’t even like he was staring at you so much as he was staring into you with his slightly grey, hazel eyes.
Anyway, I was trying to figure out if his hair was naturally auburn when apparently Mr. Bondo had asked me a question. When he yelled my name, I jumped to attention. Someone had seen me looking at Alex’s hair, though. “Ha!” a voice cried out. “Looks like we got ourselves a faggot!” The whole class laughed. Even Alex.
I turned red. I wasn’t gay. I knew I wasn’t. But everyone else caught on. Soon after that I started to get “faggot” yelled after me as I walked to my European history class. I had Alex in that class, too. That started 347 days ago.
I didn’t sleep that night. “What if I am a fag?” I thought. Mother most certainly wouldn’t approve of that. I stayed up that night thinking - just thinking. I didn’t want to be gay. God knows I wasn’t. I wasn’t gay. There was nothing to worry about. But for some reason, I just couldn’t get the thought out of my mind.
Fast-forward 346 days. I was regrettably called to the kitchen from my fortress of solitude for a very late dinner. This was a rare occurrence - usually I would grab my food and go back to my room, but today my parents actually decided to sit down and eat. As I walked in, my father sat down. He removed his priestly collar so he wouldn't’ choke on his food. My mom sat down next to him on his right. I had to sit on his left.
There was no “How was school?” or “How was your day?” There was only chewing - loud, aggressive chewing. God, my father’s chewing made me sick. He could never shut his mouth. He would let out an awful moan every once in a while. He would stop chewing just long enough to reward himself with a little chug. Just chew, chew, fucking chew. I had to stand up. I marched out of hell and into the cold of night. I immediately regretted not bringing a jacket.
I rounded the street corner next to my parents’ home and kept walking straight down the street, hands in pockets. I was startled to see Alex exit a house across the street. His auburn hair looked like a hot mess. His belt was undone. After he slipped on his shoes, he slipped on his shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair in the hope of being slightly less of a mess. Then, he noticed me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself.”
He smirked and took off walking in the same direction as me on the other side of the straight path. We walked in silence, with our footsteps not quite in sync. “Why don’t you come over here?” he asked. I shrugged, turned my head to check for a stray car, and crossed the street. I glanced at his face. He looked at me and laughed. “What?” he asked. “Never seen someone take the walk of shame?” I nervously smiled in response. I don’t know why I was nervous though. We walked in silence. Just...silence.
Anyway, we finished talking, he went home, and I finished walking around the neighborhood. I finally came home after that long walk. I stood outside the house, staring at the front porch light as it flickered off for a moment. I took a deep breath, then walked inside. My dad was sitting - slouched over, really - in his armchair, still collarless, with the TV blaring away. My mom was hid away someplace - in the bedroom, maybe.
It’s funny how things can change. I remember when it was my mom who stayed up all night to watch TV and it was my dad who went to the bedroom. My mom always said that my dad went into the room so early because he had to “talk with God.” The heavy scent on his breath said otherwise - or at least that my dad and God were drinking buddies.
Anyway, it wasn’t long before I went to my mom. It had been a full twenty-four hours since I had last wanted to sleep so badly. And what the hell was with Alex? He seemed...friendly. He seemed unusually friendly - or at least unusually not rude.
This brings me to today. Well - today, yesterday, and tomorrow. I was walking to school as I had hundreds of times before. The crosswalk light turned green, the street light turned red, so I crossed. I was only a few steps away from the curb, looking at the blinking red hand on the sign telling people not to cross if they hadn’t already, and then the car hit. I don’t know what kind of car it was. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
Anyway, I died. I had never been one for religion and God and Jesus and all, but in the end that didn’t matter too much, I guess. It was there alright. They really weren’t bullshitting me. There were clouds, pearly gates, the whole bit. There was a bit of a line. I guess enough people had been hit by cars before me that there got to be a bit of traffic. I waited in line, just thinking about things, waiting for my name to be called. It had been a fine 347 days. What the hell was it all for?
I didn’t exactly have the best family to grow up gay in. As if my hardcore conservative mother - who once called Susan B. Anthony a “commie” because she advocated for equality - wasn’t bad enough, my father was a pastor. And he was a drunk. It was a match made in heaven - two people who were so dedicated to doctrine that when they lost their inhibitions, they appeared to move closer to divine thought. “Don’t hit your father even if he strikes you,” she said. “The fifth commandment says to honor thy father and thy mother. Do you want to go to hell?”
My sister was the smart one. I mean she really was the smart one. No grade ever seemed too high, yet every ‘A’ seemed to be too low. She could never disappoint my parents, but she always seemed to disappoint herself. She went off to college and everything, got her degree, and now she does fuck all. She graduated from college nine years ago and she’s currently a waitress at Macky’s - at least, she was last time I checked.
My brother was a real fuck up. I mean a real waste. Along the way to dropping out of high school, he discovered some real crazy shit. He never knew when not to take a drink. He never knew when not to take anything someone offered him - coke, LSD, meth - you name it, he did it. He would come home absolutely shitfaced - I mean totally wasted - at two every morning from whatever far out trip he had been on. He never caught hell from my parents, even as he stumbled through the hall, knocking over the occasional vase. My parents would wake up to conclude that Henry had been the culprit. Henry was my family’s cat which was hit by a car a year or two after my only brother had been born. (It might also be noted here that one of my brother’s trips turned out to be a little too far out - he overdosed on heroin two weeks after he dropped out.)
My sister - my other sister - was the strong, independent child who took after my mother in having the courage of her convictions. My mother always felt so proud that her “little bird” was going to “take off someday” and take after her. My sister did take off one day - she took off to Tennessee - and she never came back.
Then there’s me. I don’t know what I would be. I guess I take after my brother. I would challenge him for the title of “Family Fuck-Up” but I guess his overdose ruined any hope I had of that. I always felt a little weird in my family. When my sisters would sit and smile during my father’s slurred sermons, I had a tendency to roll my eyes and stare intently at my watch. Each one of the kids could bullshit a conversation with my parents - except for me. And when it gets to be in a situation where you live alone with two people you can’t talk to, it gets really fucking awkward.
Anyway, it was 347 days ago. Thursday. There was a kid in my English class - Alex. He sat a row to my left and three seats up. I was lucky enough to sit in the far back corner - right next to the door. I couldn't’ have cared less about what the teacher was mumbling and muttering about - something to do with Francis Scott Key or some shit’s tone in The Great Gatsby or something. I tried to pay attention as you do, but I always found myself looking in Alex’s direction. He was good-looking. I mean - I’m not gay, but I can see why someone would think he’s good looking. He kept himself in good shape. He had hair that looked so soft you almost wanted to run your fingers through it just to make sure it was real. He had a well defined jaw line, I guess. He had a really weird habit of staring at you - just right at you. It wasn’t even like he was staring at you so much as he was staring into you with his slightly grey, hazel eyes.
Anyway, I was trying to figure out if his hair was naturally auburn when apparently Mr. Bondo had asked me a question. When he yelled my name, I jumped to attention. Someone had seen me looking at Alex’s hair, though. “Ha!” a voice cried out. “Looks like we got ourselves a faggot!” The whole class laughed. Even Alex.
I turned red. I wasn’t gay. I knew I wasn’t. But everyone else caught on. Soon after that I started to get “faggot” yelled after me as I walked to my European history class. I had Alex in that class, too. That started 347 days ago.
I didn’t sleep that night. “What if I am a fag?” I thought. Mother most certainly wouldn’t approve of that. I stayed up that night thinking - just thinking. I didn’t want to be gay. God knows I wasn’t. I wasn’t gay. There was nothing to worry about. But for some reason, I just couldn’t get the thought out of my mind.
Fast-forward 346 days. I was regrettably called to the kitchen from my fortress of solitude for a very late dinner. This was a rare occurrence - usually I would grab my food and go back to my room, but today my parents actually decided to sit down and eat. As I walked in, my father sat down. He removed his priestly collar so he wouldn't’ choke on his food. My mom sat down next to him on his right. I had to sit on his left.
There was no “How was school?” or “How was your day?” There was only chewing - loud, aggressive chewing. God, my father’s chewing made me sick. He could never shut his mouth. He would let out an awful moan every once in a while. He would stop chewing just long enough to reward himself with a little chug. Just chew, chew, fucking chew. I had to stand up. I marched out of hell and into the cold of night. I immediately regretted not bringing a jacket.
I rounded the street corner next to my parents’ home and kept walking straight down the street, hands in pockets. I was startled to see Alex exit a house across the street. His auburn hair looked like a hot mess. His belt was undone. After he slipped on his shoes, he slipped on his shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair in the hope of being slightly less of a mess. Then, he noticed me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself.”
He smirked and took off walking in the same direction as me on the other side of the straight path. We walked in silence, with our footsteps not quite in sync. “Why don’t you come over here?” he asked. I shrugged, turned my head to check for a stray car, and crossed the street. I glanced at his face. He looked at me and laughed. “What?” he asked. “Never seen someone take the walk of shame?” I nervously smiled in response. I don’t know why I was nervous though. We walked in silence. Just...silence.
Anyway, we finished talking, he went home, and I finished walking around the neighborhood. I finally came home after that long walk. I stood outside the house, staring at the front porch light as it flickered off for a moment. I took a deep breath, then walked inside. My dad was sitting - slouched over, really - in his armchair, still collarless, with the TV blaring away. My mom was hid away someplace - in the bedroom, maybe.
It’s funny how things can change. I remember when it was my mom who stayed up all night to watch TV and it was my dad who went to the bedroom. My mom always said that my dad went into the room so early because he had to “talk with God.” The heavy scent on his breath said otherwise - or at least that my dad and God were drinking buddies.
Anyway, it wasn’t long before I went to my mom. It had been a full twenty-four hours since I had last wanted to sleep so badly. And what the hell was with Alex? He seemed...friendly. He seemed unusually friendly - or at least unusually not rude.
This brings me to today. Well - today, yesterday, and tomorrow. I was walking to school as I had hundreds of times before. The crosswalk light turned green, the street light turned red, so I crossed. I was only a few steps away from the curb, looking at the blinking red hand on the sign telling people not to cross if they hadn’t already, and then the car hit. I don’t know what kind of car it was. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
Anyway, I died. I had never been one for religion and God and Jesus and all, but in the end that didn’t matter too much, I guess. It was there alright. They really weren’t bullshitting me. There were clouds, pearly gates, the whole bit. There was a bit of a line. I guess enough people had been hit by cars before me that there got to be a bit of traffic. I waited in line, just thinking about things, waiting for my name to be called. It had been a fine 347 days. What the hell was it all for?