Last night, I told the greatest love story of my life.
I was working as a features intern for the Athens Daily News in the summer of 1997, and I was the paper's primary reporter on AthFest, the first-ever Athens Music Festival. In the middle of the day, before I went to see this band called #1 Family Mover because they had a cute lead singer, I stepped into this now-closed restaurant called the Athens Brewing Co. for a Sprite. It was July, and I was outside wearing a tie because I was on duty for the newspaper.
The main portion of the Athens Brewing Co. was on their upstairs floor. (The Wild Wing Cafe, which uses the facility now, uses the same floor plan.) So I ran up the stairs and was about to head to the bar, but this cute, young blond guy makes eye contact as soon as I reach the top step.
"Hi," he said to me, never breaking the stare.
"Hi," I said. I was paused, not able to break eye contact with him. "How are you?"
"Fine," he says. He was with a group of guys, but he broke away from them to talk to me.
"Um ...," I said to him. "Are you here for the festival?"
"We were just grabbing food," he said.
"I'm covering it for the paper," I said. "I'm Benjie."
"I know," he said. Then, I looked down at my nametag, thinking that's what he meant.
I forget his name. It may have been Chris, I guess. But I don't remember it. He was very good-looking. My height. Blond. Good eyes.
I remember what he said more than what he did. I don't know if he shook my hand when he said this or not. I just remember what he said.
"I want you to know that I love you," he said in complete seriousness. He just kept his eyes on me, and there was heat that wasn't generated by the July weather.
"Why?" I replied, taken aback.
He didn't hesitate or get offended or anything. He fidgeted.
"I've just seen you around," he said, "and I love you."
Now I can tell when someone's trying to talk up religion to me or save my soul. This guy wasn't doing that. This guy, for whatever reason, genuinely smiled like he was proud of himself for saying it. He looked at me, unflinchingly. And he said he loved me in a way that made me believe him. This complete stranger had feelings for me, emotions he'd gathered just from seeing me around, seeing how I acted around people. I liked the way he looked at me. It caught me completely off-guard and made me into the pursued, rather than the pursuer.
I don't know who he was. I have a feeling that I'd probably talked with him online, for I remember having chatroom conversations with kids on campus who were afraid to come out of the closet. One of the chatroom people would tell me that he'd seen me on Tate Plaza but that he was scared to say hello. I'd give the chatroom kid advice, and I'd talk to him like I genuinely wanted him not to be ashamed of who he was, of being gay. The chatroom kid used to think that I was just pretending to be nice to him. One day, though, he realized that I was being nice, selflessly nice. I remember that the chatroom kid was pleasantly surprised that I didn't want something from him. After that conversation, I never saw him in the chatroom again.
When the guy in Athens Brewing Co. told me that he loved me the second time, I thanked him.
"Now, I'm going to get a Sprite," I said to him. "I'll be right back."
And I walked toward the bar, got my beverage and turned around.
And the guy was gone. His friends were gone. I went down the stairs, looked at the crowds on the street and couldn't find him anywhere.
The moment was over. It was never supposed to last. It was only supposed to matter, and it does matter to me. It was a two-minute conversation, but it taught me that people are looking at you, even when you think they're not. People see you, even when you wonder why no one "gets" you. My day, my outlook, my confidence and my belief in good things and love turned on a dime that day.
Trying to explain it to people at the newspaper, they showed me a candid shot of Versace killer Andrew Cunanan from that day's newspaper - asking me if that was the guy who said he "loved" me. Even that joke didn't keep me from having a brighter day.
Yesterday, telling this story, I told someone that I didn't think that people who looked at me saw the whole picture of who I was or, more specifically, who I see myself as.
I tend to look at myself as though there's something wrong with me, something that needs fixed. I'm not good with confidence. I'm good with sarcasm. I'm jaded, and a lot of my friends have come to expect that. I've been burned by dating, lost love and tons and tons of disappointment, and a lot of people don't like to be around me, thinking me weird or needy. I've had people tell me that I'm nice but try too hard. I've had people who tell me that my cynicism is a self-fulfilling prophecy. People tell me that I have low self-esteem, that I apologize too much, that I don't promote my own writing enough. Some friends tell me that I'd be a lot better off if I just counted to 10 before I said something, that I tend to think before speaking. One person once said to me, "I thought you were TRYING to be strange."
Exes have told me that I'm too critical of myself. I need other people too much. I'm weird. I'm the sort of cute that people won't notice until I'm old and not cute anymore. One ex said that, by the time I turn 35, everyone will adore my bitchy sarcasm but that I'll hate everyone. One ex told me that I thought too much with my heart and not at all with my head.
I remind myself of the moment in Athens Brewing Co. because I need to know that someone can and will look at me like that. They have, and they might again. People can still see me, beyond the walls and the bad anecdotes, and they think I'm a beautiful person full of loyalty, worthy of affection and capable of loving someone.
The boy in Athens Brewing Co. wasn't the only person to look at me and love what I love about myself, but his story is the most poignant. The one time he chose to talk to me, he said what he wanted me to know. And it helped me.
When I went out with Lonnie on our one date last year, before he broke his promises to me and didn't call me for two months for whatever reasons, he told me that I had an untapped affectionate side that people should see. He told me that I needed love, and, for a moment, he offered it to me.
Then, he hurt me. And I closed the shutters, and I put the walls back up and reinforced them.
But I want to be seen. I want to be seen that way.
I'm getting older. Days are humdrum. And I was hoping to know more of love and about love than I do. I want to stop with the apologies, the bad dates, the uncertainty and the silliness, at least to a degree.
I want love. I want to believe in it. I don't want to get stepped on, passed over, glared at or belittled.
My favorite poem is Edgar Lee Masters' "George Gray," about a man longing for life and yet afraid of opening himself up and taking chances.
I don't want to be that man. I'm cautious and caustic, but there are reasons for that. I'm jaded, but there are reasons for that. This attitude is not my fault. This attitude is my best defense. And few people understand that.
I don't want to be misunderstood. I don't want my desires misinterpreted. So I'll be as confident as I can be, as smart as I know I am. And I'll tell you all the truth about me.
When I tell my best love story, I don't want it to be a tale of something fleeting yet satisfying. I want more from life.
I am loyal and good. I am a friend. I am a man. I am strong. And I know myself well enough to be both cautious and wild. And I'm ready for optimism, love, happiness, change and hope - whenever it's ready for me.
This is not some Hallmark card. This, if you've been truly listening to me for years, isn't even a change of pace. I'm the same good man I've always been, despite the bad things that happen to me.
People who think they know me wouldn't think that I felt that way. People who think they "get" me probably don't pay the proper amount of attention.
But, I've found, some people who think they know me don't actually know me at all.
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