i loved Bobby as much as I could. He was beautiful—he still is. I was scared, and my life was complicated by fear. But he was simple for me, because he functioned within a kind of vacant non-presence, so familiar in my life. It reminded me of my mother's emotional semi-consciousness, and it reminded me of me; afraid to have any boundaries, and threatened by anyone who did. Bobby was no threat to me, he was 9 years younger. He had been (and was still being) sexually abused by his mother, his sister, and any guy who'd give him the time of day and a few bucks. I started out as one of those guys with Bobby, only I didn't know there was a line where the trick was supposed to end. Besides, I wanted a whole lot more than just an orgasm, so I tried to get him to stay.
I could feel exquisite compassion for him, and I could perceive his suffering like it was my own. Everything about him felt like me. I was dumb to the loud wailing in my own heart, but I could plainly hear the stifled cry from his. Literally, I loved him more than myself; I avoided loving myself by loving my reflection in him. The Joe that was in me was too close for comfort, but the Joe that I found in Bobby was just close enough.
he went with a trick, and I followed the guy's car. I had a handsomely engraved invitation to my graduation from the fire fighting academy, and I wanted Bobby to come. I wanted a lot more than that, but I didn't know what it was, or how to ask for it. So, while they were 'busy' in the guy's apartment, I jammed the invitation up under the passengers door handle, where Bobby would find it. All the straight guys were going to have someone at the graduation for them, and I told myself I wanted Bobby to be the one for me. But the truth was I wanted to be the one for Bobby, and I wasn't. I was posessive and emotionally clinging. I was in love with a hustler.
There were times when Bobby took my breath away, like when he kissed me right in the middle of Moynaghan's Pub saying, "I don't care what anybody thinks," which was a lie, because he vehemently denied being gay until long after our break-up, but that made the gesture all the more precious. He only kissed me about three times in our entire 3-year affair, which, at the time, was probably as much as he had kissed anyone without being coerced. And that was OK, because I felt he deserved to have things the way he wanted, he deserved to say no, and he deserved the chance to give something away instead of having it taken. Bobby often had no idea what he wanted because he'd always been denied any chance to decide, but every one of those three kisses was a true gift, freely given. Letting him love me, allowing him to discover he was capable of love, and giving him the chance to realize that he wanted to love, was probably more than anyone else could have done for him. But still, this world owed him much more.
Early one morning, while I was working a 24-hour shift at the Northboro fire department, the Worcester police called me. It was 3:00 AM and I had loaned Bobby my car. They asked if I had given Bobby—who they had arrested for driving drunk and without a license—permission to use my car which, they added, had sustained damage in a minor accident. They were counting on me copping out and denying that I had given him the keys, in which case they would charge him with auto theft, in addition to everything else. I knew the game, and I knew that for the cops, it was a foregone conclusion that Bobby's sugar-daddy would cover his own ass and lie. So it gave me singular delight to disappoint the law enforcement officers by telling the truth. I said, "Yes, he had my permission." The dispatcher said, "What? You DID give him permission to use your car? Is that right?" "Yes," I said. They put me on hold, for effect I'm sure.
I expected a cop to take the phone and tell me how much trouble I was in. The dispatcher came back and said they didn't need me, goodbye. But I knew Bobby would be calling, and I used the time to deal with my anger and frustration. In that predawn half hour, I breathed, and realized how much Bobby needed, just then, for me to be gentle and caring, and how much he didn't need me to be an angry pissed-off asshole, which I didn't really need to be anyway. That's what I would have been if not for the pause to reflect and breathe.
from this beautiful boy who had lived in hell, I tried never to demand too much, and I did my best to tolerate the effects of his rage and self-contempt. Still I loved him; for the pain he endured, for the tenderness he brought to me intact through storms of hellish abuse, for the person he was the day he was born and for the sweet boy he will be the day he dies. I loved Bobby as best I could.
At the payphone in the basement holding cell of the Worcester Police Department, my brave boy called me, fearing I would spew my anger at him and disown him like all the rest before me. When I heard his scared voice, all I could say was, "Bobby, are you alright? Don't worry about the car. Are you OK?" And this troubled boy, fighting tears while standing in the midst of all the other troubled boys he had taken with him on his joy-ride, right there in front of all his friends, said to me, "I love you."
At 3:30 AM one morning in 1985, the love of a teary-eyed boy made me a man. I got to be bigger than I had been; I did more than I thought I could do; and I was good in a way I had not been an hour before. I sat in the dark, still and quiet, for a long time.
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