At the Bottom of the Closet

That's when I met Ryan—same age—but he was way fucking cooler than I'd ever be. With a pristine Members Only jacket and new Adidas, he sat next to me and wanted to talk. Naturally, I was suspicious of why he'd want to hang out with me. My family was dirt poor. My hand-me-downs had been handed down. I had holes in the tops and bottoms of my sneakers. Our rotting dirt patch house gave Slum Dog Millionaire a run for his rupee, but as a boy—who'd skipped the second grade, was younger than most with a late April birthday, and was already tiny—I couldn't really afford to miss an opportunity to have a friend. Just one. Any friend would do.

So, we went back to his house to play, where his father waited anxiously to talk to me about Jesus. Looking back now, those donuts weren't for the parishioners. They were a trap. One that I couldn't see, which was strange because back then, I was a fucking master ninja cat thief. Like I said, four donuts in one day without getting caught. That shit ain't easy.

So there I was, staring into the caring eyes of Ryan's dad, who sincerely wanted to save my young soul, and although my goal had been deep-fried sugar, I got snared in a trap had been masterfully designed by folks who were way older and wiser than me. See, while Ryan and his dad were ecstatic to share the Word with me, in my mind, they were really offering me the one thing I wanted most. A friend. Someone who wouldn't make me feel so fucking alone all the time.

I don't know why, but I broke down in tears in front of a complete stranger. See, in my weekly donut-robbing adventures, some of those sermons had seeped into my young brain. I cracked and told Ryan's father everything. Just like Mom going to that rally, wasn't it okay to expose the truth sometimes? I told him my mother was gay, and I was terrified that we were going to burn in hell for it. He hugged me, which made me feel uncomfortable, and no, this story isn't going to end as too many others did, with a church pedophile ring and a cover-up. Thanks, Pope John Paul.

Ryan's father told me that God loved all his children, despite their flaws. That message made me even more uncomfortable, though I wasn't sure why at the time. Then he insisted that Ryan walk me all the way to my front doorstep, which was strange. I mean, shit, I wasn't a moron. At school, getting A's was a snap. Usually, I'd intentionally miss answers on tests so that I didn't stand out too much to the class bullies, and I was damn sure that I knew how to find my own way home.

That walk was quiet. Something was off, but I couldn't figure out what, until two days later when Ryan's father showed up on our doorstep. Standing there in his crisp black slacks and business shoes in the middle of our beaten-down, oil-soaked neighborhood, he couldn't have looked more ridiculous. My heart crashed down through my stomach and punched through the earth's crust, because I knew I'd fucked up.

He sat out in that blazing sun, talking his big game about the lord. He ran his mouth off for a full fifteen. Told Mom that he'd met me out at the church and that she should come next Sunday. God loved all his children, so she shouldn't be afraid. Jesus's forgiveness was universal, after all. She politely declined but even from behind her, I could feel her anger radiate from the tone in her voice. See, he didn't actually say it, but one thing was clear. He knew she was gay.

I got my ass beat that night. I was grounded until forever. And with our secret exposed, we moved back to Maine shortly thereafter.

That was my first lesson about people and their caring intentions, belittling and sabotaging your life in the kindest possible way. Even today, I cringe at the white-savior movies and books for their same helpful motivations. Harper Lee is exempt because To Kill a Mockingbird is superb writing, but to paraphrase Bill Burr, can we please stop making those fucking Michelle Pfieffer-goes-to-the-inner-city movies?

Anyway, once we were back in Maine, things spiraled quickly. We moved into an apartment in Lewiston, and anyone who knows Maine understands. Aside from the good stuff—namely that apparently every citizen who ever existed there used to live next to Stephen King—there was mostly the bad. Dirty cockroach apartments. Warped walls. Freezing so deep that you can never get warm enough. The song of shattered beer bottles and bar fights on the street below every night. We stayed with two other families in a three-bedroom apartment until we could get on our feet. The writer in me avoids clichés, but even now, I hate only two phrases. Until we get on our feet. That, and make ends meet. I despised even typing them.