The hall door had barely shut behind me when the phone started ringing. I answered, assuming it was my dad calling from work. Had my brain not been operating on auto-pilot, I would have realised I had passed his car in the drive. "Y'ello."
"Aaron?"
All my senses flicked into life. "Robbie! How're things?"
"Good... I, eh, wasn't sure you'd answer."
"I'd never... I've been thinking about... It's great to hear from you."
A brief chuckle, "You too." A slight pause, "There's a new Tarantino movie in the works?" And like that, we were away. A connection that had temporarily gone down. Genuine friendship never requires re-setting or re-configuring. It is an insoluble bond, existing beyond the constraints of space and time.
"I missed this," I said, voice warbling with emotion.
"I should've called sooner. I wasn't sure you'd want to speak to me, after..."
"I'm sorry about that. That's on me. I was so mixed up... I had this... this fucking blockage... I couldn't allow myself... a part of me kept fighting, wouldn't let go."
"So, you're not mad at me... about the photos."
"It was never about... I... I was scared... about... everything. Who I am."
A few seconds passed before Robbie spoke: "I thought it was me... the whole colour thing."
"Never." Emphatic.
"It's just... it's everywhere I go, everything I do. People define me by my skin. Like that's all I'm about. Even the ones who mean nothing by it, feel this need to mention it."—the strain in his tone reverberated through the line—"It's like this separating barrier, they can't see past. I'm a person, same as everyone else... It's exhausting... People say, 'oh listen to him, making a big issue of it,' but I'm not the one making an issue out of it. Y'know, the Fannings of the world, sometimes I prefer that—they're upfront about their bigotry. I know exactly where I stand. With others, it's this insidious thing lurking beneath the surface..."
I remembered how the Christian Brother picked out Robbie even though he had seen us both laughing. The cop's aggressive attitude toward only him. The girl on the bus running her fingers through his hair like you would a family pet. My dad, making skin tone an issue by listing his favourite black actors. Robbie acting unfazed when deep down...
Forced to wear a mask.
How Louise's friends revealed their prejudices when they thought nobody was listening.
Me assuming the picture of Basquiat in his house was that of a relative. Robbie, brushing it off with a joke when deep down...
I hadn't realised. Hadn't stopped to consider how Robbie might be hurting. Too busy concentrating on myself. It's easy to develop a bad case of visual and aural impairment when it's not you being discriminated against.
I tried to imagine myself in his shoes. I couldn't. The mask I'd donned disguised my identity. Robbie's cover could only ever cloak his feelings.
"It makes it hard for me to trust... every time we were together, afterwards I'd catch that expression on your face—"
"What?"
"That shameful one, like you'd shat yourself in front of the whole school."
"You should see me after I sing soprano," I said, using the humorous euphemism to hide my embarrassment and cut the tension.
Robbie didn't laugh. "And last time... You seemed so into it. Then, boom! Turned cold as ice. I couldn't understand it. I remember you saying how you fancy Noely, and I look around your room, all these posters of white faces staring back at me... I'm so used to people having a problem with who I am..."
"Noely's cute, but I've taken dumps with more personality."
"You said—"
"I'd just come out to you. I was shitting myself that it might fuck up our friendship. Then you ask me who I fancy. I panicked. What if I told you the truth, and you blanked me?"
"You knew I wouldn't."
"Did I? I assumed you were straight. Straight people I know find gay jokes hilarious. At my old school, my so-called friends wouldn't sit with me. Like I had some infectious disease. Passed comments behind my back. Laugh at the queer, it's funny. And I'd sit there saying nothing."
"You never told me..."
"Jesus, even the church, society's moral bloody compass," I said, spitting out the words liked poison, "says it's an unholy abomination. So not only am I screwed in this life, I'm set to suffer for eternity. All that shite drilled into my head, since I learned to talk. It's not that easy to shake off, to untwist my mind. Shit, I was so scared my own brain wouldn't allow me to entertain the thought that I might be gay..."
Your past can mould you or deform you. If you let it.
"... Until I met you."
"Me?"
"Before you, I had infatuations. But with you—yeah, sure, l fancied you something rotten, but that was secondary. Thirdary even—"
"It's tertiary," Robbie said with an endearing chuckle.
"Well, see, that's just it, it's your mind, your personality l... like. Before you, I could make-believe the whole gay thing was down to aesthetic appreciation, nothing more. But I met you, and you fairly bollixed up that theorem."
"I've never known anyone like you. You're... you're like Chinese puzzle I'll never figure out... a David Lynch movie." His giggle set me off, and for a while, the line filled with the sound of our animated chuckles.
That torrent of laughter washing away the mud sullying our waters. Time flows on. The past lies stagnant. All that truly matters is the present and the future.
The future was at the forefront of our minds, Bowie playing The Point Depot on November 24th to be precise. A date etched in my brain for a long time.
"It's sold out," Robbie said. "I asked my sister to pick me up a ticket, but the—"
"Before you go blaming Aiesha, I've got our tickets here."
"You what? But how did you know..."
"I hoped."
"Ma and sis are in on this?"
"Pretty much."
"What if—"
"It would be the most uncomfortable hour-and-half of our lives, instead of one of the greatest." He started laughing. I joined in. Synchronisation.
Even at the tender age of sixteen, I realised finding that one person you are in sync with is as rare as a fire rainbow. And equally beautiful. A once in a lifetime experience.
Given my youthful age, I used to struggle with the idea of once in a lifetime. Perhaps it resulted from coming perilously close to having my life force extinguished, but I, now, had a keener understanding of the concept.
My talk with Robbie made me realise the enormous pressure we put ourselves under to fit in. Every day we slip on a mask to avoid detection, or to hide our true feelings. To gain acceptance from the majority whose own behaviour bordered on the unacceptable. Almost all our mental bandwidth is used up suppressing who we are. Secret torments corroding our soul. A piece of our identity is lost the longer we remain silent. Living our lives on the margins, compelled to swim in the dark depths beneath the prevailing current, obliged to master the art of breathing underwater in order to survive.
You can hide and be safe. And miserable. Or risk everything by being happy and visible. There comes a time when you have to choose happiness.
The next fortnight passed by in a blink. It was as though everything in my universe had finally aligned. The individual pieces of the crazy jigsaw had slotted into their rightful places, and the picture was whole. Confidence usurped anxiety as my controlling force. I faced every day with a positive attitude. And a newfound determination not to allow negative events to grind me down.
Concert day proved an exception. Time crawled. The seconds dawdled defiantly as if deliberately mocking the excitement that bubbled inside me, bursting for release.
When I finally got home and tore off my uniform, it was almost surreal. I collected the bag containing the white trousers from the back of the wardrobe, savouring the new smell emanating from the material as I slipped my legs inside.
Standing before the mirror, teasing the hair, I was growing out with a dollop of Brylcreem. When I'd finished, I smiled at the image looking back at me. The small scar that ran from the bottom of my left nostril to the dip in the cupid's bow of my upper lip wasn't a disgusting aberration. It was a distinguishing feature, nothing to be ashamed about.
My mum waved me off and said Robbie was welcome to stay over. "Or, call, if you are staying at his house."
I encountered Roley as I strutted around the corner to the bus stop. We stood for a moment, chatting under the orange glow of a sodium street light.
"You know you can see your legs," he said, looking at my new trousers, the light rendering the white cotton material transparent.
"Ah, but, they're nice legs. Why hide 'em?"
A familiar laugh rang out as I approached the bus stop. I spotted two girls walking together, arms linked, enjoying a private joke. The one on the left with the svelte short pixie-cut looked up tentatively as they drew closer.
"Nicky. I almost didn't recognise you for a minute. New look?"
Her hand went automatically to where her long locks had once flowed, like someone reaching for a phantom limb. "Oh, this, I got it done today. Feels weird."
"It suits ya. Got yourself a real Audrey Hepburn vibe going on."
"Thanks,"—blushing—"Where you off to all spruced-up?"
"Bowie's playing the Point."
"Cool." She glanced to her companion, "This is Lynn,"—her friend with the faded denim jacket, black skullcap, and careworn face nodded at me— "From...my sociology course."
"Where've you been hiding?"
"Been busy with college and what not... You quit the drug company, too."
"Yeah, how did you—"
"Keith mentioned it the other day when he knocked in."
"Oh, you and him..."
"No, no, no. He drops by, see how I'm getting on." She smiled. "He's not a bad ol' skin."
"He's just not too keen on advertising it." We both laughed. That simple act made me realise how much I'd missed her. "You know if you're free on the weekend... maybe we could catch a movie?" Lynn's expression was a mixture of disapproval and protectiveness.
"Aaron's that guy I told you about—from... y'know..."
I smiled easily. "The gay one."
"That's not... Lynn's not on my sociology course,"—Nicky exhaled sharply—"we go to the same support group." She slipped her hand into Lynn's and squeezed. "She's been brilliant with everything. She's helping me heal."
"It's working," I said to Lynn, before switching my gaze back to Nicky, "It's great to hear that lovely laugh of yours again."
Nicky glanced away. When she looked back, I noticed the wet in her eyes. "Cheers," she said in a croaky voice.
"I'm glad,"—choking up— "you're doing good."
"Don't you start or you'll have me going." She spread her arms, "C'mere!"
We hugged it out for a few seconds.
"Take care, sweetie," she whispered in my ear.
"You too."
The crowd at the Bowie gig was not what I was expecting. They were of a similar age to my folks, dressed like them, too. I tried to imagine them twenty-five years ago, lightning bolts painted on their faces, and spiky hair dyed carrot orange. Once adolescents, frightening the bejesus out of their mothers and fathers with their adoration of an alien-obsessed, bi-sexual rocker, those kids had grown up. Most were, by now, parents themselves. I imagine they raised their children with an open view of homosexuality.
It got me thinking. Soon, new icons might come along and break waves and change minds like Bowie once did. Or a TV series might defy convention and help familiarise a mainstream audience with gay culture. Who knows? Society doesn't stand still; It moves forward. Each new generation erodes the rocks of the past, reducing them to sediment, as the river of life flows on.
Although some things never change. Morrissey was the supporting act. After twenty-five years of brooding angst, he remained just as miserable as ever.
So was I, glancing at the empty seat to my right.
The entrance of the thin white duke himself onto the stage cheered me somewhat. Bowie opened his set with The Motel, a song from his latest album. I glanced around at the puzzled faces of fans expecting to hear the old favourites. The great artists don't stagnate, they innovate. They move with the times, with an eye on the future.
Look Back in Anger had the crowd crooning cheerfully along. Somewhat ironic, given that those present appeared to be reliving fond memories as they bellowed out the words in unison.
The Hearts Filthy Lesson followed. I glanced nervously at the vacant seat beside me.
Incredible as it was to witness my hero in the flesh, the absence of a friend to share it with diluted the experience.
Bowie was midway through a raucous rendition of Boys Keep Swinging when an arm touched my shoulder.
I spun around and was greeted by the highlight of my night, Robbie's smiling features. He shouted something about being held up in my ear. I flung an arm around his shoulder.
For the next few magical moments, we continuously exchanged giddy grins, losing ourselves in the music, caught up in each other.
Teenage Wildlife had the entire crowd singing as one. The teens and the teens at heart.
We spilt out into the chilly night with blood pumping hot, ears ringing, voices hoarse, wreathed in smiles and heart's content.
"I was afraid you wouldn't come," I said, still shouting, not caring.
"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," Robbie shouted back.
Looking at him now, I knew everything was as it should be. "I love you."
"What?"
"I said, I—" I stopped when I caught sight of his overflowing smile.
"Are you drunk?"
"On the moment. Why?"
"You've never said that before."
"Because I'm an idiot. I'm self-centred, temperamental, with the emphasis on mental, a bit of an oddball—feel free to disagree at any time."
"All true. But I still love you, you little weirdo." We embraced fiercely and shared a tender kiss.
A passing couple looked at us. They smiled and cuddled up close together.
We giggled, our steaming breath mingling in the air.
We walked into the freezing Dublin night, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, talking and laughing. Unsure what lay ahead but assured of who we were, unconcerned where the universal flow might take us.