Becoming Andy Hunsinger Read online

  David Pettyfield sipped from a glass of beer. After brushing his bangs from his eyes, he looked at me with a furrowed brow.

  “Andy, you didn’t voice an opinion at the meeting. Why?”

  I lit a Marlboro, exhaled a stream of smoke. “My boyfriend’s deep in the closet,” I said. “I don’t think he wants me waving a sign on Monroe Street tomorrow.”

  Boyfriend? Is that what Aaron is now?

  For over three months, we had spent much of our free time together. Aaron slept at my place most every Friday and Saturday night. Each Wednesday evening, we dined at an all-you-can-eat seafood place on Tennessee Street. Our sex was frequent and explosive, made all the more special by the fact we showed true affection toward each other, without reserve. Often, after washing up following our lovemaking, we climbed back under the covers, and then we talked for an hour or so, about our childhoods, our families, and the loneliness of our high school days, when sex between boys was verboten. Conversation flowed easily between us, and we didn’t hold back.

  My brother Jake excepted, I hadn’t ever been closer to another guy.

  One Saturday, I left work at Capital City early. Aaron and I drove to Alligator Point, an isolated beach on the Gulf of Mexico where slash pines grew to the edge of a narrow crescent of sugar-like sand. After we swam in the balmy Gulf, we doused ourselves with fresh water from a gallon milk jug, and then we made love in my car.

  How sweet it had been.

  Now, seated in the Pastime, with cigarette smoke swirling about my head, I recalled the sour scent of Aaron’s armpits during our sex session at Alligator Point. I remembered his sighs, the crackling of vinyl upholstery, and the creaky springs in my Vega’s back seat.

  I thought of a brilliant afternoon in December, when Aaron and I had visited a crafts fair on the FSU campus. We searched for Christmas gifts for our parents. The sky was cloudless and the sun shone as brightly as a newly struck coin. We both wore sweaters and blue jeans; the cool air felt refreshing on my skin. Among the limbs of live oaks, Spanish moss beards hung as limp as dishrags.

  We walked side by side, amidst the throng, pausing at booths to examine the various offerings: weavings, wood-carvings, ceramics, and so forth. We didn’t hold hands or put our arms around each other, of course. But still, it felt special to be in public with Aaron. We had made love, earlier that day, and the memory of our mutual passion still lingered inside my head.

  Aaron was a quiet person, satisfied to pass an hour without saying a word to me, and I came to appreciate his silences. We might spend a few hours walking through Maclay Gardens, and then share a picnic lunch without speaking two dozen words. Simply having a companion seemed quite enough for both of us. And though we hadn’t declared a commitment to each other, Aaron had not shared a bed with another man since he’d first come to my place.

  I hadn’t strayed, either; I didn’t care to. Aaron was all I needed.

  Aaron worked at the Department of Revenue, in the collections department -- a nine-to-five desk job. He’d earned an associate’s degree from Tallahassee Community College. His family was fifth-generation Georgian; they lived in Thomasville, a forty-five minute drive from Tallahassee. Every Sunday morning, Aaron drove up to Thomasville, attended church with his immediate family, and then shared a midday meal with his extended family, at his grandparents’ home.

  “My granddaddy’s a preacher at First Baptist,” Aaron told me, “and Daddy’s a deacon. They wouldn’t understand the gay thing, nor would Mama. I’ll never come out to them.”

  “One day, I’ll tell my parents,” I said in response. “I don’t want to hide that part of me.”

  Now, at the table in the Pastime, I told myself, I guess Aaron is my boyfriend.

  My gaze traveled from face to face at the table. These were not the sort of guys I’d befriended at the Lambda Chi house. They wore clothes from discount stores. They didn’t play sports, and some were outright girlish. But they had the courage to be themselves.

  Did I?

  I looked at David, and then my voice cracked like a teenager’s when I spoke.

  “What time should I be at Fontana’s?”

  ***

  “You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

  Over the telephone later that night, Aaron’s voice sounded panicky.

  “It’s just a small protest,” I said. “And besides, someone has to stand up to this woman. Who does she think she is, anyway?”

  “Look,” Aaron said, “it’s one thing to visit the Pastime; it’s a mixed bar. But to stand on the street with a pack of queers and wave a sign is different. You might as well have the word ‘gay’ tattooed on your forehead.”

  “I don’t really --”

  “I’m serious. What if your fraternity brothers find out?”

  “They don’t run my life.”

  “What about me? Don’t you care about my feelings?”

  I chewed my lips while twisting my wall-mounted phone’s spiral cord around my finger. The more Aaron objected to my involvement in the protest, the more my attendance seemed an imperative. My dad had once told me, “The only way to deal with a bully is to stand up to him.” And Anita Bryant was a bully, wasn’t she? Why wouldn’t Aaron see the need for my participation?

  “I’m not asking you to be there,” I said.

  “That’s not the point. I visit your apartment all the time. People see us together whenever we’re out. If you’re branded gay, then I’ll be, too. I could lose my job.”

  I let out my breath.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but this is something I have to do.”

  ***

  I once read a statement about leaving the closet. It said, in part:

  “For anyone who still has yet to come out, you don’t need me to tell you it gets better afterward. But the closet does things to you that people aren’t meant to go through. The constant introspection and over-analyzing, and the fear: it stops. It goes away and doesn’t come back.

  “Remember that telling people isn’t so much a clarification for them, but a fight for you and your life. No matter how much it feels like your environment is dictating to you, remember this: you can give your environment the finger and change it however you like.”

  I think that pretty well describes the feelings stirring within me in the winter of 1977.

  ***

  I stood on a Tallahassee sidewalk, before Fontana’s, an Italian place with red canvas awnings and a plate glass storefront, a favored dining spot for legislators. The January day was cool, but sunny and still. Perhaps two dozen gay men, mostly members of the Rap Group, had assembled there. Many held placards. One read, “Anita Bryant Sucks Oranges.” Several guys wore sunglasses, not because of the brightness, but to obscure their identities. Me? I clutched a headless mop handle with a poster I’d stapled to it. The poster said, “Squeeze a Fruit for Anita.”

  Two squad cars sat at the curb, each occupied by two cops. A television camera crew waited nearby. Across the street, a gaggle of onlookers, probably state employees on lunch break, gathered to watch the show. A reporter from the Democrat interviewed Eddie, the boy from Leon High.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” the reporter asked.

  “Some things are more important than school,” Eddie replied.

  I affected a calm demeanor, but my knees trembled and my hands shook.

  “Here she comes,” someone hollered.

  A silver Lincoln Continental approached. Sunlight glanced off the Lincoln’s massive chrome bumpers and grille. The four cops left their vehicles. They put on their hats, hitched their pants; they adjusted nightsticks hanging from their gun belts. One cop, a guy with a beer gut, approached our group. He spoke in a drawl as thick as Loretta McPhail’s.

  “Do you gentlemen have a leader?”

  Someone pushed David Pettyfield in the officer’s direction.

  David looked about him, and then he raised a hand. “I guess that’s me.”

  “We don’t want any troubl
e,” the cop said. Then he pointed to an oak tree, about fifty feet from Fontana’s front door. “You fellows step over there, and don’t come any closer. This lady’s going to have her meal in peace.”

  We all moved back, including the news people. Then Bryant emerged from the Lincoln. I suppose I’d expected her to resemble Satan, with horns and a tail. Instead, she looked like a Junior Leaguer attending a fundraiser for the Children’s Hospital. She wore a white wool suit, stockings, and white high heels. Her neatly coifed, chestnut hair reflected sunlight. While two cops spoke to her, I noticed the top of her head was barely level with their shoulders. All three turned their gazes toward our group, and then Bryant frowned like she’d stepped in dog shit.

  “Ms. Bryant,” Eddie called out, “will you speak with us a moment?”

  A pained expression crossed Bryant’s face. “I can’t,” she cried; “people are waiting for me inside.”

  David Pettyfield stood right next to me. After cupping his hands at either side of his mouth, he hollered at Bryant, “Gay rights now. Gay rights now.”

  Our group raised our signs, and then we all took up the chant.

  “Gay rights now. Gay rights now.”

  I’m sure people heard us two blocks away. Lights from the television crew cast a glare. The two cops hustled Bryant along the sidewalk, each cop holding one of her elbows. Her heels clunked on the concrete while her hair bounced against her shoulders. She looked terrified, as though we might physically attack her.

  And then she was gone.

  A TV camera focused on me. The brightness of the camera crew’s light made me squint; the glare was brighter than the overhead sun. A reporter from the TV station approached; he said, “What’s your name, son?” Then he thrust a microphone in my face.

  “U-m-m, I’m Andy.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To stick up for me and my friends.”

  “You are gay?”

  Go on...

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you think what Anita Bryant’s doing is wrong?”

  I nodded. “She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be different. She thinks anyone who’s not exactly like her is a bad person, but I disagree.”

  “Do you really think you’ll make a difference by waving a sign?”

  I patted my chin with my fingertips, and then I looked into the camera lens.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  ***

  Hours after the Bryant demonstration, my phone rang nonstop.

  Biff, my former dorm mate, called.

  “I’m proud of you, man. Your balls are bigger than a bowling alley’s. How come you never told me?”

  The chapter president at Lambda Chi phoned. It seemed an “emergency meeting” at the fraternity house had just concluded. “Your membership’s revoked, Andy. Don’t set foot on our property, ever again.”

  David Pettyfield called.

  “The Democrat wants to do a feature story on us, they want an interview. How about it?”

  “Let me think on it,” I said. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  When Bucky Buchholtz phoned, his tone sounded grave. “Do your folks know about this?”

  “Not yet,” I said, “but I plan to tell them soon.”

  “Look, there will be talk at the club; Tallahassee’s a conservative place. I suggest you take two weeks off. Let this situation simmer down, okay?”

  And then the call from Aaron came, the one I’d dreaded ever since the TV camera had focused on me.

  “I can’t believe this: you’ve destroyed our future together.”

  “Aaron --”

  “I’m serious, Andy. I can’t be seen with you again.”

  Before I could say anything more, Aaron hung up.

  Shit.

  I placed the phone receiver on its cradle, and then I sat on my sofa. I stared at the carpet, feeling as if someone had just punched me in the stomach. A tremble ran through me and my vision blurred. How could Aaron have dumped me, just like that?

  What have I done? What a fool I am.

  A knock sounded at my door, and I swung my gaze. Who could it be? I opened the door just a crack, half expecting I’d find some homophobe with a baseball bat, but instead it was Fergal. He wore blue jeans and a black watch sweater. His marmalade curls reflected light from the foyer’s overhead fixture. In one hand, he clutched a box of Ritz crackers.

  “You busy?” he asked.

  I shook my head, afraid if I answered verbally my voice would break.

  “If it’s okay,” Fergal said, “I’ll take you up on that beer you once offered.”

  I fetched two cans, and then we sat side-by-side on my sofa. Fergal rested his stocking feet on the coffee table. He sat close enough I smelled his skin, a piney aroma I found appealing, even in my misery.

  Fergal’s gaze traveled about the room. “It looks good in here -- real homey.”

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Fergal nudged my shoulder with a finger. “You’re awfully pale, Andy. Are you sick?”

  Ahh, shit....

  I couldn’t help myself; the day’s events had overwhelmed me. My face crumpled and then I let out a wail. I wept like a kid whose dog had just been run over by a car.

  Fergal wrapped an arm about my shoulders. “What is it, mate? Tell me.”

  I wept so hard I could barely breathe. In between wails, I told Fergal, “I’ve fucked up everything. My life is ruined.”

  Fergal pulled me to him; my head rested against his shoulder.

  “Shhh,” he said, “it can’t be all that bad.”

  “It is that bad. I’m an idiot.”

  Fergal brought me a paper towel from my kitchen. “Blow your nose, then tell me what happened.”

  After I honked into the towel a few times, I wiped my dripping eyes. My voice quivering, I told Fergal about the Bryant demonstration, and then about the calls I’d received, including the one from Aaron.

  “I never should have gone today; I never should have joined the Rap Group. I thought of attending law school, but now I probably won’t get in. My boss at the country club’s upset, too.”

  Another wave of tears burst forth. My shoulders shook like a sapling in a gale.

  Fergal patted my back. “Come on, mate, I think you’re making this a bigger problem than it is. In Melbourne, anyway, if you’re gay it’s not an issue. Things can’t be all that different here.”

  Fergal sipped from his beer. “Your boyfriend... what’s his name?”

  “Aaron.”

  “He’ll change his mind when he cools off, I’ve no doubt.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t know him.”

  Fergal shrugged. “I’m always getting into rows with Gina, over this or that. We both sulk a few days, and then we’re back together.”

  While I sipped from my beer, I pondered the fact I had just come out as queer to Fergal, and yet he didn’t seemed shocked or put off by my revelation, not at all. It was like I’d told him I was vegetarian.

  Still, my thoughts churned.

  Should I feel bad about my banishment by Lambda Chi? If the guys at the house couldn’t handle my sexuality, maybe they had the problem, not me. And maybe they’d never been my friends in the first place. Perhaps they only liked the false Andy Hunsinger, the image I’d created in order to please them and the rest of the world.

  And what if Aaron wouldn’t change his mind? What if I never saw him again? Where would I find another boyfriend like him? But if I wanted him back in my life, I’d have to atone for my behavior: go back in the closet and stay there. Did I really want to hide who I was from the world? After I wiped my upper lip with the back of my wrist, I looked at Fergal and squared my shoulders.

  “Are we still friends?” I asked.

  Fergal held my gaze. A grin crossed his freckled face, and then he mussed my hair like I was ten years old.

  “We certainly are, mate. Now, have a bloody biscuit and drink your beer.”

  ***


  My participation in the Anita Bryant protest shattered the straight-boy image I’d created for myself -- instantly and permanently -- and since that day I haven’t hidden my sexual orientation from anyone. I have lived as an openly gay man, an unapologetic faggot who loves as he sees fit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fallout from my television appearance was neither as bad as I’d expected, nor as harmless as Fergal had predicted.

  The day afterward, at the conclusion of Economics class, my professor asked me to remain after the dismissal bell. Balding and bespectacled, Dr. Wiskowitz had a beak for a nose and a belly like Santa Claus. When the room had emptied, he sat in a desk next to mine, and the desk creaked under Wiskowitz’s hefty weight. He spoke to me in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

  “Andy, I saw you on television yesterday.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks, and then I lowered my gaze.

  Wiskowitz squeezed my shoulder, ever-so-gently, almost a caress.

  “Thank you for your courage. You have no idea how much yesterday meant to so many people in this town -- among them me.”

  During change of classes, someone taped a scrap of paper on my back. I don’t know how long I wore the note before a girl tore it off and gave it to me. My tormentor had scrawled the word “faggot” on the paper scrap, using a felt-tipped pen.

  Great.

  I shared a European history class with two Lambda Chi brothers -- normally, we sat together and chatted before class began -- but when I entered the room they both turned away from me, as if I weren’t there. I sat in another part of the room instead, and thereafter neither boy spoke to me ever again.

  Three days passed before I called Aaron.

  “It’s Friday night,” I told him. “Meet me at the Pastime; we can talk. I miss you.”

  Aaron waited a few seconds before he spoke.

  “I told you, we can’t be out in public together. People from Thomasville go to school here, kids from my high school. If one of them saw us...”

  “What?”

  “They might tell my folks, and I can’t risk that.”

  “Come to my place, then.”

  Aaron let out his breath.

  “Not tonight,” he said, “maybe some other time.”