Following my abrupt departure from Everything for Windows, my brother and I remained incommunicado for months. Through some source I learned that he and Gailyn were getting married, a small ceremony followed by a party at the Meriden Victorian. Much to everyone’s surprise, I showed up at the party. It was a shaky reunion.
When I was leaving I chatted with the newlyweds in the foyer, accompanied by the bride’s parents … both alcoholics, both drunk. Gailyn’s mother studied me closely, and then all of a sudden she hauled off and slapped me across the face, saying, “No man is an island.” A good time to go. She then said, “Good night, I’ll be seeing you again.” in a threatening tone, followed by, “And I may slap you again too!” “If you do,” I warned, “Don’t be surprised if I slap you back.” “You’ll never slap me!“ she insisted. “Don’t bet on it!” I assured her. Funny the things one remembers, verbatim.
Nonetheless, that was the beginning of my renewed relationship with my brother and Gailyn, and ultimately an agreeable friendship evolved between Billy and me, and the two of them – we just never kissed or showed affection in front of them. I’m being catty.
They had bought equipment (with my money) and setup a drapery workroom in the back of the Everything for Windows showroom, and Gailyn began making the draperies. Not long afterward they decided to ‘downsize’ and moved from the Victorian to a rented Cape Cod style house, with attached garage and breezeway; subsequently closing the shop, moving the workroom to the garage, and setting up the breezeway as a sample room.
During one of our weekend drives, Billy and I discovered a new complex of townhouses in Newington, and stopped to take a look. They were really quite nice, in a good location off of the Berlin Turnpike, so I rented an end unit on Gloucester Court (ADDRESS #14). With my decorating flair I got into wallpaper for the first time, primarily because Jay and Gailyn were willing to pay off some of their debt in merchandise (i.e., expensive wallpaper), and I created quite an elegant and eclectic home. As it happened, shortly after we moved in, the townhouse at the other end of our row was rented to a ‘gay’ couple, Bob and Skip.
Billy got a job at Two Guys, a discount department store, think K-Mart, easy to walk to on the opposite side of the Berlin Turnpike. He worked for a few months in the shoe department, but then had a bit of a problem about money. Apparently one-hundred dollars was missing, and they accused Billy of taking it. As he was so adept at doing, he got we worked up about the entire incident.
One day he called me with stories about how they were treating him, trying to get him to take a polygraph, and I got so pissed I went over there. After telling off his boss, I dragged Billy out. Curiously enough, that Christmas Billy gave me a gift, wrapped in a box that looked like it held a watch. It didn’t. It contained a brand new one-hundred dollar bill folded lengthwise. To this day I still don’t know.
Life was going well for us, for Jay and Gailyn, and even my father at this point, and Jay bought an older twenty-seven foot sports fishing boat, which he and Gailyn restored. Nothing made Jay happier than being on a boat and fishing. It is a shame that he didn’t opt for a simpler life, and just run fishing charters. But he was so much of a wheeler and dealer that he had to be in the main stream, putting on a big show. He kept the boat at the marina in Snug Harbor, and they started spending weekends with Dad in Jerusalem. As happy as I was for Jay, I really felt badly, because he always seemed to be spending more time fixing and repairing that boat, than enjoying it and fishing
After Two Guys Billy didn’t work for a while, but managed to fill some of his free time getting shagged by Skip, our neighbor. So when I got him a job at Carling Electric, I unknowingly brought their little peccadillo to an end. Life went on and we would frequently spend a weekend with Ray and Mal in Narragansett, and the four of us always had a great time together. They had gotten into taking cruises, and regaled us with stories of the wonderful times they had. They made many friends on those voyages, and when it was over people would thank them for being aboard, saying that it wouldn’t have been any fun without them. We had to go!
They came up with a good deal for seven days to Bermuda ($400 each, a cabin for four), on the classic Greek ship the Americanus. What an adventure that was. They took the train from Kingston, Rhode Island, and we joined them at the station in New Haven, then went on to New York and spent a night with their friends Jack and Chuck. Foolishly we went out on the town that night, Billy and I connected with a couple of fellows and didn’t leave their place until shortly before dawn. By the time we boarded the ship I was a wreck, and spent most of the day in my bunk, until Ray and Mal threatened to bury me at sea if I didn’t get up.
In the dining room we had a table for four; our waiters were two of the cutest Greek boys onboard. After dinner we hit the bars and the casino, and then Billy and I took our drinks for a stroll on deck. It was really quite amazing. The realization of a lifetime dream that I never knew I had. When we had boarded that morning we met two couples, newlyweds on their honeymoon who were (strangely enough) traveling with the bride’s brother and his wife.
The groom was a strikingly handsome man of very dark complexion, tall and well built, and wearing a shocking chartreuse jumpsuit. Ray and Mal dubbed him The Green Hornet. Well, while Billy and I were on our stroll that evening we ran into him … he was alone. We chatted. One thing led to another, and he ended up coming back to our cabin. Once was enough for us, but for the rest of the trip, every chance they got, Ray and/or Mal were sneaking off to the cabin for a little tête-à-tête with The Green Hornet.
We knew that Ray and Mal were the party animals on any cruise, but didn’t know exactly what that entailed, and nothing would have prepared us for what we were to encounter our first afternoon on the high seas. After lunch we went to take a nap, and agreed to rendezvous with them at the bar on the Lido deck midafternoon. We walked in and there they were, sitting at the bar in matching red jumpsuits and matching red high-top sneakers, a few long strands of multicolor beads draped around their necks, but that’s not all.
They were each wearing blond wigs! Mal‘s had sort of a Donna Reed thing going for it, and Ray‘s was unmistakably Marilyn Monroe. As if that wasn‘t enough, they commandeered the piano, each taking turns playing while the other sang, all in the style of a 1940s chanteuse. These shenanigans repeated themselves once or twice each day, the jumpsuits either red or white or blue. The “shows” often became sing-a-longs, and many led to conga lines that ended up in a pool.
They were a hit, to say the least, but Billy and I enjoyed a bit of stardom as well … in a different venue. Young and ever so good-looking, everyone was after us, men and women alike. Many people thought that we were brothers (we got that a lot during our time together), and a few thought twins … that was a stretch. Seven years between us, that would have been quite a labor. One of the ship’s officers was a big fan, and he spent as much time as possible stationed by the corridor to our cabin, making sure that none of the crew wandered our way. He couldn’t have us so he did his best to make sure that nobody else did … he wasn’t entirely successful.
One night at dinner, when one of our waiters (George or Tony, I don’t remember) asked Mal if he’d like desert, Mal said what he wanted was “not on the menu!” The waiter played along, wanting to know what that could be. Then Mal said “O-8” our cabin number. The waiter knew but pretended he didn’t, “O-8? What is this O-8? Maybe you can whisper it to me.“ he said, as he lowered his head, and put his ear close to Mal’s mouth. By this time the entire dining room was watching the scene in rapt silence. Mal was quite flustered, but puckered up and gave an extremely audible kiss into the waiter’s ear. Everyone in the place cracked up.
For me the whole adventure was truly a fantasy come true, if there ever was one, and I was completely overwhelmed. It was the most wonderful time I had ever had. On the last night I was totally devastated, and couldn’t stop crying. Ray and Mal didn’t know what was wrong with me. Upon arrival in New York we went through customs, and when the officer asked if we were bringing in any booze, Mal patted his stomach and said, “Only what‘s here.“
When Ray’s I.D. was checked, the immigration officer said, “Gay? You’re not are you?“ The asshole! Ray, whose surname was ‘Gay’ said, “You know, you’re not the first to ask.” Even as we were walking off the pier, people were still coming up to the two of them, thanking them for such a good time, claiming that they would not have had half the fun if Ray and Mal hadn’t been on board. They were a phenomena!
Once home we tallied our expenditures, and had so much money left over in our vacation fund, that I put it down on another cruise for six months hence; ten days on the Russian ship the Maxim Gorky (named after the author), with ports of call Puerto Rico, Saint Thomas, and Martinique. When we told Ray and Mal they immediately signed on too. Months later at the last minute, Jack and Chuck (their NYC friends) decided to join us, but it was too late for them to get a booking. However, each of our cabins accommodated three, so they paid the add-on, Chuck sharing our cabin and Jack sharing with Ray and Mal.
Again we met Ray and Mal on the train, at the Amtrak station in New Haven, and they had a new number in their repertoire, a duet that they performed a cappella for us and the rest of the passengers in our car. At the time they were wearing matching white jumpsuits with red and blue trim, sans beads and wigs, but still wearing the ubiquitous matching red high-top sneakers. With arms joined, and all of the usual flamboyant affectations, they soft-shoed their way through a rendition of a tune that had been flooding the airways for many months … “Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don’t upset us – have it your way at Burger King! … and we were off!
Not having learned from my ‘Summer Blond’ fiasco, at this time ‘body perms’ were the new rage, and I figured it might be just the ticket for my already thinning hair. A week before our departure I got the perm, but I think the guy didn’t know what he was doing, and left it in too long. Another hair disaster! What I ended up with was a lot of tight curls. For the next week Billy would struggle with brush and hairdryer each morning, to pull the curls out and get my hair somewhere close to normal for work.
It was such a nuisance, that the night we arrived in New York, when asked if I wanted anything at the store, I said, “Yeah, an Afro pick.” That worked, and I kept the ‘Afro’ for over a year (re-permed when needed). I’d pick my hair out to a very big ‘fro’ then lacquer it with hair spray, so much so that when they threw me in the lake one day, as my head came out of the water my ‘fro’ sprang right back into shape … it was waterproof!
Back to the cruise: That time at Jack and Chuck’s we had learned our lesson, so it was just out to dinner and then early to bed. The next morning we were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when we arrived at the pier, but there was a problem … no ship. We learned that on the return voyage of the previous cruise, someone had left a suicide note and jumped overboard. The ship spent a day circling around, but had no luck.
The shipping company put all of us up for the night at nice hotels, meals and everything included, but with that extra night in New York we couldn’t resist … we went out on the town, and dragged ourselves to the ship the next morning. Being a day late in departing we were going to miss the day in Martinique, but Puerto Rico and Saint Thomas (from whence we ferried over to Saint Johns) were still on the itinerary.
The delayed departure was an omen. If the guy who had committed suicide had had Chuck as a cabin mate, I could understand why he jumped. Chuck had finagled staying in our cabin, because he fully expected to be shagging with us on a regular basis. That sure as hell was not going to happen, and once disappointed, he acted like a petulant child for the whole ten days. The ship was almost brand new, bigger than the Americanus and gorgeous, the Russian boys all a feast for the eyes … but it was an entirely different vibe.
After the Captain’s cocktail party, always a formal affair, Billy and I returned to our cabin to change, planning to meet Ray and Mal a little later at one of the bars. For some reason long forgotten, Billy was pissed off with me, and one of our most notorious fights ensued. Well, ‘fight’ probably doesn’t apply when one person is doing the beating, and the other is getting the beating.
In the corridor he flipped we twice, and threw me into the wall a few times. It got worse in the cabin, were he swung me around by my hair, smacking and punching me to his heart’s content. Later, when we rendezvoused with Ray and Mal, they exchanged horrified looks but never said a word. My face was sporting scrapes and swollen bruises, two band-aids over cuts, and there were bloody blotches on my head where hair had been yanked out.
Twenty years later I would relate this story to a couple of friends, and they were aghast. Here I thought I was sharing an amusing anecdote. “How long were you with this man?” one asked. “Seven years.” “Why would you stay with someone that treated you that way?” The answer … that was the first time that I had ever realized that it was a textbook case of battered spouse syndrome, and that I was a classic victim.
I had spent thirteen years in three relationships where I was being battered, not to mention the years as battered son and battered brother – it was they who had taught me that when a man loves you he beats you. As a typical victim, I always thought it was my own fault. That I had brought it on myself by something I did or something I said, and that I was the one responsible, not the person doing the beating. No doubt Marion’s misguided counseling over the years reinforced that skewed rationale.
As if that wasn’t enough, the ever irascible Chuck (AKA ‘Up-Chuck’) was constantly whining, and complaining about everything. He was a drain on everyone’s good time. We avoided Jack and Chuck as much as possible, and actually didn’t see that much of them except at meals and in the cabin, but it didn’t take much exposure to insufferable Chuck to sour a whole day. Every morning at breakfast he was quick to announce, down to the minute, how much longer we would be on “this fucking ship!” One morning I told him that he didn’t have to wait, he could get off the ship right then, and I’d be extremely happy to help.
Back in New York we should have disembarked by ten, but there was a work slowdown and the stevedores were off-loading the luggage one bag about every fifteen minutes. We were stuck on the ship with absolutely nothing to eat, drink (except water), or do, and we couldn’t leave until everything was unloaded. Poetic justice really, as Chuck was so distraught he was practically pulling out his hair plugs. We found a lounge as far from him as we could get, and waited.
Early afternoon the grievance had been resolved, but it was still late afternoon before the off-loading was finished and we were free to go – a fitting end to an otherwise disappointing cruise. It hadn’t come close to our delightful voyage six months earlier, and that was not entirely due to Chuck being such a wet blanket. In the end I realized it had been foolish of me to think that a once in a lifetime experience could be recreated. That was my last cruise. Shortly thereafter Jack and Chuck broke up. We never saw either one of them again.
Gailyn’s parents lived in a big rambling old house on Worthington Ridge in Berlin, Connecticut – a prestigious address. It was on a huge corner lot that ran downhill from the Ridge to the Berlin Turnpike. The main building was an early 1800s two-story colonial, onto a back corner of which had been added another sizable two-story house, and later a large single-story addition off of that, under which garages and a workshop had been created. Her maternal grandfather lived in two thirds of the original building, which had been converted to a separate unit, and her parents occupied the remainder of the property.
When the grandfather passed away, the Simmers (that’s Gailyn’s parents) had his domicile renovated, turning the rooms on the first floor into an open floor plan. Once completed, they moved in there, and the remainder of the house was turned over to Jay and Gailyn. More remodeling and extensive redecorating ensued, after which Jay and Gailyn gave up the rented Cape and moved to the Ridge. They were doing well; each driving new Volvos, and getting some enjoyment out of the boat. I was happy for them.
In the meantime I had found a house in Hartford that I wanted to buy, a two tenement with the typical flat on the first and second floors, and four full size rooms under the eaves on the third floor. The house was in very good condition, in a decent neighborhood, and a practical investment to say the least, because the rental income would more than cover the mortgage. Only one snag, I didn’t have enough money for the down payment. Well, I did have the money … more or less.
I had $8000 in a joint CD with my father. As far as I was concerned the money was mine, and anyone who knew my father would know that he would never have any of his money in a joint account with anyone … no even my mother! Nonetheless, he had the passbook. He came up to Connecticut to check out the house, and back at my place we went over all of the particulars, the finances, etc. Despite my hope that he would let me have my money, and all of my cajoling, he refused, and even had the cheek to get pissed off and storm out.
In retrospect, it is interesting how one event can transform a life. Buying that house would have completely changed mine, and I cannot imagine that the remainder would have been interesting enough to write about. I envision myself as this old queen, still living in that house and working at Carling Electric – kudos to the Universe and its infinite wisdom!
With that deal dead, I was still determined to buy something, and at one point was seriously considering fifteen undeveloped acres of wooded land a few miles from Colchester, Connecticut, convenient to nowhere. The enticement was that it was a low down payment and the owner would carry. We were told that two ‘perk tests” had been done – those are big trenches that are dug deep, and filled with water to see how fast it seeps out, to determine if the land is suitable for a septic system. One day we spent an afternoon walking the property, and we found the two perk tests … frogs were living in them. Not a good sign.
Not long after Billy had moved to Connecticut, we made a trip to Fall River for my introduction to the Lowney clan. What an experience that was. His parents lived in a wooded lakeside enclave on the southern edge of Fall River, Massachusetts, a few hundred feet from the Rhode Island border. Originally just summer camps, the area was gradually changing as new ‘real’ houses were being built, and a number of the cabins were expanded and converted for year-round occupancy. The Lowneys lived in one of those conversions.
During one Fall River visit they told us that a place nearby was for sale, so we checked it out. It was located on Wood Street, one block from the Lowneys; directly behind their ‘compound’ stood two thickly wooded lots, with an unoffending and unused cabin discreetly nestled in amongst the trees. Across the gravel road from that idyllic pastoral scene sat our dream home, on about a half-acre of land; nothing but woods on one side, five hundred feet from the lake on the other. Well, it was called ‘South Watuppa Pond’ but as far as I’m concerned, any pond that is 1½ miles wide and 7 miles long is a LAKE!
The original building was a 20’ by 20’ cabin on a cement slab, originally divided into three rooms – kitchen, living room, and bedroom. A 10’ wide roofed porch had been added across the front, later 60% enclosed to enlarge the living room. Next a 14’ roofed, screened patio was added across the back, including an enclosed half-bath in one corner. A bit of a cold dash in winter, but the owners had owned the place for years and only used it in the summer.
When they decided to living there in retiring, they had a 24’ by 24’ addition built on the right side, on a proper foundation, so it was three steps above the original – creating sort of a fat “L” shaped house. This addition was partitioned for a bedroom, a full bath, and a hallway, but the interior had not been finished short of insulation. Next they had the original 20’ by 20’ space gutted, removing the walls and creating a big open space. Once they got it to that point, while there one weekend the wife fell and broke her leg, and after that they lost interest in the place.
The asking price was $8000. Through one means or another I had managed to get my hands on the aforementioned withheld passbook, and I had my $8000. I offered $7000, and got it for $7200; which left $800 to cover some immediately essential work. Once my father had discovered the passbook missing, he high-tailed it to Newington and started pounding on my door. I wouldn’t let him in, not by a long shot. What I suffered the first nineteen years of my life under his roof was enough; he wasn’t allowed to do drunk and violent in my home. Billy stayed by the phone ready to call the police, while Dad and I conversed through the kitchen window.
The part of the conversation that I remember verbatim is, “What are you gonna do, blow the money on a bunch of queers?” “Oh! You want to talk about that again, do you?” It had been over a decade since his “tutti frutti” comment the last time he beat me. “You know, Dad, I have always felt sorry for you. It must be difficult knowing that you son is a queer, a faggot. A masculine man like you raising a sissy, a fairy, a fag, a fruit, a pansy, that must be very painful.” “Son, I’ve never thought that you were. It’s just a phase.” “A phase?! I’m thirty years old!” And I remember his parting words “Don’t ever darken my door again!” Right out of a Victorian melodrama.
That Friday Billy and I went to Fall River. In the middle of the night, our first there, we were awoken by pounding on the door. I opened it and Billy’s younger brother, Jerry, fell in and passed out on the floor – dead drunk! A bad omen! Saturday I started work on the house. Ray and Mal showed up, and Billy’s father came over as well. All there to give me directions and instructions … but it wasn’t long before they realized that I knew exactly what I was doing.
First, I enclosed the remainder of the front porch and installed a sliding door, to use that space as a breakfast area. The rest of the front porch would become the kitchen. Later a deck would be built off of the slider which, despite being on the front of the house by the dirt road, became a very nice and private outdoor living area, once I had the entire property completely fortified (I mean ‘enclosed’) with sturdy six foot high stockade fencing. By then I had learned what evil was truly lurking behind those innocent looking woods just across the road … the Lowneys!
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