I guess if I were giving these flashback posts titles, I’d call this one “Oh, to be  young and just plain fucking dumb.” That would be the title. I have been in the workforce for a long time. In fact, I lied about my age so that I could work at Woolworth’s in Medford Square. I was fifteen and I told the manager I was 16. My mother was working there too, and she was pissed I did it, but as we found out when she died, she was in no position to give me shit about the age thing. It took us forever to figure out how old she really was after she died in 1992 because she had lied about it in so many places it wasn’t funny. Know why? She just plain didn’t want to be forced into retirement.

Anyway, the manager, a guy named Mr. Clark, wasn’t much for detail. Neither was his assistant, Mr. Benson. Neither of them asked me for a birth certificate, probably because they figured my mother was working there and wouldn’t let me work if I wasn’t 16. They loved my mother, but they didn’t know my mother. I did. What I knew about her was that she knew that, once I had something in my head, I was going to figure out a way to do it one way or another. If it wasn’t Woolworth’s, I would simply try it in as many places as I could until it worked. There were plenty of retail establishments around at that time. In fact, Strawberries was right near my house. I had applied there too.

Anyway, I’m not beyond living on the edge even now. (But I have to tell you that I’m just good at doing it. I think it through first. Plan. I have to. I’m married to a real crazy.) But back then, I really loved living on the edge. Totally. The whole gay thing was a head rush to me. I mean I knew I was gay by this time, but it was like some surreal thing floating around out there. I wasn’t sure how to connect it with real life. It was an alternative universe. When I look back at that now, it’s because things were so different then than they are today. From a societal perspective, it’s much easier today. Back then, it was tough. So, you tended to compartmentalize your life: (a) The normal part; (b) The gay part.

And this is how I would discern who would and would not have problems with part (b). Did they make crass gay jokes? Did they use the word ‘faggot’ or ‘dyke’ in a derogatory way. (Those terms are loaded, even though some gay people use them. They don’t mean the same when we use them as when ‘they’ use them.) Did they use the word ‘homo’? I have always hated that word. If any of those symptoms were present, I did not tell those motherfuckers about part (b). But I digress.

So, back to Woolworths and living on the edge (and the gay thing, in fact). I got hired at Woolworth’s. No problem. I was now working with my mother. And boy, did I give her a hard time. I used to piss her off on Saturday mornings because I had balloon duty. I used to have to fill the helium balloons. Pretty soon, it got to be some for the balloon, some for me. And it wasn’t that I got high on it. Hell no, it just made me sound like something out of the fucking Wizard of Oz. It was a blast talking to customers sounding like a munchkin.

What invariably would happen is that my mother would find a good product display (preferably a clothes rack) close to where I was, and then she’d get my attention and mouth to me, “I’m going to kill you when I get you home.”  See. That’s what happens after your dad dies. “Wait until I tell your dad” magically morphs into “I’m going to kill you when I get you home.”  Then, she’d try to appeal to my chickenshit side. “Don’t you know doing that can kill you?” I was not worried about such things at that time.

Just ever so absurdly pushing the envelope

Almost three years later my mother and I were still working at Woolworth’s. By then, I was pretty much ‘out.’ When my girlfriend turned sixteen, I told her to come in and apply for a job. The thing was, she really was my girlfriend. It’s just that nobody knew it except she and I. (Definitely not my mother.)  As messed up as this might sound (even to me all these years later), she and I were together for almost two years. Anyway, she got the job. Talking about complicating your life just a bit.

You know, this post is a testament to the stupidity of youth. For all intents and purposes, this girl (her name was Linda) and I were in a real relationship. It was emotional and it was physical. And there were definitely times when we were arguing or disagreeing. Trying to work those days with both she and my mother around were merciless. I almost immediately began to ask myself, “WTF were you thinking, Deborah?????” On the flip side, when things were going well and we could find ways to flirt with each other, it was exhilarating. You know, like everything else in life. Yin and Yan.

Ah, but as all things go when you’re young, my first relationship was about to crash and burn. Luckily, I had moved on to other things before it did, and she would move on soon after, leaving my mother at peace once again. Poor thing.

This is quite the flashback. One of my very good friends says this is something that could only happen to me. I’m not sure about that, but given my track record there’s no reason why it shouldn’t happen to me. And it just so happens that this all started in a gay bar.

My friends and I spent a considerable amount of time in the bars at the time this took place, and I’m talking about the 70s to 80s time frame here. We spent a lot of time in Boston at Buddies, Somewhere, Darts and Our House (which was actually in Allston, I believe). Now it’s damned near impossible to find a gay bar, and that is very sad. Some places are ‘gay’ one night of the week. The only problem is most gay people are pretty much ‘gay’ full time.

Anyway, it just so happens that there was a pretty healthy bar scene in the suburbs as well. One place that served gay clientele (and still does to this day) is the Randolph Country Club. Been in business for years. We had been frequenting Boston bars week after week, then someone told us about this place called DiRocco’s in Tyngsboro. (I can find almost nothing on this place no matter where I look. However, I offer proof that it existed!) We tried it and liked it and went more than once, I believe. I remember the turn of events vividly on one particular trip there.

This woman asked me to dance. Well, we ended up hanging out together most of the night. She came over and sat at the table with me and my friends, the whole nine yards.  The whole evening it really drove me crazy that she looked vaguely familiar to me. At the time, I was working for a Fortune 500 high tech company and had been there for quite some time, but her face didn’t really ring that bell. The long and short of it is that she ended up coming back to my place in Melrose. Without going into the details, let’s just say it was a long, active and eventful evening. We really didn’t talk about much of anything pertaining to work or our personal lives. Until morning, and that is precisely when the bell rang on her familiar face.

Oh, yes. Turns out my new friend, we’ll call her Ilene, just so happened to be married to a guy that I interacted with pretty regularly in my job.  Yep. Same last name. And, guess what, totally unbeknownst to me, she also worked there.  Quaint. No? I can’t exactly remember what my reaction must have been that next morning as I was getting ready to go to work, but I know Ilene spent a considerable amount of time telling me not to worry because she had an “open relationship” with her husband. He wouldn’t care. Hell, she and I could even continue to carry on without fear! Fucking wonderful! Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. (Although, to tell you the truth, I had one hell of a time that night.)

This singular event in my life had so much potential for ugliness. It really did, considering that the three of us worked in the same building. I was lucky on this one. I told her that there was no way there would be a repeat of the prior evening because my Catholic guilt would get the better of me. (That was a crock of shit. I just didn’t want to deal with being in the same building with the two of them.) I was lucky that Ilene accepted that decision. And, even if her other half knew about the incident, he never let on. Bullet dodged. I would survive to make other really dumb mistakes. Stay tuned.

Writer’s note: The photo in this post is borrowed and depicts gay bar life in The Castro. It is used here strictly for effect. Some of what’s out there is really cheesy.

You know, the one thing a blog does is allow you to remember things as flashbacks. That’s probably the only way I’ll be able to remember my early life. This flashback requires the way back machine. I must have been around nine or ten years old, my dad had passed away and we were living in Everett with my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle.

My grandmother was pretty old at that time, and she had suffered several strokes and heart attacks over the years. Oddly enough, I was the only one who could tell when she was going to have a heart attack and that’s because it was usually preceeded by what I now call “nonsense talking.” She would be awake and alert and carrying on a conversation with you but she was making absolutely no sense.

Around this time she also began to hide eggs in her bureau drawers. This is never a good sign, people. If this isn’t an indicator that something is seriously amiss, then there’s something seriously amiss elsewhere as well. In my mind, eggs didn’t get hidden in drawers or anywhere else unless the Easter Bunny was coming.  However, I was just a kid so I accepted whatever I was told and/or asked to do.

So, they asked me to sleep with my grandmother since I was the only one who responded to her heart attacks. Okay. So, if anyone is wondering why I have this thing about sickeness and death, don’t wonder. I mean, seriously, no thought was ever given to what psychological effect this might have on me, particularly so close to losing my own dad to cancer. Of course, it wasn’t that my mom and aunts were callous. They just didn’t get it. There was no focus on psychology whatsoever.

When people ask me about my childhood, I genuinely have no complaints. I consider myself fortunate to have had the parents and sibilings I have, particularly after I see what others have been subjected to. But you’ve just got to admit that this kind of request of a child is a bit over the edge. No? I mean, it could very well be why I avoid doctors and health care in general. Who knows. I don’t like psychiatrists much either, so we’ll probably never find out.