Back when I was in my early twenties I found myself in a situation where it became necessary for me to share expenses with a roommate. I was single at the time and thus had only one source of income, and that source was by no means a windfall. I worked as an office manager for a supermarket and was making about eight bucks an hour. I ended up renting an upstairs apartment with another single gay man, and the tenants who lived below us were a gay couple who were also in their early twenties. We coexisted together happily for a period of a little over a year, and the relationships which I developed with these other three men were what I believed at the time to be genuinely the embodiment of what life was really all about. I truly felt that I loved each one of them and that they also felt the same about me.

Of course time has a way of changing everything, and eventually we each went our separate ways. Even the gay couple from downstairs ended up splitting up (which I thought was something that I’d never see happen since they were so deeply in love), and my roommate moved away. I ended up meeting a man with whom I shared my life for seven-plus years.

I remember vividly the last weekend that my roommate was in the apartment, and it felt so surreal to me. I just couldn’t believe he was leaving, going off to the next stage of his life while the rest of us remained behind. I cried a lot that last night because I knew things were never going to be the same. On the other hand, though, my two downstairs neighbors were still around and still a big part of my life. After my roommate’s departure, the three of us who remained grew even closer to one another.

About a year later, after I had met my partner, I moved out of that apartment and bought my first home. I swore to remain in close contact with my two best friends, and then moved on. They ended up moving on as well, and of course we did not keep our promises to one another. I have no idea right now where either of the two are at nor what they are doing. I did run into one of them one night at a social function, though, and had perhaps the most meaningful conversation of my life with him. That conversation is what this blog is actually about.

My friend’s name is Kirk, and when we saw one another that night we were no less than ecstatic. It was so wonderful to see him again and to spend some time reminiscing about our youthful adventures in that big two-story duplex. As the night progressed, Kirk began to hammer down several drinks, which was surprising to me because I’d only ever previously seen him drink in moderation. As he continued to drink, though, he also continued to talk. By the end of the night he had his arm wrapped around my shoulder and was telling me how much he admired me for being “real”.

Kirk explained to me how sorry he was that my former roommate had been such a jerk to me, and at the time I really did not understand what he was talking about. He went on to say how my roommate used to tell everyone how awful it was to share his living space with me. He used to bemoan the fact that I was so uncool and such a complete dork. He would describe me to strangers as his ugly, insecure roommate who was unbearably annoying. Kirk told me that he’d never mentioned any of it to me before because he never wanted to hurt me. He also told me how he genuinely felt it all was unkind and patently untrue.

After that conversation I spent many hours contemplating what Kirk had told me. I often cried about it, wondering what it was about me that made someone hate me so very much. How could someone that I had admired and respected and loved as much as I had, prove to be such a hypocrite? Over the course of the years that followed I received several other reports from acquaintances and friends that they’d been told all of these unflattering accounts by my former roommate. I discovered that I was considered to be unrefined, an uneducated bumpkin, a social pariah, and of course a complete nerd.

 
Shortly after I moved out of that duplex apartment and bought my house, I took a second job working at a print/copy store as a salesclerk. I had a coworker who was also gay, and I sincerely enjoyed working with him. I liked him so much, in fact, that I started to regard him as a dear friend. The thing I admired most about him was how sweet he was. He never seemed to say unkind things about other people like so many in our community do. He was accepting and non-judgmental and basically just what you’d consider to be a standup guy.

My stint at the copy shop did not last all that long, merely a few months. I ended up selling my home and moving to another town. A couple years later I returned to the original town for a visit, and ended up that evening at the local gay bar. My former co-worker was there, and I was of course thrilled to see him again. I rushed over to him to greet him but was shocked when he simply nodded and offered a rather unenthusiastic “hello”. I knew the reaction all too well. It was one of embarrassment. He was actually ashamed of the fact that he’d been a friend to me, and he obviously did not want me to hang around.

This shocking incident of snobbery was extremely unsettling to me, and to this day bothers me. I racked my brain trying to remember if I had ever said or done anything to him which may have offended him. I wondered if perhaps I had somehow magnified the closeness of our relationship as coworkers. Maybe all those months when we were working side-by-side he was just being polite but truthfully could not stomach me.

These incidents and others like them have caused me a lot of anguish over the years. I think that probably most people do experience things like this in their lives, and simply chalk it up to the reality that not everyone is who they seem to be on the surface. Sometimes people do not feel the same way about you that you do about them. Sometimes they are more focused upon their own image than they are upon your feelings. Such is life. Get over it and grow up. Right?

 
Well, sadly I doubt that I will ever grow out of the hurt that this sort of thing causes me, and perhaps that just means I’m overly sensitive. Maybe it is a type of emotional immaturity or just plain insecurity on my part. Who gives a fuck what they think, really? Well, obviously I do.

I think the answers to my questions really go back to that drunken conversation that I had with Kirk that night. As I reflect upon it now I think it makes far more sense than I might want to admit. What Kirk said to me about “being real” sort of hit the nail on the head. I wonder if this genuineness that he noticed may be more of a liability to me than an asset.

I was never impressed by the new cars my roommate bought nor by his constant references to exotic foods and unusual cuisines he knew how to make. I didn’t care about his expensive clothes or about the celebrities he so proudly bragged about knowing. I was never rude to him as he prattled on and on about these meaningless materialistic social status symbols that he obviously strived so hard to attain.

 
In the gay bar, often I was uncomfortable when approached by the overly-friendly, outrageously social minglers such as my roommate and my former coworker. I admired their ability to converse so freely with so many different people, but I never got the knack of dishing sarcasm or of coming up with snappy come-backs to the hurtful remarks which were so frequently said in jest. My responses usually were just polite replies which were honest and kind. If someone made an insinuation about my job or my car or my clothes, I usually agreed with them, saying I’m just me. This is who I am and I offer no pretenses.

But as honest as I was about who I was materialistically and socially, I was equally as honest about who I was emotionally. When my roommate poured his bleeding soul out to me about the pain he felt from the breakup with his boyfriend, I sincerely cared about him. I felt that this honest baring of his soul was meaningful, that it meant we were connected. When he told me about his familial issues and about the struggle he had in gaining acceptance by his mother, I felt that he really trusted me. I felt that he cared so much about me that he was willing to reveal who he was.

The same was true in reference to my friendship with this coworker. We spent countless hours working together in which we shared very personal stories about our feelings and about our dreams and goals. I guess none of that mattered. What really mattered was what other people would think of him if they thought we were friends.


The bottom line is that I am who I am. If you decide that you want to know me and become my friend, you will be in for no surprises. I am not wealthy and have no desire to be. I don’t purchase expensive furniture or cars or clothes, and I wouldn’t even if I were a millionaire. I don’t have a desire to travel to exotic places, rub elbows with celebrities, or eat exquisite cuisines. I don’t drink high priced wine or listen to classical music or go to the opera. I don’t give a damn about Lady Ga-ga and her latest videos.

I do like home cooked meals and I’m an amazing cook. I do buy discount clothing at thrift shops and even Wal-mart. I do own a Ford Fusion which gets 38mpg highway. I do sometimes buy a bottle of Asti Spumante ($8.99 plus tax) on New Year’s Eve so I can have a single drink. I do serve meatballs and little cocktail sausages as appetizers for my low-class social functions. I do listen to pop music and country, and I cry at sad movies. I do manage a convenience store which sells gasoline, and I do work my butt off every day for a minimum of ten hours. I absolutely love my coworkers and employees and am not ashamed of the job I do.

I know why these people are embarrassed to have been in my life. I know that they have moved on and are continuing in their attempt to climb their social ladders. I was okay as a shoulder to cry on when they were vulnerable or depressed, but I’m too common to be seen as their friend in public.

I might be common and emotional and a bit of a nerd, but I’m not stupid.