Sunday, June 21, 2009

Week Twenty-Four / Day One

April 1987

Friday night arrived, and at 7:00 - so did Terry.

I remember going downstairs to meet him. Most clearly in my mind, from that moment, is the image of the sun shining on his hair and shoulders from just above the trees in the park across the street, behind him. I know that my memory is enhanced by these years of his absence and my love for him, but he had the clearest brown eyes I have ever seen. At that moment, there was a sort of golden aura around his frame as the sun shone off his mop of wavy brown hair and the pale, linen jacket he wore over his button-down, oxford cloth shirt and Levi's.

I don't think that, at the time, I fully appreciated the beauty of what I was seeing, but I did think he looked awfully good. He was as tall as I am (about 6'1"), slender (nearly to the point of skinny), with a gangly frame, size 13+ shoes and a manner of walking that made it seem as though he was traveling in several directions, at once. His skin was smooth and clear, with eyes set deep and a little close together, rendering his serious gaze quite piercing...when he WAS serious. When he smiled, though...when Terry smiled, his whole face lit-up. His mouth would open just a little bit to reveal a slightly uneven row of pretty, white teeth, and he would look as though he was about to laugh - which was usually the case.

He may not have been perfect; but, as it turned out, he was perfect for me.

For some reason, probably to guard against last-minute discomfort at the end of the evening, we each drove our own cars to dinner. I had made reservations at RAF, a very new, VERY trendy restaurant on the Little Italy side of Russian Hill. This was the sort of restaurant that was just hitting the high mark in the mid-80's; with galvanized steel dining tables and overstuffed pillows adorning stucco banquettes that delineated the three, odd-sized dining areas. The menu featured things like Fried Yucca Blossoms and Squid-Ink pasta served on huge plates by pretty waiters.

The place had attitude for days; and, of course, I knew everyone there...

I had selected this restaurant to impress Terry. (WHY do we always make these mistakes?)

It was a horrible date. The place was fairly empty, service was slow and the conversation was slower. I wasn't sure quite how much I liked this guy, but I did know that I wanted to find out. I learned a few things; he had bought his poultry business from his Italian grandparents and rebuilt it with his brother into a thriving concern over the past three years, capitalizing on the healthier end of the fowl-and-light-meats spectrum with rabbit, free-range chicken and the like. Business was booming at his two locations, and he was considering the opening of a third.

Do you find this conversation Romantic?

Neither did I.

Interesting, but not Romantic. As dinner dragged-on, I began to get that sinking (and accurate) feeling that I had made a mistake in bringing him here...

Terry left the table to use the restroom. Returning, he crossed the room with that gangly, multidirectional walk, tossed himself into his chair, looked at me, looked down at his plate and said, emphatically, "This is my last date, EVER! If this doesn't work out, I'm never going on a date, again!"

I said, "Do you wanna leave?"

"Let's go," he responded. We paid-up and left.

As I remember, our plans had been to go a fancy bar near my place for a drink. We drove up Broadway, side-by-side, and both found parking on my street; I asked him if he wanted to come inside for a glass of Champagne. Unhesitatingly, he agreed.

In my refrigerator were:

-a pound of coffee beans

-milk

-orange juice, and

-twelve bottles of Sharffenberger Champagne

(remaining from that year's Oscar Party; one of the perks of being Founder and Chair is the requisitioning of Key Leftovers...)

Classic, bachelor-esque inventory.

I poured us each a flute, brought the bottle, and we sat at my desk in the rear bay window to talk. And we talked and talked. We watched the stars outside the window, and talked. I have no idea what we discussed, but the conversation flowed, unobstructed and comfortably.

I'm sure that, under other circumstances, I would remember everything about those few hours. All I do remember is that moment when, as I was saying something - revealing some insight or sharing some feeling - Terry set his glass on the table with his left hand, resting his chin in his right, with his elbow on the table, and that wonderful smile unfolded on his face.

The way he looked at me as I finished my thought was a little bemused, a little amused... Then he said, slowly, directly, quietly...as though just discovering these feelings, "...I think you might be 'it'..."

Tender silence.

At that moment, I felt the enormity of the loving and vulnerable, valuable being sitting next to me. I realized how we - each of us - keep, deep inside, our private soul. I sensed that Terry and I were both on the same quest, armored with our chosen persona - seeking that which would fulfill and not desert; that other person willing to love and nurture and support.

How does a man know when he has found The Right One? In a world of no guarantees, what is the equation, the combination of traits and circumstances that leads one to take that leap of faith into another's arms and heart? What is it that plants the seeds of the purest trust?

I looked at Terry, quietly, drinking this in; then leaned over and gently kissed him for the first time, that evening.

"Would you like to stay, tonight?"

"Yes."

Standing up and setting down the glasses, we doused the lights and left the room.

It was a beautiful night. Unconditional love had entered my life...

-Excerpted from my AutoBiography-in-progress;

"Don't Try This at Home"

A few years later, and a few weeks after Terry's funeral, at dinner with Terry's mom, I was talking about the regrets I had - the times I'd been late for dinner because I felt I had to shake a few more hands, make a few more contacts, keep my profile visible... That I could have given Terry just a little more of what he wanted but never asked...time. Time that could never be given, now...

I said to her, "...if I ever fall in love again..."

She interrupted me with, "Oh, Terry will see to it that you do!"

And, if that is possible; he has.

I learned from Terry what it felt like to be loved, unconditionally. He accepted and loved me, in his own way, for the man that I was. I think that lesson has finally sunk-in.

Nearly twenty years later, I am now becoming enlightened to the comfort and fulfillment of loving another without seeking to change anything about him; without expectation or parameter, looking only to give what is needed or desired, and to welcome another into my heart and a room built just for him...not for some unreal person based in fantasy. Rather, a real man, a real person whom I find I do love, without condition.