The Old Man in the Club (13 page)

“I was just letting you know I made it home like you asked me to,” she said.

“Glad you did,” Elliott said. “Sleep well. Call you tomorrow about Saturday night.”

Tamara said good night and Elliott did not have to get into the question about Henry. But as he sat with his feet up in his living room, he thought about his friend and their unique relationship.

About six months earlier, Elliott learned that Henry was gay.

They had chased women together, gone on double-dates, plotted on how to get into women's panties, shared stories of conquests…and one day, Henry—as calmly as one might give directions—told Elliott that he was attracted to men.

It was a Sunday in late spring, and they were sitting outside at Strip at Atlantic Station, a shopping and eating area in Midtown Atlanta that became a popular hangout spot. They liked to have lunch out on the patio because they could watch women pass by in the courtyard. It was Henry's idea.

“So what's up with you?” Elliott said to Henry. “Haven't seen you about a month.”

“You know how it is,” he said. “Work. I'm just forty-two; can't think about retiring yet.”

He was a real estate agent who survived the housing downturn and was flourishing in its upswing. But he was burdened.

“Man, I haven't felt right about something, and I need to get right about it,” Henry started.

“Yeah? What's up?” Elliott asked.

“I haven't told many people this,” Henry said. “And I'm only telling you because we're close. We're close, right?”

“You're my boy,” Elliott answered him, but he became nervous. It had to be bad news; he wouldn't hesitate or preface anything if
it were good news. He immediately thought of health concerns. Henry was a workout fiend, but Elliott knew muscles could hide internal issues.

“You okay, Henry?” he added. “You're making me nervous. I can't lie.”

“I'm good,” he said. “I need to tell you something about me.”

Elliott did not respond. Henry fidgeted, looked away and finally said it. “I'm gay.”

Elliott flinched. He leaned back. The surprise on his face was plastered there, like a tattoo. A man who always had a comeback had nothing.

Henry did not know what to say. He was so relieved to get it out. The weight of carrying his revelation was enormous. He worked hard to conceal his true sexuality. He dated women to prevent any inkling of his interest in men. He boasted of his conquests to Elliott and initiated nights out at strip clubs and bars to give the appearance of pursuing women.

He talked about sports and smoked cigars. He did everything he thought would be considered “manly” to hide his real desires. He did this for decades. Finally, he could not handle the lying, the deceit, the fraud. The reward of telling Elliott would be great—if Elliott accepted Henry for the man he truly was instead of the man he pretended to be. The risk was even greater—he could lose a friendship that had become invaluable. But he had to unburden himself.

“What are you talking about?” Elliott finally asked. “You're gay? How?”

“How?” Henry responded. “I don't think ‘how' is the right question.”

“What are you talking about? How can you be gay when all I've
ever seen you with or heard you talk about is women?” Elliott said.

“Elliott, I'm the same person,” he said. “I just don't have an interest in women.”

He could tell Henry was serious. And in that moment, Elliott took it as a personal affront. The magnitude of what Henry revealed overtook the shock of it. And he got angry.

“So you're a faggot?” he said. “I'll be damned. You think telling me that was going to accomplish what? I was going to say, ‘Oh, really?' It's okay because you're my boy? Hell, no. I don't play that. I don't roll like that.”

“So, because of my sexuality, you're not my friend anymore?” Henry said. “Is that what you're saying?”

“Wake up,” Elliott said so loudly that people at other tables turned their way. “You think I would run around town with a fag? Hell, no. Not me.”

“Why not? That's what you've been doing for years and years, Elliott,” he said. “You just didn't know it.”

“Well, knowing it makes all the difference in the world,” Elliott said. “And what about this? I really want to hear your answer to this: How could you have a child as a gay man? How could you deceive these women you dated over the years? That's some bitch- ass shit if you ask me.”

“I'm not gonna say anything about you calling me a ‘faggot' because you're upset, but it's disrespectful,” Henry said.

“Like I give a fuck,” Elliot countered.

“Anyway,” Henry went on, “those are legitimate questions. And the truth is that I was trying to fool myself to be what everyone wanted me to be; what I even thought I should be. So, yes, I dated women and I have a son, a son that you love and who loves you. What, you're not going to be his godfather anymore?”

“This isn't about Jarrod,” Elliott said. “But I wonder what you're going to tell him. How do you think he's going to react to knowing his father likes dick?”

“Don't mistake me for not being able to kick your ass,” Henry said.

“You mean scratch my eyes out, don't you, or beat me with your pink purse,” Elliott said.

Now, both men were furious and glaring at each other with death stares. The server arrived to take their orders and Elliott got up.

“Get him some quiche—and sprinkle some fairy dust on it,” he said, and stormed out of the restaurant.

Elliott did not want to tell Tamara that story. He didn't want to tell her because he was ashamed of his initial reaction to Henry's brave revelation. For the next several months, he separated himself from his closest friend. He took Henry's number out of his cell phone, as if that would help him forget about how close they were.

Henry was his Sunday sports bar partner during football season. Elliott was such the Washington Redskins fan that he converted Henry, who liked the local Falcons. Henry was the first person Elliott shared news with, good or bad. When he told Henry of his wrongful incarceration, his friend empathized with him and made him feel free enough to share his story in detail.

When Henry revealed he was gay, the biases in Elliott emerged as if shot out of a paintball gun: They splattered everywhere. His time in prison gave him a perspective on homosexuality that influenced his anger and pain and disappointment.

In prison, he witnessed men having sex—some of their own will, some forced. Either way disgusted Elliott. He committed himself to killing the man who would attempt to violate him in that way. And he looked at the man who would have sex with another man as less than human.

Eight months after that lunch with Henry, he received a phone call from LaWanda, the mother of Henry's son. Elliott was just headed to his car after a round at Wolf Creek Golf Club near the Atlanta airport. He didn't recognize the number, so he thought it was a woman he had met at Bar One a few nights before.

Reflectively, without even thinking, he hurried to Grady Memorial Hospital: Henry's fourteen-year-old son, Jarrod, had been hit by a car. The driver was an eighty-two-year-old man who lost consciousness behind the wheel. The car veered off the street, jumped the curb on Glenwood Avenue and Second Avenue and slammed into Jarrod.

Through LaWanda's hysteria, Elliott was able to make out that the trauma was severe. He was airlifted to the hospital.

He had taken a measure of relief that he never entered the doors of Grady Hospital, the city's premier trauma facility. If you were sent to Grady, you were in bad shape.

The ride to Grady was spent praying for Jarrod and thinking about how he was he going to deal with seeing Henry for the first time in eight months. He remained incensed and disappointed in his former friend, and was even embarrassed that they had been friends. He also stretched his brain to figure out how he could not have detected that Henry was gay. He angered himself more when he recounted the intimate details of his life that he shared with Henry, the golf trips they took together, the women he introduced to him.

Replaying all that made him mad all over again. Elliott entered the hospital's emergency room with his pent-up emotions bubbling over. He was directed to the waiting area, where he found Henry sitting with his head buried in his hands.

He walked over to him, intent on getting information about his
son and walking away. He had nothing to say to him. But when Henry raised his head, he revealed eyes that were stop-sign red and the overall look of a broken man. Tears streamed down his face. His lips quivered.

And immediately, all the animosity and anger and disappointment Elliott felt for Henry disappeared. In that moment, he realized his sexuality was of no significance.

He was a man who was crestfallen about his son, just like any other man would be, just as Elliott would be.

Elliott realized right away that he had been an insensitive homophobic jerk and, worst, disloyal friend. He had judged Henry when his friend never judged him about his suspect behavior with young women or his difficult past.

He sat down next to Henry and put his arm around his shoulder. Henry's body involuntarily shook, from pain and from the comfort of his friend. “He died, my son is gone,” Henry said in a low voice.

“Oh, God. I'm sorry,” Elliott said. He was talking about his behavior as much as Henry's loss.

Then he shocked himself when he grabbed Henry's hand and said a prayer.

“God, please let Jarrod's soul rest in peace. You brought him into Your arms and we know there is no better place for any of us. Please God, bless my friend Henry and his family. Give us all the strength, understanding and will to move forward carrying so much grief and sorrow. In Your name we pray, Amen.”

Then, for the next five minutes, Elliott sat there with his arm around his friend and cried.

O
n his Friday walk, Elliott realized he had asked Tamara to cook dinner for him Saturday night but also had asked his kids to visit him for dinner. Not good.

“I have to cancel dinner tomorrow,” he said to Tamara while on his daily walk. “I forgot I had made plans. I'm sorry. Can we do it tonight or Sunday?”

“I put up with you turning me down because you'd made plans to go out to some club or party,” Tamara said. “But you asked me to cook for you on Saturday, and I went grocery shopping and cleared my schedule for you. And now you're cancelling on me, after you picked the day? Are you serious?”

“I know, I know,” he said. “I wish I didn't have to cancel. I have some people coming over. It's important.”

“People?” Tamara said. “Who?”

“I don't want to get into explaining myself too much,” Elliott said. “You should trust that if I say it's important that it is really important.”

“I don't deserve to know why you're cancelling on me?” she responded. Elliott detected tension in her voice.

“First of all, calm down,” he said. “Second, I told you why I have to cancel. Please don't make this a big deal. I will make it up to you. Just trust me. Please.”

“I don't get it,” she said. “Last Saturday, when I wanted to come over, you told me that you had to go to Compound for a party. So you can tell me last week what your plans are but you can't tell me now? What are you hiding?”

“I don't have to hide anything and I don't have to explain anything,” Elliott said. “I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't have told you my plans last week. I don't want to get into the habit of having to explain what I'm doing.”

“Why? What's wrong with that?” she said.

“Tamara, can we get together tonight?” he asked. “Come over for dinner. I'll cook a great meal for you. I don't want you to be upset. There's no reason to be upset. I promise you, there isn't.”

“I'm busy tonight,” she said. “I have a date.”

“I understand,” Elliott said. “Let's do Sunday then.”

“I'm busy Sunday,” she said. “You know how many men would change their plans for me?”

“I don't know, but I can imagine most,” he responded. “Just not me, not in this case. I talked to you last week about not being a typical woman.”

“Don't try to teach me some lesson about being a woman,” Tamara shouted. “Because you're older than me doesn't mean you know everything.”

Elliott remained calm. “Please let me know when you're available and I will make myself available.”

“I'm available tomorrow,” she said.

“Give me any other day and I'm in,” Elliott assured. “I cannot do tomorrow.”

“Well, I've got to go, Elliott,” she said. “Have a nice weekend.”

And she hung up, before Elliott could respond. He was not happy about that, but he went on with his walk and thought of what he would prepare for his children the next night.

He walked along Peachtree Street, past the Hard Rock Café, Hooters and the Ritz-Carlton and cut west and then north, back toward his place. He was floating more than he was walking. Getting Danielle and Daniel to come to his home for dinner was monumental in his step toward reconciliation. He was not sure how he would quell his son's animosity, but the twins were close. So he figured if he could get Danielle to let go and move forward, her position would move her brother off his stance.

Getting Danielle to embrace him again would be easier, but not easy. She and her mom were close and grew to be like sisters as she got older. Seeing her mother so distraught when Elliott moved out scared Danielle. Lucy was strong and confident. Watching her husband leave the house, she looked weak and insecure.

And Danielle cursed her father for making her mother cry, for breaking up the family and for forcing her to lose some respect for him. The thought of her father being unfaithful to her mother sickened her when she was younger. As she got older, she came to realize that it happens, and so she was less sick than she was disappointed.