Scott and I sat on the fourth step leading up to the beach house that he and his friends were renting that week. It was three in the morning, and it was cool out.

Several nights earlier, finished with spring exams and ecstatic in our new freedom, a couple of friends and I had left Charlottesville for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, along with a third of the university. It was Beach Week, the break between finals and graduation, when the fourth years tried to have as much last bittersweet fun as possible and the rest of us just partied to celebrate the beginning of summer.

I didn’t know Scott too well. He was a friend of a friend. He was getting ready to graduate and I had just finished my third year; I’d run into him that night at the club. When we’d got to the house where he was staying, some of his housemates had been partying outside. By now there was an empty keg underneath the stairs, and all its drinkers had gone inside to conk out in an alcoholic stupor. It was quiet, except for the occasional joyriding car or jeep revving down Ocean Boulevard, and the distant exhalations of the ocean.

We were sitting side by side in the cool air, our knees almost touching; a fuzzy blue blanket covered our legs. A breeze blew. I stared out into the darkness, feeling expectant. I could feel his leg hairs softly brushing against mine. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

As we were talking, my heart began to beat faster. I got fidgety. He was just biding his time, humoring me, waiting for me to leave. What could he want with someone five foot six? But if he didn’t want me, why were the danger flares going off inside my head? I was about to cross over to the Other Side. I was there at the airport gate, ticket in hand, stewardess ready with her outstretched arm.

And right then, right there, I chickened out.

“Well, I should probably go,” I said. “It’s kind of cold.”

“Are you sure?” said Scott.

“Yeah, I think so – you know – it’s pretty late.”

“Well, okay,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, hook-up interruptus, or if he was glad to be rid of this short Jewish curly-haired guy. We got up, throwing off the blue blanket and disrupting its shadowy curves.

I was ready for the ten-minute walk back to the condos where I was staying with the Glee Club. I stuck out my hand.

“Well, thanks for hanging out with me tonight,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” said Scott, shaking my hand.

I then realized I was still wearing his jacket, which I began to remove.

“Why don’t you hold onto that for now,” he said. “It’s kind of chilly.”

“Okay – thanks,” I said, my face beginning to feel warm in the cool night breeze. I shrugged my shoulders and put my hands in the pockets. “It was good talking to you.”

“You too,” he said.

“All right, then – good night.”

“Good night.”

As I walked off, I turned and waved. He waved, too. Then he picked up the blue blanket, crumpled and lifeless, from the steps.

I was glad to be out of there. I’d escaped from the jaws of death. Never before had I been so close. I berated myself and said I must never go back there again. The jacket was too big for me; I felt like a little boy wearing his father’s overcoat. The bottom of it hung midway down my thighs, and I had to push up the sleeves, and even then they kept sliding back down past my hands. Maybe I was shrinking.

While walking back to the condo I passed another college guy wearing a white baseball cap with Greek letters. He seemed about my age. He gave me a slightly embarrassed smile; we were in complicity, each of us returning from some late-night exploit.

“Hey,” he said, conspiratorially.

“How’s it going,” I said as he passed me, feeling the jacket’s weight on me like a blood-stained cloak.

Diary of a Goatee

I have begun growing a goatee. This morning, when I shaved, I neglected my upper lip and chin. I think I’d last shaved three days ago (gosh, I’ve been lazy this week), so technically my goatee is three days old. We’ll see what happens. Perhaps people will start to think I’m Evil Tin Man. At any rate, I’ll have to start doing some goatee maintenance. I’ve already read up on the history of the goatee.

Whenever I grow a goatee, I notice that my facial hair has a slight reddish-brown tint, as opposed to the hair on the top of my head, which is brown. There are several types of goatees. I’m going for the conservative, more common Van Dyke look — around the mouth and chin — and not the beatnik, Shaggy, Maynard G. Krebs look.

I wonder what this will look like with my glasses? I’m planning to get a digital camera pretty soon — most likely the Umax Astracam (a cheap, decent, no frills camera) — so maybe I’ll finally post some photos of myself up here, just like Anonymous Goateed Man.

Dad

Last night I had dinner with my dad. A few weeks ago I had a really honest conversation with my mom, and we each got to say some things that needed to be said, and afterward she suggested I do the same thing with him. Apparently she suggested it to him as well, because last week he called me and asked if I’d like to have dinner sometime soon. So last night I met him outside Penn Plaza in Manhattan and we went to an Italian restaurant.

It felt a little awkward. It’s harder for me to communicate with my dad than with my mom. I’ve internalized a particular view of each of my parents, and neither view is up to date, because they’ve both changed a lot in the last few years — they’ve become more understanding of who I am, and they’ve come to realize that what they want for me is not always what I want for me. Last night at dinner, my dad told me that he loves me and that I can always tell him anything. It was great to hear. And he said that if I didn’t want to talk about things right now, I could talk with him down the road.

But something’s not quite right. This doesn’t feel comfortable.

I’m so used to feeling that my father is my antagonist. It’s like I’ve always needed something to push against, and now he’s told me that he’ll no longer stand in my way. So this is what adulthood is supposed to feel like. I feel strangely free, but sort of scared, naked on a mountaintop, unprotected by anything, the wind ready to knock me off my own two feet. I’ve already told my parents I’m gay, and that was the biggest hurdle; what else is there to push against? Nothing at all? If that’s true, it’s going to be hard to get used to.

I’m also wondering, is he trying to get at something specific? I’m wondering if he knows about this blog. He has ways of finding things out. (Dad, if you’re reading — I’m onto you.) My dad is pretty swift with computers and he’s a bright guy. I’m looking for a job for next year, and he told me last night that if you do an Internet search on my name, the first thing that comes up is this gay-related volunteer position I had a year and a half ago, complete with the story of my coming out. He said this as if it’s a bad thing. I’m not sure what he thinks is the problem here: my being gay, or my forthrightness in putting my coming-out story on the Web, or both.

The thing is, he’s so much more practical than I am. Me, I’m not ready to be practical; I’m too much of an idealist, I’m too naive. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Sometimes my dad’s advice can save me from some unnecessary trouble, but sometimes I’d like a little less negativity and a little more encouragement. For instance, I told him I’m looking for a new place to live, and he said that any place in the city is going to be noisy. Okay, Dad, that’s true, but I’m sure I could find a place where I don’t have neighbors who stay up into the wee hours of the morning.

Of course, this is also the guy who wasn’t happy when my mom decided to quit her job and go back to school, because, he said, her job had great health benefits.

I don’t know. At least he’s making an effort. But I can’t totally wrap my brain around him. He and I are intellectual equals, but emotionally, I feel like he and I are in different worlds. Then again, I’m realizing that my internalized negative view of my dad from childhood doesn’t totally mesh with the man he is today. He’s not a villain. He’s a lot more complicated than I thought he was.