Page 7 of Like a Love Story
I giggle nervously, not sure where to take the conversation next. “Sorry about Art, too. He comes on a little strong.”
He nods. Then in a hushed voice, he says, “There was nobody like him in Iran or Toronto.”
“I’m sure Toronto has gay people,” I say, way too defensive. “As for Iran, I don’t know, maybe they’ve killed them all.”
Okay, this is over. You’ve definitely scared him off.
“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry to offend.”
That’s all he says. And it’s enough to make me feel like total shit about myself.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say. “I’m just sick of people making fun of him.”
“Was I making fun?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “No, not at all. You were just making an observation, which was probably totally true. In fact, I’m the offensive one. I’m the one who assumed that he’s basically like all other gay people. When in fact you were right. Absolutely no one in Toronto, or Iran, or any placewhere humans live, is anything like Art. Maybe that’s why I get defensive of him. ’Cause he’s special.”
Reza just nods, almost like he’s agreeing with me.
We both look up at Art, so hard to miss with that hair. He’s flipping through some notecards. Not just any notecards. The Queer 101 notecards Uncle Stephen made for him to explain important gay concepts like conversion therapy, the Cockettes, and Quentin Crisp. And those are just a few of theCs. I can see that Art is reading #67 John, Elton.
“I talk too much,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize for talking. Most of my life, I’ve talked too little.”
He smiles hesitantly, stopping himself midsmile. It’s like he’s just learning how.
“I’m not, by the way,” I say.
Stop. Stop now.
“Not what?” he asks.
“I mean, we’re best friends, and he’s on the upper echelon of the Kinsey Scale, but...” I can tell he has no idea what the Kinsey Scale is, and I explain. “Oh, that’s this scale, this thing that says some people are into men, some are into women, and some are in between.”
“Oh,” he says.
He seems extremely uncomfortable with this conversation, and I want to change the subject immediately, but instead, I say, “I’m on the side of the scale that’s totally hetero. That’s it. I just wanted you to know. I have noidea why I’m telling you this.”
Yes you do. Because he’s cute, and unlike the rest of the boys at school, he doesn’t seem like a total tool.
“Oh,” he says. He closes his eyes for a moment. After a beat, he says, “Me too.” Then he smiles awkwardly. And I smile back.
#75 Love
Love might justhappento them, but for us, it’s not as easy. For us, it’s a fight. Maybe someday it won’t be. Maybe someday love will just be... love. But for now, love is the four-letter word they forgot we care about ever since they discovered that other four-letter word, AIDS, the disease formerly known as GRID.Gay-RelatedImmuneDeficiency. That’s what they called it at first. They changed the name eventually, once it became clear we were not the only ones who would die. But the stink never wore off. It never does when they want to control you. Marilyn wasalwaysNorma Jeane, and they never let her forget it. When her ideas got too big, they reminded her she was nothing but an orphan. And AIDS will always be GRID. It isourdisease, born of ourdeficiencies. But I’ll tell you what we will never be deficient of. LOVE. We love art and beauty. We love new ideas and pushing boundaries. We love fighting againstcorruption. We love redefining archaic rules. We love men, and women, and men who dress like women, and women who dress like men. We love tops and bottoms, and top hats, especially when worn by Marlene Dietrich. But most of all, we love each other. Know that. We love each other. We care for each other. We are brothers and sisters, mentors and students, and together we are limitless and whole. The most important four-letter word in our history will always be LOVE. That’s what we are fighting for. That’s who we are. Love is our legacy.
Reza
Our dining room is extravagant and ridiculous. Just sitting in it makes me feel uncomfortable. It looks like it was designed for an ancient royal shah. Anything that can be gold is gold, and anything not made of gold is crystal, glass, or emerald green. The paintings on the walls are mostly old Persian portraits from the Qajar dynasty, but then there’s a portrait of Abbas, done in the same style, as if to imply that he is one of those royals. I’m surprised there’s no painting of Saadi done in the old Qajar style, except instead of wearing an ornate robe and headdress, he would be wearing boxer shorts and holding a lacrosse stick.
“There is no doubt we are headed toward a recession. And if others have doubt, they are wrong. I know we are. Just look at real estate prices. They’re starting to dip and it’s only going to get worse. We were living in a bubble, and it’s popping as I speak. Nobody is spendingon luxuries like real estate and expensive furniture anymore.”
That’s Abbas talking. My stepfather. He’s bald and very tall, one of the lankiest Iranians I have ever seen. And he speaks with so much authority. If there’s one thing I have learned since my mom married this man, it is that when he talks, you listen. If I could interject, here is what I might say:First of all, you are still living in a bubble. Just look around this home. And second of all, stop subtly suggesting my mother shouldn’t start working again. Because that is what is really happening right now. My mom was an interior designer in Toronto. She did okay. Well enough to support me and my sister, although we certainly did not live in a gold-leafed wonderland, and we certainly did not go to a fancy private school with starched uniforms, children of famous people, and lacrosse teams. I don’t even know how Abbas and my mom met. Probably ages ago, since Persians all know each other anyway. All I know is one day, my mom sat me and my sister down and told us she was getting married again. She said she and I would be moving to New York, while my sister stayed in Canada for college. And that was that.
“It is not surprising that prices are starting to dip in the city,” Abbas continues. “People are afraid of getting mugged, beaten, raped. What happened in Central Park is just the beginning. I love it here, but if I were to do it all over again, I would think twice before buying in the city.”
My mom just smiles, an eye toward the pot ofghormehsabzi, and says, “Honestly, Abbas, I have no idea how you trained your cook to make Persian food this well.”
