To the Manor Born

I have always possessed a rather, shall we say, elitist bearing. My friend Paul said once over dinner in Astoria, "You do have 'that to the manor born' quality." I was surprised he used those exact words and felt as if I had been caught. Meaning, that I thought - around Paul at least - I was not snotty or superior.

This is even more amusing now because after one madcap misadventure after another I am living in a community that - a dozen years ago - was nothing more than a collection of trailer parks. Now it's well...it's the gayest place I have ever been.

Anyway it was about six years ago when Paul uttered those words about being "to the manor born." I have since then been on a rather incredible - or incredulous, depending on how you look at it - journey. I moved back to Philadelphia in 2004, then went to Zurich to try and find a job. After four months I had to realize the Swiss Confederation would in no way offer me a Visa. I boarded a plane and went back home.

Tired of and bored by Philadelphia I showed up on Paul's doorstep in Astoria. Only a few blocks away from my old apartment there and the restaurant where he told me I was an elitist. For about ten days while in New York I searched for jobs in vain. Not knowing what to do, Paul told me, "Go home."

So...wearing a veil and sunglasses I boarded a bus in Chinatown, got off the bus in Philly, hopped on another bus and - when I was five blocks from home - I called the house to test the waters.

My sister answered. She sounded funny. I didn't tell her I was coming home, "Oh Zurich is great! The leaves are turning." When I got off the bus and rang the doorbell my sister answered the door. She was not thrilled to see me, she was high on what smelled like crack cocaine. Needless to say my mother was also not happy to see me.

"If you get on that plane you don't get on another one back here," not send me a post card were here parting words.

The next five years were a mess...I had to battle Lisa's drug addiction which ultimately ended up with her being put in a group home. Then, in August, I met he whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, but as I don't want to rehash it here I am including a link to the column highlighting that.

http://www.southfloridagaynews.com/sfgn-columnists/sebastian.html

Read it? Teary eyed? Good!

Moving on: about 3 days after it premiered the publisher emailed me, "I must see you again as soon as possible." I panicked. I thought he hated the articles I wrote. Presumed he was going to can me already. Instead, I picked up and called.

"What are you doing? Where are you living?"

I repeated the last paragraph in the column.

"What the hell are you doing selling antiques? Listen, I have a sweet twenty-one-year old kid who is in a similar situation to you."

"Oh Matthew, the guy that picked up the phone? His ex moved him here then kicked him out of the house," I asked, hoping to have someone to bitch over exes about.

"No. He came down here with some kid nobody likes and he stole a Mustang."

"That's different," I replied.

"It's only different because he's twenty-one! Now listen! I can get you two an apartment near the office, set you up with some scooters. I can't be at the office all the time, I am too damn tired to get up at 3 in the morning if the alarm goes off or someone breaks in. So it'll work for us both," he said, pausing. "Whaddya think?"

I was happy that day, interning for a friend's gallery, yet with my editor's phone call the world came crashing into reality. I had no permanent address. I was only earning pocket money and food in exchange for my work with the antiques dealer. I had two dollars in my pocket and owe the bank $1,000 thanks to Mr. Overdraft. Yet, I would not make another rash decision.

"I...I have to think about it," I said.

"You have to what?"

"I have to think about it," I repeated. "I love Miami, and have to give this some thought! I can let you know by Friday."

I went outside to smoke and sip coffee. I then told Nathaly, the girl whom I was interning for, "I got a job offer, with apartment in Wilton Manors. It's a writing and editing job and..."

"And what," she asked. "That's what you really need!"

"I know I need a job!"

"That's not a job, it's a career," she said smiling. "That's what you need!"

Back in the gallery, I picked up the phone.

"I'll be there tomorrow."

Wilton Manors, if you don't know it, is a small town just north of Fort Lauderdale. It was at one time filled with trailer parks. The gays however found it in the late nineties and well...it's about 80% gay now. I can't tell how I feel yet other than well...it's amazing. Everyone is gay, every bar, restaurant, and business has a gay pride flag out. I haven't seen any children since I've been here...that for me is a DELIGHT in and of itself! In a way living here - so far, and yes my Gemini nature is flippant - feels like it will be coming out all over again. This time in a world where everyone is gay.

I think being here will really allow me what I really need right now: that is to be me. The backdrop of New York, with mom only two hours away was kind of as if I never left home. Moving back to Philly, back into her house was even more constricting. In Miami I was a boyfriend, not much more.

This place feels...oddly liberating! In Miami the ex was not into gay guys...not on a social level, anyway. While I enjoy the company of ladies and straight guys I am generally better in a room filled with faggots.

Here everyone is gay and wow...the possibilities to

a) make a name for myself in a small town as a writer

b) find a dumb boyfriend who only cares about sex (yup, I am officially looking for someone who has never read a book nor been to a foreign country)

c) fall in love....hahahahaha! NO MORE OF THAT EVER AGAIN!

d) and - of course - make a total mess of myself seem limitless

The excitement is so very overwhelming I could cry with happiness!

To give you a run down of my time here - three days - I will say my last night was amusing. A twenty-one year old tried to get me into a stripper bar for free by saying, "This is Sebastian, he wants to dance." He didn't warn me and I did not want to dance - on a pole or on a dance floor, I actually wanted to go home and sleep. However, the owner let me pass, saying, "Oh...I met you with Norm last night." Funny how while I was seated across from him fully clothed he did not even say hello to me. Funny because he only introduced himself and asked my name when the prospect of my clothes being removed was mentioned.

When we actually went into the physical club - the twenty-one-year-old's ruse was developed on the out door cafe part of the club - the bouncer was suspicious. "He's not auditioning!"

That I had no intention to audition need be pointed out for my own moral edification. I smiled and was about to say, "This was his idea, at 30, I would need to join a gym for at least a month before I could even consider..."

But before I could answer the bouncer finished what he was saying. "No one auditions on Friday. Come back on Wednesday cutie." I spent the rest of the night contemplating the possibility of my becoming what Scarlett O'Hara described as a "bad woman." Then floated on the ether of knowing I look young for my age and that a considerable amount of the strippers looked closer to forty than their probable ages of 35. Later, at my friend Cliff's I passed out before he came out of the bathroom from brushing his teeth.

I woke up this morning sprightly and happy, not hung over. I then headed to work. The idea of my becoming a stripper as likely as my insane idea to join the Navy was two years ago.