Siddity in the City

I’m hopping off the Metro-North train in my parents’ tiny hamlet early this morning, going to celebrate my brother’s birthday. It is miserable, cold and rainy, and I am barrelling toward the warmth of my father’s little sedan when I walk straight into a high school classmate. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since high school, ten years past, and he looks fabulous.

“Bobby Flume?” I gasp in barely concealed disbelief, unable to control myself. I’m in shock. It’s too early, and of all the people I went to school with, he’s one of the few I remember semi-fondly.

But, shit. Generally, I try to avoid any and all encounters with vestiges of my pre-college life. You know, except for family. Now I’ve gone and screamed out this poor man, who undoubtedly lives by the same principle. And we’re both stuck.

“Uhm, Sid, we went to high school together.” He’s confused, but trying to place me. I, already regretting opening my mouth, and having to pee something unmerciful, am ready to climb into the awaiting car, and give him no time to actually do so. “Um, okaybye.” And I’m off.

But as I speed away, I can’t help but marvel at how good homosexuality looks on him. I knew the guy when he was 17, geeky, chubby and “straight.” (I knew then he wasn’t going to stay straight for long, and when, a few years back, another classmate I ran into revealed he had turned out to be gay, I laughed openly at her surprise.) But now he’s dropped about 40 pounds and has that great Chelsea metrosexual-smoothness about him. And the brother who had the look of his boyfriend? Also delish.

I was oddly proud. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was just nice to see another town escapee. Maybe because he was so vastly improved, or looked so much more comfortable in his skin than he had as a youngun’. Of course, Bobby 2.0 could just be a natural progression, the result of growing up and finding your place in the world. His improvement isn’t necessarily because he’s gay.

But I like to think so.