Mr. E’s Beautiful Blues

18Oct06

I knew this dude once. Well, he wasn’t really a dude, per se, since he’s the same age as my mother, but whatever, I knew him.

Because it’s been a long long time since I last spoke to him (I don’t even know how he’d feel about me posting stuff about him online), and because his last name rather conveniently begins with an E, I shall refer to him here as Mr. E.

Mr. E was fabulous. Mr. E took time off work to drive me great distances, he gave me a key to his apartment when I was a homeless (though not dormless) misanthropic teenager, and even though neither one of us was the least bit religious, he would sometimes tell people I was his Goddaughter. He was just generally a really great guy. Mr. E was also, in many ways, the archetype of a successful, older gay man: attractive, witty, cultured, solvent, and in a strong, decade-spanning relationship with a much younger, incredibly hot lover. Whenever we had dinner, the table would be fully set with candles, relevant silverware, designated water glasses, and cloth napkins. The man had exquisite taste. Sometimes I really miss Mr. E.

Anyway, one time, as Mr. E and I lounged around in his perfectly appointed living room (or maybe we were driving along some New England interstate highway), he shared with me a brief anecdote from his adolescence. He was born in 1945, and this is set in elementary school or middle school for him, so it must have been right around the mid to late 1950’s.

The young Mr. E did not have an easy time in school. It was a different world, and I imagine things were even more difficult for gay teenagers than they are now, especially one as sensitive as he must have been. He was teased; he had difficulty fitting in with the other boys.

As was his wont, young Mr. E sat himself down and mused over how he might be able to rectify this situation. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that there was, indeed, a solution to his problem. This solution was Football.

All the other boys played football. (We’re talking American Football, by the way, with all the pads and the lining up in rows to beat each other to pieces, not soccer.) Football was the way to fit in. If he could just understand and master football, thought Mr. E, he would be able to understand and possibly even master his peers. This, THIS, would be the key to making sense of the world he was forced to live in.

So the young Mr. E went to the library. And checked out a book about football.

…

There are times when it feels like the things I do to try and get my shit together have about as much chance of being effective as Mr. E’s library book.

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