2000
10,…9,…..8,…..7,…6.. Rickie looked around the Chelsea loft filled with bright, shiny, hip people and tried to smile. This was Millennium Eve and he knew that he ought to generate some enthusiasm within himself for the hope and promise of a new century. Some of his friends had gone to Times Square to celebrate, but Rickie couldn't face the cold harshness of the December night. Was he mad to miss such an iconic moment in such an iconic place? He was in the most exciting city in the world, surrounded by sensitive, artistic individuals who accepted him for who he was and valued his creative input, why shouldn't he be happy and keen to embrace all that was to come in the 2000s? After all, he HAD escaped Pittsburgh and the awkwardness of being an gay ugly duckling amid a very small pond of normal, conventional , suburban ducks, hadn't he? He had got to New York and, by some miracle, managed to become an apprentice to Fernando Goncalves, one of the hottest young designers who had just opened his first boutique in the Meatpacking District. Rickie was doing a job he loved, mixing with the most interesting, tolerant people and living in a place where he could walk down the street wearing whatever he wanted without any Manhattanite so much as raising an eyebrow. He loved that- he loved the anonymity of New York, the melting pot, the electric buzz in the air that made you feel like you could do anything, be anyone. Here, there was no judgment, no convention, no stifling norms. Of one thing Rickie was 100% sure- he was NEVER going back to Pittsburgh, never going back to being made feel like a freak or pariah by his fractured, messed-up, distant family, never returning to the jeers, the bullying , the shaming that he had felt in Salem on the Monongahela! Rickie inhaled deeply and tried not to think of Eric- beautiful, kind, impossibly handsome Eric. Eric, who he had met six months ago at one of Fernando's artistic friends' innumerable gallery openings. Eric, who he had enjoyed countless passionate afternoons with in chic West Village hotels. Eric, the gorgeous Grecian god from Iowa who Rickie had entertained all sorts of fantasies about settling down with in his romantic, suburban, conventional, albeit homosexual mind. He had imagined that they could go on vacation to Europe together, visiting Paris, the fashion capital of the Old World, and then on to Rome and Florence which Fernando had said were must-sees for anyone serious about his artistic development or growth. Then he and Eric would buy a loft in an old Victorian brownstone in the Village and completely renovate it. Rickie would have relished the opportunity to put his design skills to the test there- the perfect mix of nostalgic chic and modern comfort! Maybe they could eventually get married if the State ever got round to broadening the scope of Mayor Giuliani's domestic partnership law. But now, all those naïve, hopeful dreams were shattered like some priceless Renaissance sculpture ground into dust….. Rickie tried not to let the tears come as all around him his new friends laughed and hugged and began to sing 'Auld Lang Syne'…. "Should old acquaintance be forgot"? Yes, Eric must be forgotten ! Today's humiliation must be erased from memory! At 1:30pm earlier today, Rickie had gone with two of the fashion interns to Brooklyn to pick up some new sewing machines. They had been carrying boxes and bags full of sewing supplies to a waiting truck when Rickie had almost collided with a young mother wheeling a stroller down the sidewalk with a small blonde child walking by her side. He had apologized to the woman and continued helping the others when he was startled by the woman's voice calling someone on the other side of the street: "Eric honey ,wait by the diner! We'll cross here!" Rickie had looked toward the man on the other side of the street and instantly froze. 'Eric' was his Eric! Only this man was lifting the small child in his arms and kissing the mother on her cheek. A million thoughts ran through Rickie's mind at that moment… was the woman Eric's sister, cousin, platonic single mother friend? That consolation was denied him as he heard the toddler laugh and say, "Daddy , can I get cookie ice-cream, puhleeze?". One look at the child's cherubic features and blonde locks should have been enough to convince even someone as delusionally romantic as Rickie that the kid was Eric's. Eric was a married man- a conventional, Brooklynite married man who lived a double-life- wife , kids and diners on weekends and holidays and secret gay lunchtime trysts in the West Village on weekdays. Eric was a cliché and Rickie was the 'gay lover' cliché- the 'bit on the side', the subplot to the charade of Eric's closeted life. Humiliation, anger, sadness, despair- Rickie's emotions ran the full gamut in the 10 seconds it took him to turn around and head back into the sewing machine warehouse. Rickie may have been a gullible romantic but even he knew the rules- if Eric chose to remain in the closet, that was his decision. Rickie wouldn't, couldn't destroy the happiness of his wife and kids by suddenly appearing on the scene like some gay boogeyman! His only option was to exit gracefully with whatever was left of his dignity intact. The alternative, becoming a willing accomplice in Eric's deception and hypocrisy was unthinkable! No, Rickie must forget him! There would be months of tears, emptiness and heartache ahead, but that was the price you paid for 'doing the right thing'. As the countdown to a new era continued, Rickie realized that even his unconventional life here in Salem on the Hudson had its conventions- the same old prejudices still existed, the same shame haunted his life, he still didn't 'fit', he still felt like the freak of the piece…5...4…3…2….1