Saturday morning I went about the chore of moving.
Like my campus apartment, the basement of the house where I'd be living was fully furnished. It was more one large room than an apartment. The bathroom was in a separate room, but that was all.
One corner had a sofa, chair, a table and television. Another corner was a complete kitchen set-up; small, but it had everything I needed.
A huge, king-sized bed took up most of the space in another corner. My first reaction upon seeing the bed was "Great! It's big enough for Denny to sleep comfortably."
I sadly realized I'd be sleeping in it alone. No Denny - No Lane - only me.
I focused on the job at hand. It was impossible to shut-out the fact I'd lost two boyfriends in one day, but I did the best I could.
Since I didn't have any furniture to move, the hardest part was the massage table. It took me an hour to take it apart then I struggled carrying the heavy sections and loading them in my car.
I moved the pieces into my new place, but decided against setting it up. What was the point? Denny and Lane would never be over here, and besides, I remembered the last thing Mr. Hanson said to me: "Maybe you can give me a massage on that table of yours!"
That creep couldn't have been serious, could he? The very thought of my hands massaging his flabby flesh made my skin crawl.
No, I thought. Keep the table out of sight.
Even though my new place was only a mile from campus, traffic was at a near standstill because of the football game that afternoon. I finally packed the car with my last load and was ready to begin a new life when my curiosity got the best of me.
I decided to forego the traffic and walk the three blocks to the stadium to see for myself what was going on. Once the game started, there would be less traffic and an easier drive to my new place.
Headlines in the news the past couple of days screamed about a group of evangelical Christian protestors who were going to picket outside the stadium. They were demanding that Denny be kicked-off the team because he is gay.
Even though I'd been moving and working up a sweat, I hadn't showered or shaved. I figured I'd try my new shower when I was finished.
I wore a ballcap pulled low over my eyes. As I was leaving I saw myself in the mirror and was instantly reminded of Lane. My heart stirred; I felt very lonely.
When I was close to the stadium, I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. The usual hordes of people were milling about the vendors and casually strolling into the entrance gates. When I made the walk around the far-side of the stadium I saw all the commotion.
Dozens of bright television lights and cameras were pointing at a small area. My view was blocked so I slowly squirmed and twisted my way thru the crowd until I was in the front row - one of the advantages of having a smallish body.
There was a group of eight people, holding signs, basking in the attention the media was showering on them. I looked around and estimated there were fifty reporters and technicians giving eight people national and world-wide attention.
All of their signs said the same thing: GOD HATES FAGS. The banner behind them shouted: DENNY JOHNSON IS A BLASPHEMOUS HOMOSEXUAL.
It was the most ludicrous thing I'd ever seen in my young life. The longer I stared, the more my blood began to boil. I wanted to rush them and tear the signs out of their gnarled fingers.
I could not believe the attention the media was giving this tiny group of bigots, homophobes and hate-mongers.
Whatever happened to reporters covering 'real' news? It seemed to me the media was here to promote a circus to raise ratings, news value be damned.
This 'religious' group was well-known around the country protesting gays, abortions and birth control. They created a media storm wherever they went.
Rational people wondered why the media treated a tiny group of extremists as news.
The 'minister' in charge of this 'flock' was a loud-mouthed crackpot who discovered early-on the more outrageous and crazy the rhetoric - the more media coverage he received.
Even the journalism majors I knew at school agreed the major media had become an embarrassing joke with their non-stop coverage of non-important-non-events.
I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder and heard an ominous voice behind me.
"John, what are you doing here?"
The hair on my neck stood straight - chills ran up-and-down my spine. I knew that voice and it scared the hell out of me. No, it wasn't Mr. Hanson; the voice belonged to someone much more sinister.
I turned and saw his face. He looked older than the last time I saw him.
"Oh...uh, 'hi' dad..." I said.
"How have you been, son? Your mother's been trying to reach you but you never return her calls," he said in that stern voice of his.
I didn't know what to say. I couldn't tell him the truth. I didn't want to admit that I had nothing to talk about with either one of them; that they wouldn't understand my life any more than I understood theirs.
"I know you've been very busy..." he said.
What did he mean by that? Uh oh-does he know what's been going on in my life?
"...what with school and your tutoring," he finished.
I sighed in relief. He didn't know anything. His golfing buddy, Professor Van Dyke, apparently hadn't told him what was happening in my life.
He squinted at my ballcap and unshaven face and I waited for him to criticize my appearance.
"Are you going to the game?" he asked instead.
"No, ah...I just wanted to see this for myself," I said, motioning at the circus.
He shook his head and said, "What a sorry spectacle..."
We had a moment of awkward silence. I was sad that I had nothing to say to my own father.
"You know, Thanksgiving is next week - mother is expecting you at three...why don't you come early and watch the football games with me," he said.
I was stunned! He never said that before; he and my brother always watched the games together.
