I rarely write about straight guys. I find them to be, well, rather flighty. But in the interest of LGBT civility to all God's web-footed creatures, let me tell you about my oddball neighbor Glen Flexit. A piece of work.
I met Glen last year. Our meeting was brief. He buzzed my apartment door. Expecting DBT ("door bell trade"), I opened. He whispered "John 3:16," turned and vanished down the hall. Thinking I'd been invited to a promising, exciting, memorable Sunday brunch I hurried down two flights.
There was no John at 316, just a tired Jane in a terry cloth robe and haphazard curlers, who said, "Whatever you're selling, I don't want any!" and slammed the door in my startled, disappointed face. Alas, no orgy with finger food. Or, Glen Flexit.
A week later Glen hit on me again. "Jeremiah 29:5!" he winked and quickly disappeared once more. I gave it another go and this time elevated up twenty-eight flights. Surprise of surprises, a Jewish couple actually lived rooftop there.
I had tea, blintzes, a nice chat. (I hit it off with their poodle named Putzer.) They hadn't a clue about who Glen Flexit is. ("Oy vey! Another goyishe-kopf!")
My third encounter with Glen Flexit was on the elevator. He stepped on, beamed, shook my hand, and said, "God and Donald Trump love you! Have a blessed day, big guy." Before I could protest, "I'm too old for long-distance, one-sided, pussy-wussy romances," Glen was off and running again.
The next thing I know pamphlets were being pushed under my apartment door at odd hours. Copies of "Detroit: Sin City USA," "Let Jesus Rapture You!," "Fags Aflame!" The sci-fi literature kept me awake. I was a basket case.
Then, before you could shout out, "Armageddon at Menjo's! Grab your jockey shorts!" it stopped. No more pamphlets. No Glen. Nothing …
Strange to tell I start to miss the guy even if he is straight. He seems a nice paint-by-numbers sort. You know the type. Pin-stripe shirt. Bow tie. Plaid sports coat. Four-pocket cargo shorts. Argyle socks. Penny loafers. Drip-dry bliss in winter and in summer. He just needs a few friendly tips on living from a pro. (Unfortunately not my cup of spiked oolong tea.)
Six months pass before we meet by chance again at a crowded gym. What a surprise! Shoulder-length hair. Gold rings on biceps. Heroic sandals. Leather headband. Glen Flexit looks like a Ben Hur cab driver with his meter running.
"Wow! Were have you been all my life?" I ask the prodigal son. "I've had an intervention," confides Glen Flexit, sipping a flirtatious cappuccino. "My family hijacked me to a Fundy Movie Conversion Marathon." "Good grief, dude, what's that?" I ask.
"Well, to keep me from going overboard on the Holy Roller Express I was given 24/7 hours of nonstop reparative viewing." "Go on," I urge.
"Not much to tell. Exhausting nonetheless. And scary. I was locked in a padded, giant-screen TV room with Grade B Bible flicks playing day and night. Day and night!
"You know: Samson and Delilah, Sodom and Gomorrah, King of Kings, Ten Commandment, Mel Gibson's Passion of Christ (in Latin!), Sound of Music, Flying Nun reruns. Left Behind serials. Something clicked. I haven't 3:16'd or 29:5'd a soul since I got out."
(Therapeutic thanks to Julie Andrews, Sally Field, Charlton Heston, Cecil B. DeMille, and Jeffrey Hunter, as that hunky, blue-eyed Good Guy from Galilee.)
