Parting Glances
I rarely write about straight guys. I've known a few in my life. I find them to be, well, somewhat flighty. But in the interest of civility to all God's web-footed creatures let me tell you about one, Glen.
I met Glen two years ago. Our meeting was exceptionally brief. He buzzed my door. I opened. He smiled and shouted, "John Three Sixteen," turned and vanished down the hall.
Thinking I had been invited to a Sunday brunch I went down two floors. There was no John at 316, just a tired Jane, hungover in a terry cloth robe. A week later Glen hit on me again. "Romans 1215," he boomed, and disappeared.
Thinking it might be a midnight orgy, I gave it another go. Seven flights up I was disappointed. A lively Jewish couple. I had kosher coffee, blintzes, a nice chat. They have a neutered poodle named Mitzy Putzer.
My next meeting with Glen was on the elevator. He stepped on, beamed, shook my hand, and said, "Heaven loves you! Have a bless'd day." Before I could protest, "I'm too old for long-distance romances," he was off and humming.
The next thing I knew pamphlets were being shoved under my door. "Sin City USA," "God, America, and The Transgendered Agenda," "The Rapture's Near!" The sci-fi fiction angle kept me awake. Then before you could holler, "Armageddon at the TNT! Grab your shorts!" it stopped. Weeks went by. No Glen. No pamphlets.
Strange to tell, I missed the guy. He seemed a nice paint-by-numbers sort. You know the type. Pinstriped shirt. Bow tie. Plaid sport coat. Four-pocket cargo shorts. Argyles and loafers. Drip-dry bliss in all kinds of weather.
Six months passed before we met again. What a surprise! Shoulder-length hair. Gold rings on biceps. Heroic, golden sandals. He looked like a Ben Hur cab driver. "Wow! Where have you been all our dull, drab lives?" I asked the prodigal pamphleteer.
"I've had an intervention," giggled Glen, sipping a pina colada. "Friends hijacked me to a Cinema Conversion Marathon." "Good grief, Glen. What's that?" I asked, just a tad curious.
"Well, to keep me from going too Chicken Little – the sky is falling everybody! – I was given 100 nonstop hours of reparative viewing." "Go on." I urged. "Not much to tell, really," blushed Glen, nursing a second colada with pink umbrella.
"I was locked in a padded TV room with Grade B (as in biblical) flicks playing day in, night out, wide screen, full blast. You know. The Ten Commandments. Samson and Delilah. King of Kings. Sodom and Gomorrah. Sound of Music. Left Behind. And – I nearly went Holy Ghost bonkers – Flying Nun reruns!
"Something clicked. I haven't 3:16'd or Roman Twelve'd a soul since I got out. I've become a new dude. I've been truly born again (giggle, giggle). By the way, you can call me Glenda. B Cup 32."
(Therapeutic thanks to Cecil B. DeMille, Julie Andrews, Tim LaHay, Sally Field, Mel Gibson, Charlton Heston, and Jeffrey Hunter, as that blue-eyed Good Guy from Galilee.)
