A gay story: Christmas Eve Homeless Dinner It was going to be a white Christmas. It was going to be a blinding snow white Christmas before my shift at West Virginia University’s Brooke Tower dining room was over and I was released to slide down the steep Morgantown street to my car. But I was in for it now. I was standing behind the food line ready to dip out the sweet potatoes and the homeless men we were feeding had already started streaming in to the dining hall. Homeless women were being accommodated elsewhere.
There was a tree here and Christmas music was being piped in. We’d been told to expect 120 of them–homeless men from the streets of Morgantown. From here they’d slide down North High Street to the Wesley United Methodist Church, where they’d find cots to sleep on and would wake up on Christmas morning to a breakfast there before being turned out into the cold and snow on Christmas Day. For an evening, night, and morning they’d be taken care of. Outside of Christmas they’d more or less be invisible.
I shuddered at the thought of being on Morgantown’s cold, windy, and hilly streets on Christmas Day in the snow. Luckily. that wouldn’t be me. I had a nice warm house to go home to and a cushy job as a history professor at the university to take up again in the new year. All very nice other than the loneliness of it. Over four years now of loneliness.
I could have been at home this evening, albeit probably alone. The house in the better, historic district of the town, was decked out for the holidays and I had a nicer Christmas tree there than the one they’d managed here in the Brooke Tower dining hall. Brooke Tower was a West Virginia University residence hall. The students were away, and the faculty hosted this Christmas Eve dinner for homeless men every year. Each year I wished we’d expand the service to the homeless over the Christmas vacation, and each year I determined to help that happen. But, so far, I hadn’t done that.
But I’d shown up every year for the last four years to work the food line here on Christmas Eve rather than spend it with friends or stewing alone at home in grief over what no longer was. It had been part of a promise I had made to the God I didn’t believe in four years ago at Thanksgiving. If he’d spare the life of my young partner, James, one of my doctoral students who had moved into my house and my bed, rather than let his weak heart take him, I’d dedicate my Christmas Eve to the faculty diner for homeless men. James was a brilliant student and a fantastic lover. Despite my plea, he’d died in the second week of that December. In my grief, I had signed for the Christmas Eve dinner anyway–and had just continued carrying through on that in subsequent years.
I was musing on this–how odd it was that I was still attending this event every year after my promissory prayer that prompted it hadn’t been granted–when I saw him arriving in the room. I’m not sure what made him stand out from the others, but he had a quality of James about him that gripped me and I’d just been thinking of James. I couldn’t really identify what it was. He was on the small, but well-formed side as James had been, but he was dark in coloring when James was a blond. And he moved with hesitancy and a bit of distance from the others moving into the room and looking for a place to sit before coming to the chow line. I’d seen some of these other men for years and most of them were comfortable with each other and were sectioning off in groups to sit with. This young man seemed isolated, unsure of himself.
He was as ragtag as the others–dressed in layering for the outside elements, with nothing matching anything else and some of it threadbare. Then I saw what maybe it was. It was his eyes. They were a milky blue. James’s eyes had been as well.
Well, that’s it then, I thought. And that wasn’t much, so I moved into position behind the sweet potatoes and waited for the onslaught. I was to man this position for the first go of the men through the line and then I’d be relieved by Stephen and was to go out and socialize with the men at the tables through dessert and until they started moving out toward the Methodist church. We wanted them to feel like we cared–that they mattered–if only on Christmas Eve.
* * * *
“Um, no thank you, sir. I’m not too fond of sweet potatoes.”
That took me back. This was one of the “heavy” dinner opportunities of the year for the homeless men. They typically piled up with everything that was on offer and came through the line a third time. I wasn’t used to having what I was spooning up turned down on the first trip down the line. He’d done it respectfully, though, and in a soft voice.
I looked up. It was the blue-eyed young guy who had brought James to mind.
“That’s fine. There’s plenty of everything else. And it looks like maybe you haven’t taken your share of everything else. Be sure and come through the line again,” I said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said and then he was gone. And I felt the loss of him. I couldn’t help myself. I connected with him somehow.
OK, yes, it was largely because he was my type. I wasn’t promiscuous in seeking gay sex, but I did so on occasion, usually on trips to the Charles Town race track rather than hooking up here in Morgantown. But I wasn’t shielded from having a type of submissive guy who pushed my buttons, and this guy did. This wasn’t the time and place, though, so I would just avoid him.
I of course didn’t avoid him. When Stephen relieved me behind the sweet potatoes and I moved out into the dining area to see who might be receptive to sitting with me as they finished their meal and having someone to talk to on Christmas Eve, I searched for and found him. He was sitting alone at one end of a table. Our chief organizer, Sally, a robust, jolly black woman, was engaging in conversation with two guys at the other end of the table. As I approach, I saw that she tried to pull my guy–I was already thinking of “Blue Eyes” as my guy–into that conversation, but Blue Eyes wasn’t responding. He was hunched over his plate, isolating from the world around him.
“Hi, it’s Mr. No Sweet Potatoes, isn’t it?” I asked, standing beside where he was sitting at the end of the table. “Mind of I take a load off my feet here for a few minutes?”
“Sure, I don’t mind,” the young man said. And, gratifyingly, I could tell that he really didn’t mind. He lifted his head and flashed me a special smile. When I was interested in a guy I could usually tell just by the way he looked at me whether he might be interested too. This guy looked like he might be interested. That made me feel all warm and fuzzy.
“I’m Gil,” I said, as I sat down across from him at the table.
“Cliff here,” he said.
“Hope you went back for seconds. You’ll need the energy for a snowy night like this.”
“Yes, thanks, I did.”
“But you bypassed the sweet potatoes.”
“You got me,” he said, and we both laughed.
“Not tanking up is unusual for the guys coming here,” I said. “Maybe you haven’t been homeless that long?”
“No, not very long.”
“Bad circumstances?”
“It just all imploded in on me. I had to drop out of college and was living out of my car, picking up work here and there when I could. Then the car got towed. I don’t know where. With everything I owned in it.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said. And I was sorry. There were so many stories like this that brought men to this position. “With luck, it’s all back up from here. At least we can hope for that,” I said. It sounded hollow even to me when I said it and I was embarrassed not to have anything more helpful to say. I had it all–in abundance–and I was only dedicating one evening in the year to helping anyone else to try to come back up from this. “How long have you been on the street, bedding down in shelters for the night?”
“A week tomorrow,” he said. “A week Christmas Day,” he added to make it all the more daunting. “But it’s just as well, I guess, that my stuff went with the car. I might be able to find the car some day with everything still in it, and if I’d had my stuff for the last week, it probably would just have been stolen from me in the shelter.”
“I’m so sorry, Cliff,” I said, touching his forehand with the fingers of my right hand without even thinking about it. He didn’t draw away.
“It is what it is,” he said, with a sigh and a small smile. He was looking down on where my fingers had made contact with his arm. He wasn’t pulling away.
“Why don’t you go see if there’s something you want for dessert,” I said.
“Sure. Bring you anything?”
“That would be nice. I’ll get us some coffee. You take anything in yours?”
“Cream and sugar–when I can get it.”
We were just settling down to dessert and coffee when Stephen was tapping on a mike at the front of the room to make sure it was live. “Sorry to interrupt, guys,” he said. “But I have bad news. The boiler at the Methodist church has given out. No heat there. We’ll have to make other arrangements for you tonight. But don’t worry, we’ll find someplace for you all. It just will take time.”
Groans erupted all around us.
“Don’t worry. We have Perry Como and Andy Williams Christmas albums to last all night here, if need be,” he added.
The groans increased.
At the other end of the table, Sally spoke up to the two guys she’d been talking to. I’d gotten the impression that she knew these men pretty well from previous dinners. “This could take all night,” she said. “And it’s Christmas Eve. Tell you what. I’ll check you two out to my care and you can come home with me for tonight.”
“Oh, we couldn’t impose on you like that,” one of the men said.
“You wouldn’t be imposing,” Sally answered. “My boys are in the military and not able to come home for Christmas. Their beds are there, empty. It’s Christmas Eve. I’d love to have a couple of young men to share this evening and Christmas Day with. I’ve got more fixings for a Christmas dinner than I can eat myself. I’d love you both staying over for that.”
The way she said it told the guys she meant it. They gave in without a fight.
I don’t know if I would have said and done what I did if Sally hadn’t set the precedent. But I did. I turned to Cliff and said, “It’s really the same with me,” I said. “I’ve got the room and would love to have the company. Instead of waiting around here for them to find you a shelter for the night, why don’t you come to my place? I live just over on Marion. Plenty of room. I can take you wherever you want to go tomorrow–assuming we aren’t snowed in. I think it’s still falling.”
Cliff didn’t put up much of a fight on that idea either.
The snow, indeed, was still falling when we left Brooke Tower and slid down the steep hill to where I’d parked the car.
“Great car,” Cliff said. “It’s a Lexus, isn’t it? Their sports version.”
“Yes.”
“Bet it’s given you a lot of pleasure to drive.”
“Not as much as I had hoped,” I said. And now thoughts of my lost partner, James, swam up from the depths for the first time since I’d sat down to talk with Cliff. I’d gotten a lot of toys like the Lexus RC 300 in the wake of James’s death to help make up for the loss of him. None of them had done that.
* * * *
“My, how festive,” Cliff said as we drove up to my large Victorian house on Marion Street.
“It is rather meant for the season,” I said. It was painted crimson red, with ivory trimmings. The white lights I had it outlined in and had left on when I went into the university to help serve dinner set it off beautifully. I hadn’t left lights on inside, though, and when, standing in the foyer, I was able to bring up from there the lights on the Christmas tree next to the fireplace in the living room, the gas logs in the fireplace, the lights in the garlands lining the tops of the bookcases, and the Josh Groban Christmas album on the CD player, Cliff laughed.
“Talk about ready,” he said. I didn’t pursue exactly what he meant by that. I didn’t think I had to pursue it. We’d been on a sexual connection beam since I’d sat down to have dessert with him. Neither one of us had to say anything. We both knew. It was Christmas Eve. We both wanted something special.
“I was determined to have something special for Christmas Eve even if I had to have it alone,” I said. I’d had the commitment to serve the dinner. That didn’t really leave any opening to have a date or to spend the evening with university faculty friends.
“And now you won’t be having it alone. I’m sorry to be intruding.”
“You’re not intruding, Cliff,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get us some wine. You drink red wine, don’t you?”
“When I had a life I did,” he answered.
“Having someone to spend Christmas Eve with is a present for me,” I said. “If you could have a Christmas present, what would it be?”
“Really?” he asked. “Let me think.” He laughed. “You’ll think I’m being silly.”
“No I won’t. What is it?”
“What I’d really, really like for Christmas this year is a long, hot shower.”
It was my turn to laugh then. “Of course you would. What was I thinking? That can happen. Go on up the stairs. The main bathroom is to the right. There’s a robe hanging in there and everything else you need. Take your time. Indulge.”
He did take his time and indulge. When he reappeared, though, he wasn’t wearing the robe. I had a large Turkish towel hanging in that bath too, the kind that wrapped around your waist and was held with ties. He, bare-chested and barefooted, was wearing that–and nothing else–when he padded downstairs. “I hope you don’t mind. The robe was really too large.”
“Yes, I guess it would be,” I said, gauging again our relative sizes. We were both fit and built well. He just was on a whole smaller scale than I was–like James had been. Although James had been blond and Cliff was dark. Both with those pale blue eyes one could swim in, though. Both sexy as hell. Both giving me an erection.
“Here, let’s sit on the sofa, facing the tree and the fire. Here’s your glass of red. Hope Josh Groban is good enough.”
“A whole lot better than those other ancient dudes the guy at the dining hall mentioned.” We both laughed. We turned to each other and smiled. He lifted his wine glass in salute and I answered with mine.
When the first kiss came, it seemed so natural and right.
* * * *
Naked, I was sitting on, buried into the sofa. Cliff, naked, was straddling my lap, facing me, cupping my head in his hands, mesmerizing me with the intense gaze of his pale blue eyes. His knees were buried into the back of the sofa, and he was rising and falling, rising and falling, on my erection. I grasped his waist between my hands and helped him rise and fall, slowly at first, and then increasingly rapidly until we both gave a cry and collapsed into each other with a sigh of release.
“Sorry, I didn’t plan this,” I murmured.
“No need to be sorry,” he said. “I may have. I don’t know.”
“It just that… reminding me of someone else…”
“No don’t. This is us. This isn’t you and someone else. Let’s just enjoy this. I must say I’m getting a bit tired of Josh Groban. Are there bedrooms upstairs.?”
“Of course there are,” I answered. “You probably know there are. You’ve been up there.”
“Well then.”
* * * *
I woke up in one of the en suite guest room beds with light coming through the open door of the bathroom. The beam of light was picking Cliff out struggling into the clothes we’d run through the washer and dryer earlier in the evening. He was trying to be quiet, but I’m a light sleeper and woke. We did it–more than once–in a guest room bed because I wasn’t yet prepared to take someone into the master bedroom bed I’d shared with James. In my dreams, though, we were in my bedroom, which was, I think, telling me something important.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Come back to bed. I’ll fix us a good breakfast in the morning and then drive you wherever you want to go–if that’s what you want.” I left it hanging there, open for discussion on more than a one-night-stand.
“I’m embarrassed. So ashamed,” he said. “I’ve got to go. I had an assignment, and I’ve blown it.”
“An assignment? What time is it?”
“It’s just 1:00 a.m. There’s time for me to do what I was supposed to be doing.”
“What you were supposed to be doing?”
“I wasn’t straight with you. I’m not really homeless. I’m a newspaper reporter. I was supposed to be doing the homeless thing over Christmas and writing a feature about it for the Washington Post. But then there was you… and this.”
“You lied? You’re not homeless?”
“Nope. Afraid not.”
“So, all that about being on the street for a week, living out of your car before that, and your car being towed away with everything you owned in it was just bullshit?” I was working up to being pissed.
“Oh, no. All of that happened to me. It’s why I could write the article. It just happened to me a couple of years ago. Never did get the car and what was in it back. I worked my way out of it–the homelessness. But I experienced it, so I can write about it. I’ve screwed this up now, though. I’m not doing the whole thing. The dinner at the university was one thing, but I’ve got to get to a shelter tonight to experience that into Christmas morning. Sorry. I don’t think we’re far from the university. I need to go back to where we had dinner and see if I can get into a shelter tonight.”
I no longer was building an anger. “So, you’ll have to live that life through Christmas Day?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so–if I can understand how that is now.”
“Tell you what. I’ll get dressed and drive you over to Brooke Tower and leave you there if they are still trying to get guys into shelters tonight. And if they aren’t there anymore, I know who to call to make arrangements.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. And no hard feelings, I hope. I don’t mean to walk out on you. It’s been great. It really has. It’s just that I have to… this story is important. People need to be reminded that there are those who are on a thin thread at Christmas time and dependent on the generosity of others.”
“I’ll drive you on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you come back here on the 26th and that we have a late Christmas here then–and that we discuss something more often, maybe more permanent. If that’s OK with you?” I could feel myself faltering. I was just an old fool. Maybe this hadn’t meant as much to him as it had to me.
“Yes, yes, I’d like that,” he said, making me melt, swimming in his openness, his willingness–and his pale blue eyes.