THE FLASHER

There’s a time and place for nudity. Stepping into the shower after a morning jog. Yep, soap up all those sweaty bits. At the doctor’s office when that dreaded part of the physical comes up where he has to check for lumps on the testicles and give the “all clear” regarding the prostate (while I ramble on about a hike I did near Whistler—not that he’s interested; I just need to normalize an awkward situation). Sex, I suppose…if keeping a shirt on feels stuffy and the belly isn’t still showing off last night’s dinner. (Why did I eat the entire loaf of sourdough?)

 

For me, that’s it. I’m out of nudity scenarios. I don’t vacuum naked. I don’t plop my bare ass on the sofa while watching Jeopardy. I don’t skinny dip in the river at the cottage. (Lurking somewhere near the bottom are really big fish called muskies with countless teeth. I don’t want them mistaking anything for a worm.) 

 

I like clothes. 

 

Not long after arriving at the family cottage in Ontario, I got a message from Farmer Luc on the only dating-or-whatever app I still have on my phone. A polite, if say-nothing note: “Good morning.” Farmer Luc was the same age as me and apparently eleven kilometers away. That’s basically next door when you’re in rural surroundings. I noticed he’d actually bothered to fill out parts of his profile with words—sentences! Sounded like a normal guy. I’m done with dating, but I thought I should be neighborly. I good morning-ed back.

 

Your move, Farmer Luc. Now maybe you’ll really have to say something.

 

He fired off three thousand words. Or the equivalent if you ascribe to that notion that a picture is worth a thousand. 

 

Farmer Luc doesn’t like clothes as much as I do.

 

The fly buzzing around in the cottage may have noticed my eye roll. I had deleted Grindr. I thought I’d put an end to unsolicited nude shots. Clearly, Farmer Luc was intent on bucking that stereotypical image of farmers in overalls, a strand of hay dangling between front teeth. (It’s true. The hay thing would have been a turn off. I’m not a dentist so no bonus points are awarded for creative flossing.)

 

Farmer Luc had nothing to be embarrassed about. Apparently he could resist whole loaves of bread on one go and something about the daily tasks in tending to cows and chickens had flattered his biceps. Maybe it was all that manure shoveling.

 

I am rather certain Farmer Luc hadn’t wanted me to visualize manure shoveling when he sent me three thousand words. 

 

After making sure my eye roll registered with the fly—a genuine protest—I messaged back: “Happy to meet for a coffee in town if you’re interested.”

 

Like a GPS recalibrating after going too far, he replied. “So sorry if I was too forward. Yes, coffee would be nice.”

 

All right then. We met a few days later at a café. He showed up fully clothed—shorts and a polo shirt that still showed off his biceps which still made me think of shoveling manure. (I can fixate on things…often the wrong things.)

 

The conversation was fine. Nothing kinetic. I’d mentioned I was dog-sitting while my aunt and uncle were on a cruise and he shared about his first cruise last year. 

 

A gay cruise. My nightmare, being stuck at sea with too many attention-seekers. 

 

A nudist gay cruise. Okay, my worst nightmare. 

 

I withheld judgment. I conjured Lady Gaga and maintained my best Poker Face. I nonchalantly asked him about food and ports of call. 

 

Presumably, he poker faced it too instead of revealing what a prude he may have thought I was. Why hadn’t I asked any titillating questions? In my twenties and early thirties, I went to many coffees—and yogurt shops when in L.A.—to hear other gay guys offer retellings of their sexcapades. (No surprise, I had none.) The whole kiss and tell thing just feels passé. 

 

Yes, I know. Prude. Once and always.

 

Ten minutes into my ride back to the cottage, I had a message from Farmer Luc. I did not check it while driving. The non-cruise part of the coffee conversation had revealed a sense that he might feel somewhat isolated as a gay man in rural Ontario. I presumed the message would be about arranging another coffee, maybe dinner. I figured I’d be fine with that. Since I come here every year, it would be nice to develop a new friendship.

 

Once back at the cottage, I checked Farmer Luc’s message. Five thousand “words” this time. A different kind of invitation. 

 

Maybe the poker face response had been a bad call. Somehow none of my prudishness came through or, if it did, all his isolation made him rusty on social cues (and non-cues). 

 

I countered with another offer of coffee. He responded with a day that looked glitchy for me. He must have viewed this as playing too hard to get…not that I was ever to be gotten. I didn’t hear back again. Lots of tasks to tend to on the farm, I’m sure. 

 

Just as well. My biggest work-around during our single coffee outing had been avoiding a certain conversation-killing question: “What are all the cows for?” As someone who has been a vegetarian for forty years for humane reasons, I could have accepted “dairy” as part of the response but he’d mentioned “selling the cows.” That had been an answer, hadn’t it? 

 

Farmer Luc and I were never going to be anything regardless of the size of his biceps or anything else, no matter if we found common ground for ongoing conversation. Eleven kilometers between us…so close in one context but still worlds away. I will most definitely be keeping my clothes on.

 

 

  

INSTA-GAIN & INSTA-SHAME

A quick plug:

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM!

rxtraveler

 

As a writer still clinging to big dreams, I am aware that the writing itself is not always enough. I must somehow stand out from all the other writers who dream big. 

 

I can bemoan a lot of things that make making it seem unfair. How much of Madonna’s picture book did she actually write? Why doesn’t a New York editor stumble on this blog and declare, “We must publish this! All of it! And more!”? Why can’t I be seated next to an agent on a flight, have her volunteer this fact and then say, “We’ve got three hours. Tell me all about your manuscripts”? 

 

I’m flying again next week. When I check in, I’ll ask to trade my window seat for one beside a literary agent. “Pardon me, sir?” Worth a try.

 

At writers’ conferences and in articles in writing magazines, both of which thrive based on us (desperate) dreamers, it’s often said writers need a platform. We need to be known. Five appearances on CNN panels last month, a cute shout-out to the number 5 on Sesame Street (with Grover, pretty please!) and a Live chat with Kelly Ripa that goes viral for all the right reasons. 

 

If not all that, well, maybe a lot of followers on social media. That’s something, isn’t it?

 

The hope is that, if an agent and publisher take a chance on me, I’ll earn them money, not just from positive word of mouth and a Pulitzer Prize, but from me tweeting to my 7,000 followers on Twitter: “Hey! Me again. Buy my book. Pulitzer stickers on the cover mean something. It makes a great Christmas present too…for EVERYONE on your list! Even a great read-aloud for your toddler!” My 7,000 tweeps love me. Only three of them may like my latest selfie but they’ll surely pounce on my buy-my-book pleas. (Please!)

 

The trouble is I can’t make sense of Twitter anymore. I scroll, I try to connect, I feel I’m in a black hole. I didn’t even bother tweeting a pic of my latest haircut. 

 

But there’s still that big dream about being a famous, acclaimed, published author. I’ve taken to Instagram. I don’t know what the magic number is for an agent or editor to glance at my account and think, “There it is. Platform. Ka-ching!” I’m pretty sure 281 million would do it (Easy to forget about the haters, Taylor) or even 4.1M (Anderson Cooper!) or 3.4M (Kelly Ripa). I’m hoping 10,000 makes an impression, too.

 

Not that I’m there. I started posting on Instagram 318 days ago, sticking to the respectful one post per day, and I’ve gained 2,000 followers. A good start. 

 

Perusing other Insta accounts, I see many with thousands of followers despite only a handful of posts. Bots, I suspect. Plus, every day Instagram reminds me I can boost my account for a fee. I suppose I too can have a bevy of fake followers. I don’t want to go there. I’m saving my money for my next trip, my next writing conference and the next issue of a writing magazine with LANDING YOUR BOOK DEAL IN 2024 emblazoned on the cover. I’m a sucker but a selective one.

 

Every single person I follow on Twitter or Instagram has an account I’ve spent a few moments scrutinizing. Is it active? Are there signs the person is real and not just a re-poster on Twitter or someone who copies Google Images onto Insta? On the latter site, I refrain from following people whose entire account consists of selfies. (How about just one where the Taj Mahal or Van Gogh’s “Irises” isn’t relegated to background fodder?) I skip the ones where there’s always a woman with long hair and a big hat, her back always turned to the camera, no face reveal. These, I suspect are AI-generated. I also pass when one or more of the three latest photos includes dead game, a closeup of lip fillers or a man who misplaced his shirt. Sorry, but these are previews of what will fill my feed and I choose not to volunteer to be traumatized on a daily basis. (We all have different triggers.)

 

I do follow normal people, even interesting ones. My Instagram account may have a goal of building a platform to shuck my book—er, books—but, unlike Twitter, I’m also genuinely enjoying the site. I have a new appreciation for productive knitters. There’s a guy in Miami whose macramé reminds me of origami. (I mean that in a good way.) There’s a woman in Vancouver who posts pics of graffiti and I feel an odd (misplaced?) sense of triumph each time I can say, “Been there!” 

 

Since my Instagram is specifically connected to an in-progress collection of essays about mental health, I have a big following of people who, like me, have been diagnosed as bipolar. Their posts sometimes strive to uplift, other times address challenges and often avoid mental health altogether. (A bowl of blackberries with a mint leaf gets a “like” from me.) 

 

I tell myself Instagram will make me better at snapping pictures with my phone. I follow many photographers and, maybe by osmosis, I’m learning how to better frame a shot and how to make the mundane photo-worthy. One day, I too will get more than a thousand likes for a hiking shot or an artful image of a half-eaten piece of dry toast. 

 

There is one aspect of my search for followers that troubles me. I hesitate every single time I come across a man’s account. My little bio blurb includes a rainbow flag. I’m gay or perhaps something more vaguely queer. (The menu has so much more to choose from these days.) 

 

Despite all the hype about Pride, I’m still on shaky ground. I’m happy to be who I am, but I continue to feel there are many people who feel otherwise. I have always been guarded around straight men. There is a level of Trumped-up testosterone that I imagine to be present. With that, intolerance. 

 

I can hear queer advocates labeling me as having internalized homophobia, shaming me in the process. I’m not Proud enough. 

 

True. I have an aversion to having my identity dismissed, mocked or packaged into an overblown cry of intolerance.

 

If this were 2015, when Obama was president and the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed the right to equal marriage, I’d be less wary. I’d presume instead that a man I followed on social media who did not identify as gay or queer would be open and accepting. He’d follow me because of my photos or my writing blurbs or just as a polite formality. (Maybe he’s building a platform, too.)    

 

I know there’s more acceptance now, but I also know there is a hate that’s more entrenched—bolder and emboldened by politicians who emphasize differences and feed off fear, scoring political points and accruing larger financial donations by eschewing tough issues like climate change, healthcare and the economy for cheap shots at minorities who don’t align with their party in the first place. 

 

There is no Hippocratic oath for politicians. While I believe there are some who enter politics with good intentions, trying to navigate the gamesmanship while maintaining integrity, I also know there are many who are Machiavellian. Do harm if it means gain. 

 

I hate my hesitation in deciding whether to follow a man on Instagram. I scan the photos and the teeny bio to see if there’s anything that hints at intolerance. Despite great content, I have talked myself out of following a guy from Montana, someone with a bushy beard and a dude with a propensity for baseball caps. I’m making assumptions. 

 

I’ve never had someone on Instagram spew hate as a comment to my photo of a mountain or even my pic of rainbow-painted stairs, but I brace for that day. I’ve been blindsided by hateful rhetoric in real life many times. I know the most likely response for a person uncomfortable about any aspect of my Instagram account is to not follow me back, his reasoning never known.

 

My Insta hesitance is a reminder I am not as settled in my skin as I wish I could be. I am still more vulnerable than I should be. I may never shake self-hate and presumed hate. So often, I decide not to follow that man and the man after that. I feel shame, but I also feel safe.

 

Getting to 10,000 followers will take longer. In the meantime, I have manuscripts to finish, revisions to make and agents to accost in airports. 

 

Another shameless plug…

My Instagram account:

rxtraveler

 

 

 

  

ALIGN YOUR ALLIES

There’s a wonderful clip of Democratic Vice Presidential nominee Tim Walz speaking before the Human Rights Campaign this past weekend. He says, “It’s easy to be an ally when it’s easy to be an ally. What really matters is knowing who’s going to be at your side and stand up when it’s hard.” He said this after sharing an anecdote about stepping up to be the advisor to the Gay-Straight Alliance at the high school where we worked as a coach and teacher in the ’90s.

 

I was a teacher then as well. I worked in elementary school and we didn’t have GSAs at the time. Still, I’m not sure I would have stepped up had I been asked. In some regards, Coach Walz was bolder than me. I would like to think I would have done it, but I know I would have at least hesitated. I would have told myself it would be easier for a straight coach to take on the role. Coach Walz married his wife, Gwen, in 1994. Any whispers about him being gay (since he supported a gay club) would not have gained traction and, even if they had, he could easily shake them off. He was a straight man, no doubt about it. 

 

I, on the other hand, was openly gay on staff. It was easy at that particular school since three other gay men were on the faculty. One of them zeroed in on me on my first day subbing at the school before I landed a regular position. I was not out among students and parents. One parent suspected I was gay and, during the first week of school went to the principal to demand that her daughter be assigned to a different grade seven classroom. The principal acquiesced. The episode shook me. The student really liked me from my days subbing at the school. I know she’d have been highly motivated in my class and she’d have thrived. But mama was a homophobe and the principal liked “problems” to go away ASAP.

 

I became more closeted at all the schools I worked at thereafter. There wasn’t another gay colleague on any of those staffs. I never shook that worry that someday everything might blow up on me. Multiple parents would complain, students would be in the know and snicker constantly in class, my credibility tarnished by a distraction. What if a student made a false allegation? I never came out again to any group at any school. I felt certain staff knew and many parents as well but no one raised the subject and I grew resentful of always having to make what felt like dramatic reveals about my sexual orientation in any area of my life. I grew very adept at handling gay putdowns when students would try to belittle one another. These were teachable moments and I never shied away from them. I was an unofficial ally, but I never stepped up specifically as a role model. 

 

Hats off to the Coach Walzes of the world. Hats off to the queer teachers who had photos of their partners proudly displayed on their desks. (Most of my years, I didn’t have a partner. Pics of my schnauzers assumed prominent spots on my desk instead.)

 

Whether it is for students or for adults who identify as something under the LGBTQ+ umbrella, allies are still vital. Allies need to be seen and heard now as much as at any point in my lifetime. We have had allies step up during the AIDS crisis, when the right to work in the military was at stake, when protections from housing and employment discrimination were up for debate and when gay adoption and marriage equality were at play.

 

Queer rights remain at issue. For my entire life, they have been used for political purposes to drive a wedge between voting blocs, to divide based on differences rather than to unite in spite of them. (Oh, how refreshing it would be to be embraced and accepted, once and for all! In my lifetime? Still a dream.)

 

Now is a time to forsake timidity—my old standby demeanor—and embrace the boldness within us. It is time to actively support the queers with the biggest target on their backs: trans and non-binary folks. It is time to engage in conversation to better understand what trans people are up against. If you don’t have a trans friend or acquaintance or if they don’t feel like bearing the weight of educating everyone for whom they are the token trans friend/acquaintance, then there is plenty that can be read through podcasts, firsthand blogs and published memoirs. Dig a little. Get out of your bubble. 

 

I fully believe that denials of trans rights will embolden haters to rollback other queer rights. Pride festivals, most of which are over and done with for this year, create an illusion of acceptance and may instill a sense of complacency rather than empowerment. Look at our numbers! Bigger than a Trump crowd!

 

On the macro level, Pride celebrations are easy events in terms of queer participation and allyship. (Yes, at a micro level, a questioning or newly out person makes bold steps attending any Pride function. I shook with both excitement and fear—what if I’m on news footage?—when I went to my first parade.)

 

Globally, there are swings to the right, as happened recently in Germany and as I fear will happen in the next Canadian federal election. All eyes seem to be on the U.S. right now and the stakes couldn’t be higher in terms of free press, democracy, women’s rights and, yes, LGBTQ rights. Trans people are being played in a political version of Fear Factor with ludicrous talk about girls losing places on sports teams, children undergoing operations while at school and, still, invasions of bathroom spaces. Indignancy about pronouns gets tossed in, too. All this goes unchecked in conservative media, for many their chosen—and only—source of “news.” All this also riles up those who don’t know queer people, who don’t hear about queer experiences, who don’t see how much alike queer people are to them. 

 

It's time for queers to do a little bonding. It’s also time for allies to have the conversations that queers get shut down from having. This would be one of those times that Tim Walz is referring to as when it’s harder to be an ally. These talks can make a difference, maybe not with too-far-gone Uncle JD (don’t bother; just keep away to protect your sanity), but with sheltered cousin Ken and good-at-heart neighbor Carol.

 

When my parents, who live in Texas, visited in June, I talked about more of my own negative experiences. I got very specific about what felt like homophobic harassment on several occasions with U.S. Border Patrol agents. I talked about my trans friend who has gone through a momentous year in terms of their journey to live their true identity. I talked as well about how trans people are being used as pawns.

 

At first, my parents tried to shrug things off. “Oh, that’s just Trump,” and “We vote based on other issues.” But I persisted. They have the privilege of shrugging because they are not targeted. But this rising culture of hate is deeply personal to me and choosing to vote based on other issues does not send a clear message that hate will not be tolerated. It tacitly allows it. These politicians take my parents, lifelong conservatives, fiscally especially, for granted. In the pocket. Without taking a stand, or at least not voting in certain political races, homophobe-pedaling politicians keep the traditional conservatives while riling and building up a base that does respond to unchecked allegations of They/Thems taking over the country, somehow taking something away from lowercase them. 

 

Eventually my parents said, “We didn’t know.” (They are Wall Street Journal readers rather than Fox News watchers.) I knew this was the right moment for me to say with conviction, “It affects me. This is personal. This affects your son and so many other people just trying to live their own normal lives.” 

 

It got quiet after that. When people truly listen, they also need time to process. 

 

Did they shift?

 

Maybe? A little bit? 

 

I had my say. I know that. It’s time for LGBTQ+ people and our allies to step into this harder time, to make sure loved ones living in conservative bubbles hear another side. Truth. It’s time to be polite—shouting and putdowns aren’t going to create forums for listening much less lead to progress—but resolute. LGBTQ+ issues matter. Our advocacy, as queers or allies, is essential.

STILL GOT IT

I’m teary today. It comes with being scared. I’ve just past the five-month marker for severe food restriction. 

 

Funny, I used to count months in terms of being in a relationship. With that kaput, it’s about months of food deprivation. Segued smoothly from one to the other, with one month of numbing and hoping for a change of heart in between. 

 

I’ve gotten myself into a troubling spot. It could all be fine. I’ve been restricting food for decades. I’ve been at this level—and worse—before but never this long. 

 

This past week, I went for a reassessment of my eating disorder. I’d gone undiagnosed for so many years and then in 2017, I was finally told I had anorexia nervosa. I cried. It was a strange relief to finally hear that something I’d long felt was “off” with me was indeed an issue. I felt seen, understood. The label mattered. I could receive support from psychiatrists, counsellors, dietitians, nurses and occupational therapists. I could finally be present with others who had eating disorders, hear their stories, nod along. They could listen to me and nod back. I was with compassionate people who understood the struggle.

 

Throughout 2018 and 2019, I tried everything available—outpatient support, hospitalization, a group home. I was connected but neither my behaviours nor my mindset changed. Due to funding issues and the high demand for support for persons with eating disorders, my access to support was cut off after two years as a matter of course. I left the program knowing I officially had a problem and realizing I was stuck. I could sit out for six months and then seek service again, but I didn’t see the point. Without progress, I was taking someone else’s spot. 

 

I was fine. My life was different than others. Not as carefree; more rules of my own making. But it was an existence I could live with. 

 

In my two-year relationship, I was open about my eating disorder. I invited questions and answered honestly when the occasional discussion came up. I did everything I could to try to minimize the impact of my rules during our shared experiences. I exercised when it would have the least impact. I restricted but also ate regular meals, full portions. I even questioned which of us was the more disordered eater. His intake always seemed less. 

 

In the end, my rules were cited during the breakup. I’d been open about my mental health challenges, including those beyond the eating disorder. I don’t think he ever truly understood. I had unpacked all my “baggage” within the first week of us being together. I really wish he’d said his “No thank you” then and shown me the door. An early exit would have been more humane.

 

My reassessment took two hours. (There were already two updated blood tests and three ECGs on file.) As things shifted to talk about programming available to me, I interrupted and said, “So…I still have an eating disorder?”

 

“Yes. Severe. Anorexia nervosa.”

 

The “severe” was new. I knew this but hearing a professional say it was difficult. I wanted to break down but fought it off. With a hand, I was able to wipe away the few tears that welled up and finally trickled down my cheeks. 

 

Early on during the appointment, she told me I needed to cancel my upcoming travel plans. I am scheduled to be away for six weeks and this is delaying my cardiology appointments as well as access to eating disorder programming. I shook my head. Part of my trip is about building on social connections that are vital to me since, in Vancouver, I am rather isolated from deep relationships. I also managed to convey over the rest of my appointment how travel lifts me and how I even eat more when my routine has to adapt to different environments. I treat myself more. I allow things that are no-gos on home turf. 

 

So, yes, travel before treatment. The interventions have to wait. My decision. Still, it is scary. There are more what-ifs about my physical health now. I’ve heard a couple of frightening things from my family doctor and my psychiatrist. The remarks shook me so much I knew not to ask any follow-up questions. I was too startled and I couldn’t handle any more detailed information. I most certainly won’t be Googling.

 

Make it go away.

 

The information. The eating disorder.

 

The problem, however, is just what I said during my reassessment. “I can’t stop.” It was another teary moment. She nodded. We both knew this. That’s an inherent part of having an eating disorder, especially one that is severe.

 

I don’t sleep well. I don’t exercise well. Basically, I don’t function well right now. Nightmare scenarios play out in my head. I’m hoping travel will offer the distraction it always does. Let my mind and body rest. 

 

Let me be ready when I return to will some sort of change for the better.

 

  

BANISHED BOOKS

Sometimes I subject myself to punishment. Not in a masochistic way. There’s no gratification. In this case, it was to affirm a sad truth I already knew. 

 

I’d had a medical appointment last week on Vancouver’s Davie Street which was once the heart of the city’s “gay village.” That always seemed sad in and of itself. There’s never been anything pretty about the street. There were gay bars and gay businesses scattered among a hodgepodge of other establishments—a bakery that always seemed to have a lot of flies doing aerobatic loops, a hardware store that made mops and dustpans look especially dull, an overrated Greek restaurant that always had people lining the sidewalk. I lived in the area for a year or two and avoided most of the spots, not needing an apricot Danish, another toilet bowl cleaner or an instant, unanimous rejection at Celebrities as Crystal Waters sang “100% Pure Love.” The videostore was my most frequent destination.

 

The clubs are still there though I haven’t been in one in about a decade. The hardware store and bakery remain. Same for the Greek restaurant though I don’t think it draws the lines it once did.  The videostore is, alas, long gone. 

 

After my appointment, I should have headed east to begin the half hour walk home, but I paused and opted to go one more block in the other direction. Tucked away off Davie Street is Little Sister’s, a business I first knew from its previous location on the second floor of an old house on Thurlow Street. Back then, in the ’90s, it was a queer bookstore that always had people milling about, checking out books and each other. This was a place to be amongst other queers without having to order a drink. If no one made a move to take you home, you could at least leave with a work of fiction by Paul Monette, Armistead Maupin or a hot, new author, “hot” because he had a certain way with words, not necessarily on account of his photo on the back flap. 

 

The bookstore is very much part of gay history in Vancouver. It endured an ongoing battle with the Canada Border Services Agency which blocked the importation of various books the authority deemed obscene. Little Sister’s sued the government in 1990 and the case slooowly made its way through the court system until, a full decade later, the Canadian Supreme Court ruled in favor of the bookstore, stating the border agency had violated the Charter of Rights and Freedoms which protects against discrimination based on, inter alia, sexual orientation. 

 

A book once banned from entry
into Canada for delivery to
Little Sister's.

Also, of note, the bookstore had been smoke-bombed three times at its prior location, acts of intimidation that did not lead to the business shuttering. Thus, Little Sister’s was more than a place to buy a book by Maupin, or the blocked children’s book, Belinda’s Bouquet, or maybe even a titillating magazine. Its struggles reflected our own, as it trudged on despite hatred and discrimination. 

 

In 1996, the bookstore opened at its new location. Its doors being twenty steps back from the other businesses on Davie, patrons could take the back alley and park behind the store, never to be seen by pedestrians and drivers on the busy street. It seemed ideal as there were many more closeted queers at the time. (Yes, I always checked for a spot in the back first.) I clearly remember going to the store when it first opened. While its prior location had books stuffed in boxes, crammed everywhere with limited opportunities to prominently display anything, the new spot had rows and rows of beautiful shelves, of cherry wood according to my recollection. I remember thinking the rent to be much higher and the bookcases alone must have been a huge budget item in the re-lo plan. It was a stunningly beautiful space, a true showcase for queer lit that seemed to elevate the city and its gay ghetto, the otherwise lackluster Davie Street. 

 

That was long ago. Back in 2013, I blogged how much had changed. The bookstore, then named Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, seemed to retain the work “Book” in its sign as nothing more than a nod to the past. Gone were all the beautiful shelves. Gone were the books. The space was filled with those bright, cheaply made, Lycra and mesh short shorts and tank tops that are apropos for Pride parades, raves and not much else. There were prime displays of cock rings and dildos. Aside from a collection of greeting cards, I saw nothing to validate the word “Art” in the Little Sister’s sign either. It was a novelty store, a cross between International Male and a gay version of that ’80s mall standard, Spencer’s. A gay Barnes & Noble? Wishful thinking.

 

It’s that sort of thinking that made me opt for another walkthrough. I’d been buoyed in the past year by a new queer bookstore in Seattle. Seattle may be a UNESCO-designated  City of Literature, but surely Vancouverites didn’t just hike and build cock ring collections. We have just as much rain. Weren’t we readers, too? Couldn’t we enjoy in-person book browsing just as much? 

 

Hide and Seek: 
the book version

Hopeful, yes, but still I braced. I entered Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, empty at 10:30 on the weekday morning, and it was like passing through a time capsule. Sadly, from 2013, not 1996. Gaudy rainbow clothing plus a vast supply of lube, dildos and those ring things. Books? Yes, I found a few, seemingly hidden on plain shelves, first a few hundred used books, then “newer” books against another wall—one shelf poetry, one shelf memoir, four shelves of other nonfiction, four shelves for children, five shelves fiction. Strangely, the two display shelves with book covers fully on view were placed as a seeming afterthought at the bottom of the bookcase, level with my shoes. Bookselling was clearly not the draw. 

 

I walked out, disheartened and bookless. If the place even remains in business based on a consistent demand for cock rings, let it be a decade before I take another punishing peek.

 

 

RETIREMENT RETICENCE

I’m of that age. People around me are retiring. I’ll ease my auto-panic button by adding that these are early retirements. Early-ish. 

 

Those who know me probably view me as retired, too. I’m an in-betweener—not technically working but not qualified for full retirement. Seven years ago as of next month, I went to work on a Friday and, by Monday, I’d disappeared. My version of quiet quitting. I’d checked into a psych ward and, upon discharge seventeen days later, I was told by my psychiatrist I wouldn’t be returning to work. Not until the new year. Then, he told me not for the rest of the school year. Then, never.

 

Never has gone on now forever. I know that’s a way to view the word, but I startle myself every time I realize I haven’t worked since 2017.

 

What?!

 

I’d always been a dedicated, hardworking employee. Exemplary. Beloved. I got so much of my identity from being a teacher, then a principal. When my role vanished—POOF!—I couldn’t stop doing, striving, trying to be productive. I write seven days a week. I generally work through holidays. I neither want nor need a day off. I have accepted that I can’t re-enter the regular workforce, but I like the work I’ve created for myself. I have a hard time closing my laptop. When I do, I’m often reaching for a notepad or the back of a receipt, jotting down more ideas, sentences, sometimes just phrases that I must capture. My brain remains in overdrive. 

 

This may be, in part, due to the fact I’m bipolar. My mania is subdued compared to many who experience bipolar episodes. I never lose my sense of control, a trait that’s been better groomed through my experiences with an eating disorder. Yes, I have many labels. What I find magical is that each condition has its challenges but also meshes well with other conditions, somehow creating a fine balance. I could elaborate but, for the purpose of this post, the takeaway is that neither my mind nor my body can be still.  

 

That’s why the notion of retirement still makes me uncomfortable. I know there will come a time when, from the perspective of my school district and the federal government, I will officially be retired. It’ll affect my bank account and how medical matters will or won’t be covered. I haven’t researched this. Formal retirement remains several years away. I choose to keep the word and all its associations at bay, head in the sand, index fingers blocking both ears. La-la-la. I can’t hear you.

 

I’m unsettled enough seeing how some of my friends handle retirement. One, with whom I’m meeting for coffee later today, is seventy and has some chronic health issues that require maintenance routines that eat up hours of each day. Bummer. But, through all our discussions, I have a hard time piecing together how he fills all the remaining hours of the day. He plays the piano, he does a workout and then _____. Like me, he doesn’t have many social commitments. Also like me, his food prep time is minimal. He’s extremely routine-oriented and extraordinarily efficient. He’s not a reader. I’ve never heard him talk about a book. How do the days pass? I suspect there’s a lot of screen time. Not social media…he’s not on any platform. How much does he stream? How much does he nap? I get restless just thinking about all the downtime. 

 

The only person I remain in contact with from high school retired earlier this year. Once best friends, we’re Facebook “friends” now, a few messages exchanged each year. (I typically log off in a panic whenever someone sees I’m on FB and starts live messaging. I don’t like these go-nowhere chats that go on until—boop—they’re done, abruptly concluded without any sort of sign-off. Alas, “Sincerely” and “Yours truly” don’t align with Messenger, Facebook and text messaging.) 

 

After his first month as a retiree, this friend sent a Facebook post, sharing his observations about The Price Is Right. For some reason, this horrified me. TPIR was a go-to when I’d be splayed on the sofa, a blanket pulled over me, a tissue box on the floor, body achy, brain foggy, a rare sick day. Sadly, it was also regular viewing on August mornings when I was in high school in East Texas, the temperature outside already hitting 90, my friends still sleeping till noon. I was as lethargic as your average teen, extended periods of boredom seemingly developmentally required.

 

Does that part of adolescence return upon retirement. Is that why my friend tunes in for the Showcase Showdown? It’s unimaginable.

 

He has since done other classic retiree things, most notably going on two cruises. Much better than the daily drone of television but not my thing. Fair or not, I have some fixed images about cruises and none of them involve Julie, my cruise director, setting me up with a love that’ll last at least five days. I’m not very social so it shouldn’t matter that many cruises I hear about are filled with families, gays or retirees. I’d probably refuse the assigned dinner seating and eat in my room. A box of crackers and some yogurt suit me just fine. (Yes, that eating disorder of mine can complicate things but it can also simplify them.) 

 

My biggest issue with cruises is that lack of personal control. (That trait of mine again.) I don’t want to feel “stuck” asea. I don’t want to join the masses disembarking on cue, boarding buses or joining perfectly timed walking tours that ensure I’ll make it back to the ship on time to head off to the next tourist-primed destination. I like the freedom to skip over must-sees that don’t appeal to me and linger at quirky stops that don’t even register with the locals. Basically, I don’t want things to feel cut short or drawn out. If that means one destination instead of five ports of call, so be it. 

 

Lots of people I know LOVE cruises. So be it for them, too. I hope my high school bud fits in more cruises and, please, don’t let there be reception to watch The Price Is Right on ship.

 

The guy across the hall from me is also retired. When I first met his wife on the elevator, she said, somewhat derisively, “I’m Joyce. And my husband, who’s bald, is Hank. You’ll be seeing a lot of Hank.”

 

I wouldn’t be happy if I were bald Hank, his lack of hair the most notable identifier as per his wife of who knows how many years. 

 

But Joyce was right. I do see a lot of Hank. I hear him even more, the door to the hallway closing countless times a day as he heads out on another walk with his dog who announces “Walk Time! Walk Time!” every time its paws hit the hall floor. “Walk Time! Walk Time!”

 

Got it.

 

Like me, Hank is restless. Directionless, too, it would seem. He wanders. He takes trash down to the dumpster when the count reaches three items. Hank can do what he wants. That’s the perk of retirement. 

 

Both Joyce and Hank have held prestigious government jobs. I know this because I stumbled upon a couple of CBC articles about them. Nefarious business practices, awarding contracts to one another without noting a conflict of interest. Newsmakers, my neighbors. I think it’s another reason Hank enjoys retirement. 

 

What gets me about Hank is I’ve lived in the building, right across the hall, for two years and it’s still unclear whether he recognizes me. I’ve introduced myself. I’ve tried neighborly chitchat. Sometimes my hello goes unreturned. (Good god, can he hear me dueting with Adele from the hallway?!) Sometimes he talks but it’s never an exchange. I might offer a prompt and he’ll go with it. Weather. The dog. Weather again. 

 

I really suck at chitchat. 

 

But Hank sucks more. All chit, no chat. If I hop on the elevator from the lobby and he’s already in, he’ll hover his right hand over the button panel and say, “What floor?” Every time. I nod to the button already lit up. “4.” It’s news.  Our little Groundhog Day.  

 

Is it dementia? Honestly, I don’t think so. He’s on the condo board. Mr. Conflict of Interest helps make the big decisions about building operations and contributes to recommendations over how to spend tens of thousands of dollars on issues that must be prioritized. I’ve heard a very cranky Hank during AGMs on Zoom. He knows a thing or two and has opinions that are clear, if not always popular. Hank’s all there.

 

I just don’t register. It’s flabbergasting. Countless encounters. 

 

Gotta keep the mind active, as they say. Something beyond making decent armchair price estimates on Uncle Ben’s rice, a new recliner and an Acapulco trip package. Definitely something more than making sure the garbage cans in the condo are always empty.

 

Let official retirement bring no change to my writing habit. Let the sole perk be that I can switch from saying, “I’m on disability” to a more widely acceptable designation. So many people look forward to retirement. For me, it still looms and taunts.