Breakdown

My father's network of friends became larger and larger thanks to the Gay Father's Group. We had annual picnics where I got to meet other children who had similar circumstances as my own. I only remember two girls, Beonica and Nicole, the daughters of a middle aged, white collar gay man, and one woman, Barbara. The rest of the people I met were all male. The softball games were comical to say the least. There were more than a few times that someone ran to third base after being surprised that they had hit the ball. Despite all these new friends, Bob and Fred remained the closest to my father. Bob also had a young son my age, and we became weekend friends during my visits to New York City.

If I had been in my mother's shoes, I would have wanted to keep this crowd of men as far away as possible. Remember, this was the late 1970s and homosexuality was far from understood. A woman could not help but feel like people were judging her for the divorce, and seeing the reminders of why you had lost your marriage come right to your front porch would have been intollerable. Unfortunately, though, you can only avoid so much when it comes to your own family.

Bob and Fred were one of the few people we knew that had a car in the city if you could call it that. I remember my father saying that the only thing that worked in it was the clock. A brown four door Chevy sedan, it had seen better days. It was a left over from the lemon years, and the rust was starting to cover its under belly and sides where a few other cars must have gotten too close. The car stalled frequently, but this was not such a big deal in the city. All you had to do there was find the nearest subway station and make it back home to call a tow truck.

On night my father, Bert, Bob, Fred and a few other men crammed into the car with my brothers and me to venture off to New Jersey. Sure enough, the demise of the car happened right in front of my house. Without a cab to hail, my Dad and his friends were forced to go off searching for help. What better place than at my mother's, and so they all came into the house asking for help. The neighbors must have all been looking out their windows happy that they had a good day of gossip in store for them.

I am not using this story to highlight any kind of ill will my mother or I may have had. On the contrary, my mother was remarkably accepting of my father and his friends. I was not to be so tolerant, but she stood out with dignity. This story though echos the comedy with which events transpire. Here were a bunch of men driving a ratty car far below their collective means. Remember, these were dentists, lawyers and small business owners. How more unluckly could one be than to break down in front of your ex-wife's house, or perhaps how lucky could you be? I am not sure, but this may actually have been where my mother was introduced to Bob, and she later became good friends with his ex-wife.

I am not sure what ever became of the brown bomb, although I am quite certain it does not run anymore. Unfortunately Bob and Fred would split up years later as Fred's alcoholism became too much for Bob to take. These were still the good times, though, when the group was growing and society seemed to be starting to change. The collective Gay Father's Group made a community for the former straight men that helped give them something they never could have had without it - community.