“Death in Venice” is one of those movies you can’t forget. I saw it for the first time when I was twenty-years-old. I had just moved to Indianapolis in 1972. I took my only day off and went to the Woodlands Theatre to see the movie. I met the guys running the theatre. Years later, they would run a nice small circuit of their own. I learned later, that one of them was gay and had an interest in hustlers that would be costly to him.
I was only one of about twelve in the audience. I knew it was a gay themed movie, but I watched anyway. Even with the thoughts that were circulating in my own head, I didn’t get the subtext to the movie itself. Not until now.
The DVD box caption states that it is “The Celebrated Story Of A Man Obsessed”. It must have been beyond my years since I really didn’t appreciate the love story or the obsession. Luchino Visconti directed this film at the age of 65. He would only make three more movies before his death in 1976. The movie, based on Thomas Mann’s story, tells of a man who fell for a very beautiful teen-age boy. I bought the DVD and began to watch it for the first time in 33 years, viewing it with different eyes and an older maturity.
The movie shows a lonely man on holiday in Venice, where his obsession begins. Between the man and the young boy, no words were ever spoken. The man looked and watched, even stared. The boy would look back, offer gentle gestures and do poses for the man. Were there signals between them? Maybe. I thought back to Chase and the signals he gave me, and the ones I thought I gave him. The ones I thought meant something. For many years, things were unspoken that way between us. Here I am now, where else but in Venice. Not Venetia, unfortunately. No, I’m writing this in none other than Venice, Florida.
Not far from the waters of the Gulf, I often go to the beach, to sit and listen to the water and the wind. Of all the sounds on this earth, those are still the most natural for me. Not manufactured by voice or mankind, the same sounds have existed since water was first discovered on this planet. As I lay in the sun’s warmth and the water’s soothing touch, I reflected on my life, its loves, its happiness, its sadness. I thought kindly of those that I cared about and grieved for those that I lost. And I thought about him, every day. The first man I ever loved and cared about, and the last.
*****************************************************************************
It was 1996 and I had just transferred to Dallas, Texas, to run one of the theatres located in an outlying town. Called simply the Cinema 6, it stood just ten miles from one of the first megaplexes to be built in the country. The megaplex had 20 screens, and I knew it would eventually close the Cinema 6. I had only been on the job for about a week, in April, when a nice looking young man came in with his application. I interviewed and hired him on the spot.
Chase Lindley was a strapping sixteen-year-old. He stood about six feet tall and weighed around 165 pounds. Brown hair and blue eyes highlighted his slightly rugged face. I had him trained in the concession stand and box office. It was upstairs, in the projection booth, that he picked up the threading of a projector quickly and soon was tearing down and building up film. It was there in the projection booth we had many of our conversations about religion, politics and gays. I never wondered for a moment if Chase could be gay. He was exclusively straight, or so I thought.
We talked about our lives. My story took longer.
I told him of my early life, leaving out my sexual experimentations and experiences, including the crushes I had on some of the boys I knew. My first three years in high school were hell. But it played into the fact that I never felt like I belonged anywhere or with anyone. I was the boy who got picked on, who had hardly any friends, the lonely outcast. My parents raised me going to church, but even there I felt unwanted. I soon found myself feeling isolated from my own family. I knew why I was different but I would never admit it to anyone or to myself.
When I was seventeen I was hired to work at the local movie theater. I found a refuge there, a place where I finally felt I belonged. I was happier there than I had ever been. I discovered myself, in some ways, by working there. I developed self-confidence and the notion that I could accomplish whatever I wanted.
My dreams of going to college were dashed because my parents never saved any money for my brothers or me. Education was what I wanted to pursue; I wanted to teach American History. Once I knew I was on my own, so to speak, I developed a great love of the motion picture theater and decided to pursue it as my career. When I was eighteen, I was hired at a drive-in theater as a snack bar manager. I realized that I would have to learn the projection booth equipment, believing that someday it would be required of all managers. I went through one job after another just to learn everything I could, as fast as I could.
When I was nineteen, I went to work for a company that ran X-rated movie theaters. The job was in Cincinnati where I lived at the downtown YMCA. I spent six months there, wasting my talents, but staying because the pay was decent. The theatre always had some sort of picketers. The Cincinnati Decency League or the Projectionist Union would walk the sidewalk in front of the theater. When they did, I brought out the letter pole for the marquee and would change the sign, blocking their paths. The law said they had to keep moving. They were all frustrated with me and would leave. Several months later I was transferred back to Dayton where I worked for several more weeks before they let me go.
But during those months of running pornography, I learned more about heterosexual sex than I did when I took the Father/Son course at the “Y” when I was ten. I watched every sexual act avidly, and even more avidly the men in those films. They were always hung and usually cut. But even they bored me after awhile.
In 1972, General Cinema Corporation gave me my first management position. I was an assistant manager, making a salary of $125 a week, which was barely enough to survive on, as I quickly discovered.
As far as sex was concerned, I was still a virgin ‘technically’. I had had no experience with a female and my experience with males had been limited to mutual masturbation and some oral sex during which I was the active partner, but at that time, I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew I was attracted to guys, but I feared it, immensely. I swore to myself that I would at least ‘try’ it with a female.
Leaving General Cinema after nine months, I was hired to manage my first theater for a small independent company. That lasted six months before an offer from United Cinema came along. I was given what used to be a Jerry Lewis Cinema. My second day there I saw my future wife. Her name was Karen and she worked for the cleaning company. I was talking with a salesmen when she came out of the Ladies Room and when she walked by me the thought came immediately to my mind that she would be the mother of my children.
It would be five months before we had sex for the first time. I was terrible since I offered no foreplay. All I could think about was putting it in and seeing if I could do it. I was hard and she guided me in and I was amazed, not by the feeling of sex, but by the fact that I was actually having sexual intercourse. We started sleeping together at my place, not necessarily having sex, but when we did I started to feel rather than think. When she fell asleep in my arms the first night, my heart warmed. For what seemed like the first time in my life, I felt that I belonged with someone and to someone.
Sixteen months after my first sexual experience with Karen, we married. Ten months later my son was born. Karen barely made it through the pregnancy. She had congenital heart disease. Aortic Stenosis was such a rare condition that whenever she was in a hospital, every doctor and nurse came by to listen to her heart. For most medical professionals, it was considered unlikely that they would ever come across a patient with this condition during the course of their careers. At night, in bed with her, I never needed a stethoscope to hear her heart. It sounded like an old rusty pump, pushing blood with a swish as hard as it could through its micro-sized aortic valve.
After two heart failures during the pregnancy, the doctors did a heart catheterization after my son was born. I was told she had less than two years to live without surgery. We were referred to the Cleveland Clinic. The specialists there didn’t want to do surgery until she absolutely needed it. With recommendations from her heart specialists, she applied for Social Security Disability benefits and was approved. The benefit wasn’t huge but it was enough to help us financially, since being a theater manager didn’t pay enough to support a family, at least until the mid 1980’s.
Early in our marriage, I realized I had fallen in love with Karen. We grew together with the closeness of a tightly knit blanket, each finding comfort and love in the other. She put up with a lot from me. I moved her twenty-six times in sixteen years. She hung in there, supporting, encouraging, and trusting me.
It would be fifteen years before surgery was indicated. I was working in Utah at the time and she was placed in the care of the physicians at the University of Utah Medical Center. Due to complications from the surgery, a blood clot, she passed away five days later, which broke my heart. She had told me weeks before not to grieve for her. I gave her hell for it; I told her she had no right to tell me that. I told her I would grieve and grieve hard for her. I had no idea how hard that would really be. On the day of her death, I prayed to God to take the pain away. The first night was unbearable. Even with a house full of people, I never felt more alone. My body ached, my eyes cried and my heart wouldn’t find peace. I was so blinded by my own grief that, for years, I never saw the deep devastation my fifteen-year-old son suffered.
Believing that I could do it again and be with another woman, I remarried twenty-nine months later. We were separated after four months, divorced in six. After that wife, I swore to myself I would never touch another woman. I believed with all my heart that Karen would be the only woman I would ever love. A year later I was in Dallas.
Chase got the watered down, PG rated version of my life’s story. His life, pretty much rated G, was simpler than mine. At sixteen, he was the third of five sons. His father was a Southern Baptist preacher and his mother a homemaker who loved working with herbs and all things natural. Chase was the only son who had expressed an interest in following his father’s footsteps and was preparing himself to study for the ministry. He convinced me to go to church with him and his family. I felt that I was spiritual and that I had a relationship with God, though not always a close one. Having been raised in the Presbyterian Church, I didn’t have to make much of an adjustment, though the preachers here could be more dramatic than back home. I went only a few times, but felt way out of place as usual. After the main service, I always made my getaway through the nearest exit door.
In the months that followed, Chase and I became friends, close friends. He invited me over for dinner with his family a couple of times and I accepted. I enjoyed the company of his parents immensely. They always went out their way to make me feel welcome. During this time I felt odd being old enough to Chase’s father, and yet carry-on like we were life long buddies.
When I transferred to Waco to run my first megaplex, it was there that God and I had a long talk one night. I had struggled with my sexual feelings since the divorce. I fought a long battle with myself, praying to God to be spared the agony of admitting I was gay. He knew me better than anyone. Better than even I knew myself. I cried when the final realization hit me that I was truly gay. Hours on my knees, next to my bed, I confessed everything to Him. As my resistance fell away, I felt that inner warmth of release. I had peace of mind, finally. God and I had an understanding.
I knew in my heart that if Karen had lived, there would be no doubt that we would still be together. But God had her now, and I had to keep going on with my life. I was 44 years old and I hit the Internet to learn everything I could about the life experiences of gay men. I learned by reading the stories on Nifty, the good ones I could find, that spoke of love. I also read of the cruelty some guys can exhibit. I read about sex in all its explicit details. Gay.com was the first place I found to chat with other gay men. It was here that I met a guy about forty miles away who would provide me with my first real man-to-man sexual experience. So began my slow progression into living my life as a gay man.
In Waco, with my sexual reawakening, I found my place. I loved the town and the theater. Promotion of films became a benchmark for my term there. I got recognition beyond my wildest dreams. Chase would call and come visit me. I found another apartment closer to the theatre and moved. Chase insisted on helping me move. So, the three of us, including my son, moved my things and Chase stayed a few days. It was on the second day, while my son was at work that it happened. I was sitting in the living room with the television on; Chase came downstairs and walked in. Suddenly, I felt the most intense sexual tension. I didn’t understand it, or couldn’t figure where it came from. I had never looked at Chase in a sexual way before. It lasted for only a few minutes, but it scared the hell out of me. I would never forget it.
Over this time, Chase would give me heck for not calling him. He always called me. I felt awkward about the idea of a middle-aged man calling a teenager at his home. He told me that his parents were cool about our friendship. It still didn’t relieve my anxiety about it.
After sixteen months in Waco, I was offered a new theatre in Orlando, Florida. I accepted, a decision I regret to this day. I didn’t let Chase know I was leaving Texas. He found me though. I figured he would. We agreed to stay in contact. Chase amazed me that he wanted to continue our friendship. One Sunday morning, after being in Florida for seven months, he called me. It was a conversation I would never forget either.
“Hello,” I said, answering the phone from a deep sleep.
“Hey there,” he said. I recognized his voice.
I glanced at the clock radio and said, “Hey, why aren’t you in church?”
“My father won’t let me come right now.”
“Why not?”
“I got into trouble with him.”
“I can’t imagine your ever being in trouble with your Dad,” I said.
I heard him breathing softly for a few moments before he said, “I got into some personal integrity trouble.”
“Well, that would only have to be drugs or sex,” I said, jokingly.
“It wasn’t drugs.”
Sex! A healthy eighteen-year-old boy with hormones found his own discoveries, I thought.
“Wow! Chase. Some girl had her way with you,” I said, with a chuckle.
The next few words were ones I never expected to hear, at least not from Chase.
“It wasn’t with a girl.”
A ton of bricks could have smashed down on me with no greater force then those words. I was so dumbfounded and stunned. The realization that Chase had sex with another male just blew me away. A rash of emotions flooded over me. I realized that Chase had taken our friendship from the level of the casual to the personal. Chase was telling me he was gay, or was he?
“You had sex with another guy, Chase?”
“Yes.”
Being the wiser and older person here in this conversation, I felt like I had to choose my words carefully.
“Was this a one time thing?”
“No.”
“How
long has it been going on?”
“Since I got my drivers license.”
“The whole time you worked for me?”
“Yes. I would go to the city park and get picked up by middle-aged guys.”
Oh, shit, I thought.
“What happened? How did your Dad find out?”
“On my eighteenth birthday. We were talking in his study about college and my future. He asked me if I had kept myself sexually pure, to wait for marriage which is something he had encouraged my brothers and me to do.”
I felt his hesitation as his sighed into the phone.
“I didn’t lie,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I told him I hadn’t.”
I found myself putting my heart out to him, feeling sympathy for his words.
“How much did you tell him?”
“Everything.”
“Oh Chase,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m okay.”
“So what was his reaction?”
“He asked me if I thought I was homosexual. I told him no.”
“You’re not gay, Chase?” I asked, a little confused.
“No, I’m not. It’s just a phase.”
I wondered if he truly believed that.
“How many men have you been with?”
“More than twenty.”
“How far have you gone with them?”
“With most of them, it’s just been oral sex. I have done anal with some of them though. I always top.”
“Are you attracted to older guys, Chase?”
“Yeah, guys my father’s age.”
I started to listen to his voice. It was different than all the other times I had spoken to him. Its tone was of guarded uncertainty.
“So what did your father do then?”
“He took me to a doctor to be tested for STD’s. I tested clean. I am seeing two therapists. I was diagnosed with manic depression. I’m on three different prescriptions.”
“What are the therapists trying to do with you?”
“With one, I mostly talk about myself, growing up and such. The second one is working on my sexual orientation. I think he is trying to determine if I am really gay or not. I’m not.”
“Does he believe that?”
“I really don’t care if he does.”
My mind was racing with all these thoughts of his being defiant and in denial, a personality I hadn’t ever seen before.
“How are things with your mother and brothers?”
“Not good. Mom hardly speaks to me now. My brothers seem distant.”
“How do you feel?”
“I guess, indifferent. If they want to act that way, it’s their problem. Not mine.”
“Are you still going to the park?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like it’s more than a phase.”
“I know what I’m doing. I like it. But I can stop anytime I want to.”
“Why did you tell me about all of this, Chase?”
“I thought I could trust you. I thought about our conversations when I worked for you and thought you might be gay,” he said. Then he asked the question I wasn’t expecting. “Are you gay?”
Despite the fact that Chase knew my history, my liberal thoughts must have had him wondering.
How do I answer that question? Do I really want to go there with him right now?
“No. I’m not, Chase.”
“Damn. I could have sworn you were,” he said, with frustration in his voice.
Someday, I thought we would have that conversation about me, but not here on the phone. It’s not the way I wanted to do it.
“I’m sorry, Chase,” I said, with a meaning I’m sure he didn’t get.
“I just thought you were,” he said, sounding defeated.
The phone line was quiet as, I was sure, that both of us were in deep thought.
“Can I come and see you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Anytime.”
I had a feeling that if he came to see me, I would be tested, that his attraction for older guys included me and that if he visited me, I might not be able to control myself since I was attracted to younger guys. I never imagined being with anyone as young as he was. He was only eighteen I kept telling myself.
The conversation ended and I spent the next few days wondering what just happened. I didn’t hear from him after that. Since I felt that Florida wasn’t right for me, and I missed Texas with a passion, I took a transfer back to Dallas five months after Chase’s phone call.
As usual, I didn’t call Chase to let him know I was back in Texas. I knew he would find out.
Ever resourceful, he did find me, but it took longer than I expected. I felt anxious with him on the phone. Not letting my voice give me away, I struggled to maintain my composure. I wanted to see him. It would be the first time since his confession to me, and I wanted to see him as his friend, his confidant, someone he could trust.
We agreed to meet at my apartment the next day about six o’clock. When I opened the door to him, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
The end of Chapter 1