I only developed two crushes during my college career. And neither of them were within the rank and file of architorture school which isn’t surprising for two reasons:
1. Architecture school is intense. There’s little time to do anything but work, work, work. All manner of projects consume your time. Plus each student’s work is pitted against everyone else’s. Juries are held at the end of each project which consist of your own professors as well as any professionals that are invited critiquing all of the work in mass and individually. Each student you get to know extremely well because you work so closely trying to survive.
2. I was still a boy. As a boy, I was prone to fantasize about men who were on the periphery of my life. Men who were in my sphere of influence but who had little to no direct contact with me day to day. This was the “safest” and least guilt prone methodology I could rationalize.
The summer after my freshman year, I sold Chrysler / Plymouth / Alfa Romeo cars for eight weeks. I was one of six or eight new car salesmen, though I wasn’t the only gay man in the line up (though I didn’t know it at the time). Like I said, I was a still a boy.
Thankfully, the lot boy and the receptionist were also close to my age. If I remember correctly, the lot boy was also in between semesters, though I believe he was attending a local community college. All I remember about the receptionist is the following: she was out of high school, not pursuing higher education, and always really angry…mostly at me (or so it seemed).
This Jon Secada song played relentlessly over the airwaves that hot summer within the showroom. If I heard it once, I heard it fifty times.
My crush quickly developed for the uniformed lot boy, who come to think of it was also fairly angry. He was always in a difficult mood and extremely hard to read despite the fact that I only interacted with him on occasion. And here I was, Mr. nice Christian gay boy. Always smiling, always polite. And very well dressed (thanks to my mother’s trendy style and my father’s pocketbook).
Towards the end of the summer, I sat down with one of my fellow salesmen (we’ll call him Peter for reference) and confessed “feeling too much” for certain individuals that were in my life.
And then it abruptly ended, and I was back in college.
The following summer, I chose to not sell automobiles. Instead, I was fortunate enough to gain employment within an architecture firm as a grunt / errand boy. Driving the proprietor’s temperamental Jaguar to and from the carwash / garage was the highlight of that summer.
I chose to sing in a college ensemble at my home church this summer. Towards the end of this eight week period, right before it was time to return to school, this small group of singers gave a performance one Sunday evening in the church service. I’m fairly certain that we closed the evening with this beautiful praise chorus:
As the members of our group were walking down the platform after the service was dismissed, none other than Peter appeared. I was stunned. It had been a full year since we’d spoken. I quickly remembered him saying that he’d attended our church sporadically with parts of his family, but for him to be there in that particular service caught me off guard. But, nothing could have prepared me for what came next.
I reached out my hand to shake his. He grasped my palm with his own tightly. I don’t remember what I said to him. Perhaps I asked him how he’d been. He then looked at me with a broad smile on his face and told me he had contracted AIDS.
I was stunned.
Not knowing what to say, I tried to politely carry the conversation forward awkwardly. Peter was a small man. He was very soft spoken and meek. One of the nicest guys you’d ever meet.
He was the first confirmed gay man I ever met and the only gay man that I’ve honestly known who ended up contracting AIDS.
I haven’t seen him since.
During those few moments that summer, when I last saw Peter, I began the sobering process of growing into a man.
