Mother’s Friend Jerry

Mother’s work friend Jerry was the first person I knew was gay. This was around 1960, so he wasn’t wearing Gay Pride buttons or rainbows. Mother knew he was gay, and told my brother and I that he was gay, and then dropped the subject. Moreover, when we saw him, he was often with his partner Ralph.

He was a bit like my father in shape – around five feet nine inches tall and muscular through the chest. He had dark brown hair, possibly dyed (mother’s certainly was), carefully styled to mask his receding hairline.

He wore stylish, color-coordinated clothes. They were made of quality fabrics, like cashmere and camel hair. Some pieces had been tailored personally for him.

He and Ralph created perfect adventures and lovely meals in their beautifully appointed home.

Jerry and Ralph were queens, I now realize. They spoke and moved with a hint of daintiness. They had the “gay accent.” The pitch of their speaking voices rose and fell more musically than is customary for straight men. Their pitch fell at the ends of sentences less of a distance and with less finality than straight men’s.

I can’t remember any signature scents of Jerry’s, but he must certainly have picked up cigarette smoke from Mother’s chain smoking – if not his own.

Mostly what I remember is his enthusiastic energy. He poured himself into the project of the day – whether it was a picnic by the beach, opening a wine bottle with my Swiss Army knife, or figuring out how to operate an electronic Christmas present.

My mother, brother, and I once drove from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara with Ralph and Jerry. We were going to have a picnic in a park near the beach.

I was maybe 10 years old, which would make it the early 1960s. The only picnics at the beach I had experienced were where we bought tacos, snow cones, and drinks from the snack bar, and ate them while sitting on our beach towels before they attracted too much sand.

Jerry and Ralph’s idea of a picnic was in a different league. Their car had a large trunk, all of which had been pressed into service. They brought out a tablecloth for the picnic table. They brought out china. They brought out silverware. They brought out crystal stemware. They brought out a chafing dish and lit a flame under it to warm the contents—fricasseed chicken, which they lovingly ladled over the homemade biscuits they had brought.

I cannot remember the other comestibles, but surely there were vegetables, drinks, and dessert, at the very least. What I do remember is seeing them pull item after item out of that huge trunk, placing them on the picnic table, and arranging them just so.

I think my family was impressed out of our socks. I for one was on my best behavior so as not to fall below the standard of civility set by that sumptuous repast.