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An auspicious meeting
Jan. 14th, 2005 11:38 am
Arriving in Toronto yesterday. 
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[Edited to include reference]
On Wednesday in my journal
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artricia commented, "If my best instincts tell me not to do something, I don't. If my dread tells me not to do something, I consider doing it." That evening her wisdom inspired me to take an important step.Wednesday evenings after choir rehearsal a group of us always goes to the Pennywhistle for drinks and a snack. Last week we were unusually rowdy. Michael had dreamt about winning Dave in an auction and the two of them were kibitzing about it for all our entertainment.
At the next table sat a group of university students. None of us paid them much attention except Dave, who is always alert to people's behaviour and reactions. Apparently they had noticed our discussion and made some covert homophobic remarks. He mentioned this after the group departed from the pub.
In a secluded corner near the window sat a man in his 30s with a red-blond beard and hair that practically covered his eyes. His table was tucked into an alcove and I wouldn't even have realized he was there had the waitress not gone in to see whether he wanted another beer. He was drinking Stella Artois and reading books—small ones that might have contained poetry. I had my back to him and couldn't see what he was doing, but never heard a sound from him.
When we rose to depart, he suddenly stood up and came forward. My hat had fallen on the floor; he picked it up and handed it to me graciously. I thanked him and my friends started joking that we must have scandalized him with our carryings-on.
"Oh no," he said amiably. "Trust me."
After a few brief words he went back to his books.
This Wednesday night I didn't notice him there. From where I sat, the alcove by the window was hidden from me. But a few minutes later he emerged and smiled at me as he passed our table. I could barely see his eyes under those sandy bangs. He had rimless glasses with small, rectangular lenses. Jon, with his back to the stranger, was speaking at that moment. He must have noticed my attention slip, because he glanced over his shoulder. Then he gazed at me thoughtfully before sipping his draft.
Our group was much more restrained this week. Michael and Dave were not there. The other fellows got up to leave earlier than usual. I was about to pay my bill, too, but the waitress had disappeared. I decided to move down the table beside Mo and the other women who were still engrossed in conversation.
The red-haired stranger had returned to his reading. From where I now sat I could make eye contact with him, but every time I looked that way his glance slid out the window or to his book. I chatted with the women for a few minutes, but grew tired and impatient.
Perhaps it had all been my imagination. I'm terribly shy. Trying to flirt with a stranger in a straight pub wasn't worth the trouble. I finally paid my bill, hugged Mo and said goodbye to the others. As I went outside he made an uncertain gesture. I kept thinking: "I'm satisfied with my life and friends. People will have to show more confidence if they want to know me."
But once at the wheel of the car, easing down Wyndham Street, my whole body started to tremble with excitement and regret. I had a seen a man who looked much like me, poring over literature in a secluded corner. He was my kind of man, he had tried to be friendly to me, and I was driving away. All my fears had come into play. My gaydar is abominable and I couldn't be sure what had passed between us. I couldn't be sure what would happen if I went back and spoke to him, and that's what was holding me back. The worst thing that could happen to me was rejection. Maybe I would look like a fool. Then I remembered my
artricia's comment about responding to fear, and I knew what I had to do.I drove around the block and parked outside the pub. For several long minutes I sat in the cold car with white knuckles. I got out and walked past the Pennywhistle, half the long block of Baker Street and back again, then stood outside for a few minutes. I would go in and, if he looked up, go over and speak.
Finally I moved through the door. He was still there and glanced up from his book, meeting my eyes. I went over.
"I hope I'm not intruding," I said.
"Not at all. Please sit down."
I did. He asked me at once about my queer choir. I told him about the concert benefit we had done on Sunday for victims of the tsunami. He wondered if it had been strange singing with church groups, but I explained the four choirs had some history together. He was curious, too, about the incident last week with the people at the next table. I told him it was nothing serious.
"Dave is an activist," I said. "He's sensitive about such things."
Then we introduced ourselves and shook hands. That's when he told me he is a poet with several books published, also a novelist and political writer. He recently quit his job, a matter of concern because he has a child to support.
"I should explain my situation," he said. His wife is a lesbian, he told me. They have been "out" in other places, but not here in Guelph. They have had trouble making friends and are considering moving to Toronto. She is also a bel canto singer and has been looking for a queer choir. They didn't know about the Rainbow Chorus. They have a two-year-old son.
One thing he did not clarify: whether he himself is gay, straight or bisexual. But by that point in the conversation, it didn't matter. I could hardly have met a more kindred spirit. We chatted for a few minutes and then I said farewell, exchanging email information. I hope he will join us at the table next week.
