Joe. My. God.

Joe. My. God.: The show ended with Melba Toast and I joined the rush back to the disco. Just outside the door, Jerry grabbed me. "Joe, where are you parked? Let's go smoke a joint." Sidestepping my uncool non-pot smoking, I joked, "What's wrong with your car?" Jerry said, "Oh, I rode here with the guys. No way I'm parking my 'Vette in a gay bar parking lot! You know how assholes like to ride by and throw rocks through the windows of cars at gay bars." Um, no. I didn't know that. But right then I was glad I'd parked my mother's T-bird across the street in Brown Town. Jerry said, "So, can we go sit in your car?" How could I have said no to Jerry? About anything?

As we headed for the front door, it occurred to me that maybe this whole "Let's go out to your car and smoke" line might be some secret homo code that really meant "Let's go out to your car and go crazy sucking each other's cocks." I mean, I didn't really think Jerry was gay, but he was here at the Parliament House. So I think I was hoping, more than just a little bit.

Jerry and I came out the front door of the complex and I hung back far from the street, waiting for a huge break in the traffic before I would even dare approach the curb to try and cross. Jerry turned around, realized what I was doing, and laughed at me. "What the matter, man? Are you afraid somebody going by will see you coming out of the Parliament House?" I just shrugged sheepishly. Fuck, I hated looking lame to Jerry. He came over and put his arm around me, "It's cool, man. We'll cross together. Don't sweat it." And keeping his arm around around my shoulder, he marched us right up to the curb.

So there I stood, 16 years old, on the edge of Orlando's sleazy South Orange Blossom Trail, in front of a notorious gay nightclub, draped by the protective arm of the handsome older man I was sort of in love with. Cars buzzed by us almost as loudly as my horny 16 year old thoughts buzzed around in my head. Were we really going to my car to smoke? Were people looking at us? I felt elated. I felt nervous. Then I felt something else entirely. Something sick. Something awful. The closest traffic signal had changed to red and the line of cars stopping for the light had reached back to where we were standing. The last car to reach the line of stopped cars was a late model Cadillac, coming to a stop directly across from us, two lanes away.

And sitting at the wheel of that Cadillac was my father.