Landmarks

Hi all,
Welcome to another installment of "Guest Blog." Today, it's my pleasure to introduce a member of my innermost core of friends, Jess Williams. To know him is to love him. Take it away, Jess:

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There are some things for which you simply can't adequately prepare yourself. I am not a Civil War buff, but I'd imagine that seeing Gettysburg borders on a fall-to-your-knees religious experience. I'm just guessing, because it's a landmark.

Landmarks.

I drove to League City, Texas, yesterday to see friends made in the early 90s who have migrated here. I got here early enough, however, to drive down the side streets in search of a stranger from the late 70s: Me.

League City today is not remotely what it was in 1979 when a 20-year-old closet case from Las Cruces, N.M., got his first co-op job at Johnson Space Center in nearby Clear Lake City.

I came to Clear Lake an emotional mess -- a kid struggling with who he was and what it meant. In the back of some local rag (the likes of which no longer exists, so far as I can tell), I found a notice for the Texas Bay Area Gays, who were having a meeting at a not-close-by-but-within-driving-distance restaurant. Everyone Welcome. Their logo was a tea bag, the string hanging from the rim of a see-through cup, steam rising from the top.

It was an odd assortment of men, and the leader of the group was a man much older than me and quite unattractive physically, but he had a quick smile, an easy sense of humor and -- clearly -- the love and admiration of these other men and boys who were in attendance, all of whom welcomed me to their group and each of whom connected in some way to my story: "Confused Kid from Rural America Seeks Answers and Self Realization in the Big Fucking City." (Footnote: Confused Kid is Not Really 'Confused' At All; He Just Needs Permission to be Him.)

Permission granted.

I probably can't name them all after all these years, but some stand out: Erwin Felscher; Chris C; Greg C; Dougie Turner; Jerry Starkey; Peter G.

Erwin was the older fellow, and the leader of the pack. Every story started with, "After I met Erwin..." and Erwin would smile and fill in the gaps of the story as it was spun. At various ages and stages of crises, Erwin Felscher rescued gay men and boys from the Bay Area and gave them social opportunities and a place to crash and party. When the group was lagging in energy, a notice would be placed in one of the area rags and the T-BAGs would descend on some restaurant, and new blood would be welcomed to the group.

Erwin hit on everyone, but he also accepted rejection graciously. His house was the default gathering and party zone each evening and weekend. There were always people at Erwin's house. Frequently, the two spare bedrooms were occupied for extended periods. I include this fact not for shock value, but simply as a statement of what was real, and what I remember. For the record, I remember it fondly. There was no shame about it. Think about that.

For the two and a half years that I lived in and out of the Houston area, Erwin's house was always Home Base. Through alliances and dalliances and parties and self-discovery, Erwin's place was the epicenter of my Coming Out. He and the others taught me to be proud and unapologetic. They talked me through bad spots and celebrated successes in love, career and other areas of a life in process. In short order, I became One of Them, and I helped others as they came though the maelstrom of T-BAG, just as I had been helped.

This was in the years before AIDS, but JUST before. Just barely. I remember the first Saturday night that the group caravanned into Houston to hit the bars and bathhouses. I loved the bars, but the bathhouse left me cold. It was anonymous and dark and seedy and smelly. Even in the storm of my Coming Out, it wasn't for me.

All these years later, I am the only one of them left alive. Jerry was the first to succumb, then Dougie. The rest fell by in syncopated order as the years rolled by; and depression and distractions grabbed hold of me, and I lost touch. I heard years later that Erwin was gone. I have never forgiven myself for not having remained close to him in some way. I'm sure he knew, but I wish I'd made it crystal clear how much he meant to me. I hope he knew (and knows) that he saved my life.

Yesterday, I drove the back streets of old League City. Each time I started seeing brick houses and wide streets, I turned back and went along the narrow streets lined with the moldy clapboard houses that looked like Erwin's. For two hours, I drove. At some point, I saw an old woman at an antiques and second-hand store, and I stopped and asked her if she had been here in the late 70s and early 80s. She was. I asked if she remembered Erwin Felscher. She did not. She made some calls, but no one she knew remembered him, so she recommended I drive to the library downtown. On the way, it occurred to me that, Duh! Old Baptist women are not likely to remember Erwin Felscher! I had to smile.

But the library was a good idea, so I did as recommended, and ran into another old woman and asked her the same questions, and she was likewise unhelpful, but she suggested I could go next door to City Hall and research the tax records. On my way to the City Clerk's office, I saw an office with a sign that said, "Public Information Officer."

The young black woman inside listened to my VERY condensed story about trying to find that house. She had been on the job less than two weeks, but she made some phone calls and sent me back to the library. Before I left, I gave her my card and told her I could maybe help her if she ever needed advice about how to transition from Journalism to Public Information. She smiled and took the card, maybe a little suspiciously. I went back to the library.

Sheila was the reference librarian, and she said the best she could do was show me some old phone books. In the 1987 edition, I found him -- E A Felscher at 419 Clear Creek Ave. 337-3737. I recognized the phone number even before I read his name. Sheila pulled out some maps and we cross-checked the streets and found it. The house I was searching for was a block from the library. I drove to it in less than a minute.

I am not a Civil War buff, but I'd imagine that seeing Gettysburg borders on a fall-to-your-knees religious experience.

I wept looking at the front of 419 Clear Creek Ave. I wept for an old man I should have loved better, and for a young man who came alive inside those walls. I wept for friends who have gone Elsewhere, and for a time that was simpler to navigate. I took a picture of the place, with its two cars in the drive and anonymous tennis shoes on the porch. I reconfigured the house from memory as it stands behind those shaded windows. And I drove off in search of a glass of wine and a deep breath.

You can't recreate the past, but you can find landmarks. Landmarks matter, whether they are people or places or memories or ghosts -- or some combination of all four.

I doubt that the people inside that house today know it, but to a small army of gay men in the late 70s and early 80s, their home is hallowed ground. It is a landmark, and I feel lucky to have found it. Again.