My tiff with Ted in Winston-Salem

Oh, the foolish things we do when we are young. A case in point: The summer of 1974, which I spent in the company of a bunch of gay men. Let me back up and explain what led to such a circumstance.

I knew Don Lowe when we were freshmen at the University of Texas. He soon left and began attending a liberal arts college in Ohio, and I soldiered on at UT. My suspicions about Don were confirmed a year later when he revealed in a letter that he was of the homosexual persuasion. I had known gay people—boys and girls—in high school, so it was no big shock. In fact, since reaching adulthood I have felt sure that had this been my nature I would have accepted it; I would not have been a closet homo. But my heterosexual nature was clear almost as soon as I climbed out of the crib. Male‒female is the only thing that has ever made sense to me. Male‒male or female‒female? This was never a moral issue. Instead, I simply did not understand it and, try however I might, I could not relate to it. Nothing could possibly be better than the interaction of man and woman.

Another pertinent fact that must be stated is that I had experienced dozens of encounters with gay men up to that time and would continue to do so well into my thirties. Whether it was a wink, a hustle or a blatant proposal, I had dealt with lots of these guys. My answer was uniformly the same—not on your life, buster!

Now, I was quite sure that Don knew where I stood before making his invitation to spend the summer of 1974 with him in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I thought it might have been offensive if I had come out and asked, “Don, do you realize that I would never get in bed with another man under any circumstance whatsoever?” I later regretted not having said something just that unequivocal.

Soon after my junior year at UT was over, I climbed on a jet airplane and headed to New York. My first visit to America’s biggest and most famous city was both exciting and weird. On one hand, I got to experience Central Park, see a baseball game between the New York Mets and Cincinnati Reds, and attend a musical (Pippin, starring Ben Vereen) on Broadway. But being constantly in the presence of gay guys was another thing entirely. Don had met me at JFK Airport with John, Craig and Jack, all of whom were totally gay. We soon met a large number of other such fellows, whose names I have forgotten. Each one was gay.

I recall being in a gathering of perhaps a dozen people one night at a Brooklyn brownstone. After dinner, we moved to an adjoining room and sat in chairs and on sofas. The only topic of conversation I recall was what they had in common: being gay. Don’s friend from Texas said not a word. At one point, one of the men had to leave. He went around the room in a clockwise direction, giving a hug and kiss to each of his friends. I was next-to-last in this curious procession. Wondering what in the world I was doing there, I remained in my seat, stuck out my hand for a perfunctory shake and said goodbye.

After about five days in the Big Apple, Don, John, Craig and I drove 565 miles down to North Carolina. (Jack, a native of nearby Connecticut, stayed there.) I assume we stopped somewhere in between, but I have no memory of that. The very first night at our rented house on Sprague Street, Don and I had the inevitable talk. He learned that I had no intention of engaging in sex with him or any other man on the face of the earth. There was no ambiguity in what I told him. My girlfriend at the time, Pam Grover, knew my sexual orientation quite well and was amused to hear about Don’s efforts to bend it. She paid a visit there in early July. We both knew I had made a mistake in coming to Winston-Salem, a relatively old southern town.

My job for those three months, I am almost ashamed to say, was working in the local Coca-Cola bottling plant. It was hard, blue-collar work in which I wore a gray uniform and goggles to protect my eyes from flying glass. Bottles broke all the time, and cuts resulted. I once looked at my hands and counted more than 40 cuts, big and small. I worked with good-hearted, honest people, divided about equally between blacks and European Americans.

Don was an aspiring dancer at the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. This, of course, brought him into contact with more gay guys. All of his friends were homo, with the exception of me. It was guilt by association in the eyes of a husky blond-haired man down the street named Ted. He often lobbed insults at Don, John, Craig and yes, me. I ignored him two or three times and finally decided I would take no more. The next time Ted said an improper word to me, a clash of some kind was going to occur.

My job at the Coke factory was exhausting, and I would walk home slowly, placing one foot in front of the other. The day was July 17, 1974. From a distance, I saw Ted, his wife and baby, all sitting on the sidewalk in front of their house. As I drew near, I refused to avert my glance. Ted then uttered two words: “Hey, queer.” I made a 90-degree right turn and came toward him. The sneering expression on his face suddenly changed to puzzlement with a shade of fear. He had never considered the possibility that one of the men from down the street was intent on shutting him up.

As I mentioned earlier, Ted was fairly big. He outweighed me by 40 pounds and possibly more. Although I realized I might be walking into a major butt-kicking, I had made up my mind. I had agility and a lifetime of participation in athletics on my side. Anyway, I had been in fights before and figured I could handle myself with this hick. His wife let out a devilish laugh, but she soon changed her tune when she saw me popping him in the face. Boom, boom, boom it went. Ted, who proved to be a fairly clumsy fighter, never laid a hand on me. Wifey started calling for somebody to come and rescue her Ted. A man from a nearby house eventually intervened.

Needless to say, I had no more trouble from Ted in the summer of 1974. As for Don, I never saw him again. Perhaps 10 years ago, I happened to meet a woman who had known him in his hometown of Henderson, Texas. She gave me the sad news that Don had died of AIDS.