Therapists, Unhinged Doors and Grandpa's Fedora

It all started the day I realized that I was in love with my therapist. That day, I was minding my own business, waiting in the waiting room. The creepy receptionist eyed me while pretending to file papers. I think she was staring at my hat. I got that a lot. It was always the first thing people asked me when they met me: after the usual pleasantries, there would be a silence while a topic of conversation was searched for, then, “Nice hat you have there. What kind is it?”

My response was always the same: “It’s called a fedora. It was my grandpa’s.”

Sometimes I was pleasant, sometimes defensive. That’s why I was here at the therapist, who I happen to love.

His name is Peter. He has the most gorgeous green eyes that have ever been made and he has a rogue smile. You know, the one where his head goes down and his eyebrow goes up and you go all warm and butterflies inside. And he really listens. Of course, that’s his job. That’s probably why I denied that I was in love with him for a long time.

I started going to see Peter because my mom wanted me to, after my grandpa died. We were close, the two of us. The fedora had been his, a long time ago. He wore it all the time, a crumpled note tucked jauntily into the band. I never read it, though he told me it was the first love note that Grandma ever wrote him. We buried it with him after his stroke. I tucked it into his breast pocket myself. I guess only he and Grandma will ever know what it said. Now I have a ticket stub from ‘Macbeth’ in the band. That was Grandpa’s favorite play. He completely believed in the Scottish curse and he kept a log of all the misfortunes that he ever witnessed in connection to the play. At the performance my stub came from, the actor playing Macduff accidently stabbed himself in the foot and had to be taken to the emergency room. I had been five and Grandpa had let me write about it in his log. My entry took up ten pages, front and back, of the notebook he used.

When Grandpa died, I locked myself in my room for two days and cried. Mom fed me with beef jerky slipped under the bedroom door and cans of orange soda left outside for me to pick up on my way to the bathroom. When I finally came out, Mom shipped me off to Peter’s so that I could come to grips with my grief. I didn’t really need it, but Mom was paying for it and so I couldn’t refuse. I always said 'yes' way too easily and I was a 'momma's boy' to boot. But it was worth it to see her smile at me.

There are two reasons why I couldn’t be in love with Peter. First, he is like twenty years older than I am and second, I had a girlfriend. Loving Peter makes me gay. My mom didn’t know I’m gay. Neither did Peter. I think I told him everything: about my secret obsession with Power Rangers in eighth grade, that I hate pineapple, about my summer vacation where I threw up on my cousin. He knows all of that. He just didn’t know that I loved him. Maybe he knows now. Maybe my parents called him like I wanted them to. Maybe they didn’t. I don’t know now.

The day that I finally realized I loved Peter was a Tuesday. It was summer. My girlfriend and I had just gone to second base. Call me a prude, but that had always scared me. But when we finally did, I didn’t feel as excited as I through I should. I thought about telling Peter, but as I did, I started thinking about him. Butterflies flooded my stomach and that was when I knew. In hindsight, maybe that’s why the creepy receptionist was staring at me. I think I was blushing. All I know is that I couldn’t stay for that day’s talk with Peter I had to get away from there. I wanted to see him so badly, but I knew that I would give myself away. So I walked out of the office and caught a bus home.

Mom and Dad were at work. Mom works as a secretary for an insurance company and Dad’s a construction worker. Both of them were going to be home late. I sat down at the cold kitchen table and ate a bowl of cereal. Then I tried to call my girlfriend.

Even though I realized that I never liked her ‘that way’, she was always there for me. I felt bad dumping her, but I couldn’t stay in a fake relationship that way. But she didn’t pick up her phone, so I didn’t say anything on the message. I just hung up. Then I started to clean.

Mom was home less than Dad, so we were the two who took care of the house. We cooked and did laundry and stuff like that. Mom always said that we were two extraordinary men for doing it. I didn’t mind doing it. My favorite job was mopping. We had an old-fashioned string mop. It and the water pail were gray. They weren’t exactly exciting to look at, but it was fun to watch the floor appear from beneath a layer of dirt. Plus the soap smelled like lemons and somehow that always made me feel better.

When I was finished, I took out the trash. Then I fixed the basement door that had come unhinged. If only my life were as easy to repair now that it had come apart. Two days before, I had been fine. Now I was gay and in love with my therapist. My family was going to freak when I told them. My girlfriend was going to hate me. All my friends would leave me. Maybe I could have kept it quiet. Maybe I could have survived. But I made up my mind then.

I had never thought about death. I had seen it happen – my grandpa was dead after all. It wasn’t like I didn’t believe in it. I had just never thought about it happening to me. But now it just seemed like a logical way for things to go. So I sat down to write the note.

“Dear Dad and Mom,

Know that you were the best parents that anyone could ever have had. Please call Peter and tell him that I love him. And tell Kelly that I said good-bye.

It wasn’t your fault that I was gay. I’ll say hi to Grandpa for you. I love you both.”

I signed it and left it on my bed. Then I sat on the end of the bed and looked at my room one last time. There as my signed hockey puck from a Capitals game. Grandpa loved hockey almost as much as he loved ‘Macbeth.’ His favorite parts were the fights. He would sit there and cheer them on, waving his cane around.

There were always two other things that Grandpa had on him besides the fedora: his cane and a dirty handkerchief. It was a neat cane. You could unscrew the handle and the shaft was hollow so he could put things in it. He used to keep peppermints in there. I don’t know why the handkerchief was always dirty. He never used it, but whenever my mom did his laundry, she would complain about the handkerchiefs. We buried him with his cane too. Mom says that she misses the handkerchiefs. I couldn’t help but wonder if she would miss my dirty laundry. She’d have more laundry to do in general: I usually did it. That thought alone almost stopped me. But then I thought of Peter and I steeled myself.

The bus was smelly and hot. The wad of money that was the entire contents of my bank was heavy in my pocket. I didn’t kill myself that day. I just went on a bus, not caring where it went. I was gay and in love with my therapist. I was leaving behind a family that loved me and the girl of any sane man’s dreams. I was striking out with fifty dollars on a tuna can bus. I’m going to make you proud of me, Grandpa. Somehow I’m going to. It was then that I realized that I had left my fedora on my bed beside my note. Guess Grandpa wasn’t coming on this trip. I’d see him later. But I sure would miss that hat…

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For this particular English assignment, we had to write a short story with all of the following elements:

1) a black fedora

2) a hockey puck

3) an unhinged door

4) a dirty handkerchief

5) a gray pail

6) a crumpled note

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Comments and critiques are welcomed and encouraged. I didn't start this story out intending for it to go the direction it did and it isn't my usual style or subject. Good news is I got a 100! But I know this could still be better. Please, people! Hit me with it!