My Trip Across the River

When harboring a misplaced, middle-aged head-trip, is it better to sink with your feelings or seek out a life preserver to wash you “assure”?

By J. Corbett Holmes

It was one of those perfect summer nights—the kind that lures everyone out to the streets, the kind that taunts all your inner urges, the kind where the sidewalk sends silent sexual messages through your feet, the kind where the skimpiest outfit choices seem perfect, yet they only add to the elevated rush of unspoken sexual tension. And for some reason, instead of feeling eager to dive in, it only made me feel like a drowning man as I walked to meet my friend for happy hour.

“I feel weird,” I whined to my friend Jim in between sips of sangria. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I’m not upset about anything in particular—but, I don’t know what to do with myself, or where I fit in anymore!” I announced, sucking down the remainder of my glass of fruity wine.

“You need a trip across the river!” he announced, popping a fermented apple wedge into his mouth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I shot back.

“Did you ever see the movie Soapdish with Whoopi Goldberg?” he began.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “Isn’t that the one with Sally Field? And, so…?” I inquired, pouring myself another glass of sangria.

“Well, every time Sally—the soap opera star—needed a little validation, Whoopi, her longtime writer, would take her across the river to a mall in New Jersey so that fans could swarm around her clamoring for autographs! And then she felt validated! You just need to figure out what your trip across the river is!” With that, he popped up from his barstool and disappeared in search of the restroom.

Since I was currently harboring a “lost at sea” feeling, as I sat at the bar munching on tapas, I wondered—does everyone have a trip across the river? Then I wondered—was it better to get washed “assure” by strangers or just harbor my washed-up feelings? In an effort to avoid feeling like Old Man River, I decided to take my friend’s navigational advice and plan a trip across the river for myself.

To properly utilize my “sea legs,” over the next several weeks, while I carefully considered my excursion options, I began to collect passport information from others. “Hey, what’s your trip across the river?” I’d ask. Each time, I was met with a cocked head or a raised eyebrow. Next, I would have to explain the Soapdish scenario, washing them with movie moments. Then the stories began to flow, and here are a few of my favorites:

• “I like to go back and visit my old job! They all gather around and ask a lot of questions. They’re really impressed with what I do now.”

• “When I show my body off, like changing at the gym, or posting (nearly naked) pictures on the Internet! The reason for their response is obvious, but still, it makes me feel hot!”

• “I like to go to bars where I know I’ll be considered one of the better-looking guys.”

• “Sometimes, when I’m at a party filled with people I don’t know, I like to add five years to my age, so people will tell me how fabulous I look.”

• “I like to take a trip back home, to where I grew up. It gives me a positive perspective on just how much I’ve achieved in Hollywood.”

While the scope of trips I’d acquired were unique, varied and inspiring, as I thought about potential destinations for my own trip, I became aware of several things—that my initial confused and displaced feelings came from a need to abandon many of the social outlets of my earlier gay years and that my upcoming trip (across the river) needed to be a new, more age-appropriate place or event (whatever that meant). Because, while aging, I’d continued to revisit the same places for community connection and, I suppose, maybe even a little validation. Sadly, I also realized—for my status—validation at those places was neither plentiful nor obvious.

As I prepared for my trip, I packed my travel requisites: my life experience, the aforementioned collected trips of others, and a little trepidation. Because of the various stories I’d accumulated, I decided first to take several familiar trips, but to new destinations. I joined a new gym, I presented myself at several uncharted (believe it or not) watering holes, I spent time looking into assorted and diverse community opportunities, and I tried to carry as little baggage as possible. So I went alone and with a curious outlook. Then, on a quiet Sunday morning, I set off to meet a man who I thought might prove a valuable travel agent for future trips. For this particular excursion, I packed like my attitude—rather lightly. Thus I was completely unequipped for my venture! It was as if I’d been stopped by Port Authority and asked to explain the reason for my trip, and if I had anything of value to declare.

“What is your contribution to the community?” he inquired, with the jovial tone of a curious Santa Claus who was trying to decide if I was eligible for my holiday gifts. His question—something I was completely unprepared to answer—sparked a lengthy dialogue, leaving me with copious things to consider. Suddenly, post visit, I wanted to discover new ways in which I could contribute to my community, as opposed to what they could do for me. I began to realize that my trip across the river didn’t involve a hot man worshiping my body. It didn’t involve physical adoration. And it didn’t utilize any of the usual things I equated with validation from my community. My ideas were challenged. My contribution was requested. My adult participation was required. And my age was considered a benefit.

What I realized about my original quandary—my lost feelings—was that they were motivated by a need to understand where a middle-aged gay man fits in to the urban gay mecca. If you don’t want to drink yourself into a stupor or dance in a drug-induced haze all night. If most of your friends are “married” and you don’t want to sit home alone. Well, I still don’t have all the answers, but, as I carry on my search for said (middle-aged single homo) destinations, it continues to make me think about people’s trips—our natural reliance on others for comfort, survival and, yes, even validation. When we enter the world, we immediately learn that our survival, care, feeding, and affection depends on another person. But as we travel through life—aging with each day—we learn to “feed” ourselves. Is it being too much of a baby to rely on others to occasionally stamp our passport—especially since there is no “cruise director” to provide you with directions into middle age? So think about it: Everyone has a trip across the river. What’s yours? And if you can’t remember, ask your mother for directions!

Special thanks to all those who helped with my “trip”—even when you didn’t know it—especially Don and the boys in the pool.

For your shaving graces e-mail me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.