The Group – Jamie

Every boy needs a man. One of those men. I didn’t have one. My father was not around and most of the men in my life were artists or teachers or coaches. Which, of course, is not traditionally where one encounters one of those men.

I’ll explain.

He has rough hands. He wears the same outfit to work almost everyday. He gets his hair cut at a barbershop. He can fix stuff. He drinks a little bit. He plays cards. A man.

Jamie’s daddy was one of those men. My car (“Brunhilda” – a green, 1968 Chevrolet Nova that once belonged to my Uncle J.C.) could drive itself to Jamie’s house. I loved his father. Jerry tried and tried to teach me how to play poker. It didn’t stick.

Jerry Franklin was not a rich man in the traditional sense. Small house. Poor neighborhood. Blue-collar jobs. His wife and his children loved him. That was obvious.

Jamie was my friend. Jamie is my friend. His father never missed our shows. His father always laughed with us. His father always loved us.

It turned out, I loved Jamie. Although he never complained, I know I drove Jamie crazy. I frequently (daily) asked, “Am I your best friend? Are we best friends? Are you my best friend?” I thought it was cute at the time but now I think it was obtuse and incessant and unnecessary.

Jamie invariably answered, “Yes. Best friends.”

For whatever reason, I needed Jamie.

Our paths diverged.

One of our friends, who shall remain unnamed, appeared in my mother’s room at North Forsyth one day after school…

“Jamie called me last night. It was 3:00 AM. He said, ‘What are you doing?’ I said it’s three o’clock in the damn morning and I’m married. I’m sleeping or doing one other thing – either way, I should not be on the phone with you. What do you want?”

Turns out, Jamie called our friend to “come out.” Jamie is gay. He wanted our friend to know.

Well. I’ll never forget that afternoon in Margaret Griffin’s classroom.

Our friend wanted to know, “If Jamie is gay, does that make me gay? We’ve been in the shower together. We’ve slept in the same bed!”

My mother laughed and laughed and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. No, you’re not gay. And I’ve always known Jamie is gay. How did you not know?”

I interrupted. “Wait, Jamie is gay? No, he’s not.”

My mother looked at me, “Jeffrey, son, where have you been?”

Alright. Jamie is gay. I waited for my phone call. My best friend. He would tell me.

The phone never rang. The week passed. Months. Indeed, years.

I was left with the notion that perhaps Jamie was angry with me. I was no longer a part of his life. Nor he, mine.

He lived in another city. I would occasionally see his sister or his mama and our conversations were always pleasant, but we never spoke of Jamie.

My life experience had led me to a place where I was firmly convicted in the belief that gay people are not bad, but they’re wrong.

I started to wonder about all I had seen, all I had heard and all I believed.

I frequently thought about Jamie. How could I dislike someone I loved so much? What is up with people hating other people?

I watched people I loved and admired condemn others because they are homosexual. Or heterosexual. Or poor. Or rich. Or old. Or young. Or disabled. Or black. Or white. Or liberal. Or conservative. Or Catholic. Or Baptist. Or Methodist. Or fat. Or skinny. Or women. Or men.

Come on, people. Really?

Every preacher is not chosen by God. That’s a shame. Righteousness is not the sole purview of the ordained.

Over time, I’ve encountered a few holy men on the way to the pulpit. Very few. Three, to be exact. Wise men.

Claude. Buzz. Jeff.

I called each of them. I asked what I wanted to ask. They answered. I listened.

I was wrong. I. Was. Wrong.

God wants us to spend a little more time loving and lot less time judging.

It brought me back to Jamie. He wasn’t angry nor embarrassed nor ashamed. Perhaps I pushed him away. Maybe I had been so grounded and steadfast in what I believed to be right, that I had made it impossible for my best friend to talk with me.

I was so ashamed. I was so disappointed in myself. I was so embarrassed my behavior. I missed my best friend.

Jamie returned to Winston-Salem. He is in “The Group.” We’ve been to the movies. We call. We text. We laugh. We talk. We’re thinking about going to the Patti LaBelle concert. I trust Sophia and Miles with him. He is a good man.

We finally had the conversation we should have had years ago. I confessed. I apologized. (And I asked for permission to write about this.)

I promise I won’t be obtuse or incessant or unnecessary.

I love Jamie. Maybe someday we’ll learn to play poker. Jerry would like that.

Best friends.