This One Thing

  THIS ONE THING

  Damian Maher

  Copyright © 2015 Damian Maher

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at this.onething@yahoo.com.

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  ISBN: 1514718944

  ISBN-13: 978-1514718940

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015911494

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, establishments, or events is purely coincidental.

  Any literary work that honestly depicts human nature must be far more than a pretty picture of traditional values. This book contains sexually explicit scenes of a homosexual nature that are suitable for mature readers.

  If you would like free information on Damian Maher books before they are published, please contact us at this.onething@yahoo.com.

  I dedicate this book, with profound gratitude, to RV, the love of my life, to my dear friend Hilary, and to each of my readers.

  I would be very pleased to know that I have positively influenced your life.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  vii

  Preface

  1

  1

  Not like everybody else

  3

  2

  Alone in the porn world

  29

  3

  Many, many shiny things

  81

  4

  Miracle of miracles

  135

  5

  This one thing

  169

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Editing

  Hilary Handelsman, PhD

  Cover design

  187designz

  PREFACE

  Why is it that nobody tells you the answers when you need them most? In my youth, I couldn’t comprehend many things about myself, about other people, and about life. I felt that I was not like everybody else, and the usual answers to the most important questions couldn’t satisfy me. I exhausted my parents with countless questions, yet I learned very quickly not to ask all the questions in my head—because this would have revealed that I was different. When one is different, the answers have to come from within.

  Early on in my life, I created my own world and my own understanding of life, which I have shared with very few people. To others I may have appeared strange because they couldn’t understand me. People usually trusted and felt close to me, and we would get along well at first. But I couldn’t open up—when I was younger because I didn’t know what I had to offer and later, because it was my way of surviving in a world that, for the most part, was hostile to gays. I avoided sharing my most personal thoughts and feelings, which disappointed people, and they often slipped out of my life. This saddened me, but each time I experienced closeness—or loss—I learned a bit more.

  It was never easy to differentiate the glitter from the gold, as I tried to understand how to grow up and find love as a gay man. But, as the dots toward which I have gravitated throughout my life started to reveal a clearer picture of me, I could become more vulnerable, truer to myself, and more open to love. I came to understand that the most desirable thing isn’t solely reaching the heights, but stretching from being small, misguided, and afraid to being successful, loved, and accomplished. I am all those things at the same time. Just as I like it most when it rains . . . on a sunny day.

  Now, I want to unlock my heart and tell you my story—about establishing my identity while struggling to overcome the scars left by a troubled family, the missteps that ultimately taught me how to be myself, and my pursuit of a balanced life as a gay man who seeks the beauty and dignity of love.

  1 Not like everybody else

  “Go outside and play for an hour. You might find some friends on the playground,” my dad told me after an unusually quiet Sunday lunch, the day before I was to begin fourth grade.

  “Do I have to?” I asked. “The sun is burning.”

  “Just go! It is not too hot to play outside,” he persisted, while Mother, saying nothing, cleaned the table.

  “Okay,” I said, assuming my parents had had enough of me asking question after question and wanted some peace.

  The pavement in front of our apartment block was much too hot to walk on barefoot. Nobody played outside, and I didn’t know what to do. In the shadow of the giant tulip tree I saw a hole in the pavement and tried to throw small stones into it. To avoid being bored, I tried to find an interesting way to play with my thoughts. What came to my mind was just a silly little thing, but I have remembered it all my life.

  As I was trying to throw a little stone into the hole, I suddenly became aware of myself. The most peculiar thought came to my mind: I figured that, to fall into the hole, I would have to become self-aware, and that, forgetting about myself, while focusing on other things, would mean being out of the hole. I realized, of course, that it was much better to be out of the hole, because it meant that things happened, and boredom or unpleasant feelings were gone. Because of my awareness of being different and because of the constant need for self-control in front of others, I also assumed that I would fall into the hole quite often.

  After I strolled up and down the backyard and played with a fat and lazy cat who appeared to live there, I forgot about this strange little mind game and might even have gotten out of the hole. But as I returned home on that last Sunday afternoon before school began, the ground was taken out from under my feet, and my carefree childhood ended.

  When I walked out of the elevator, I heard Mother and Dad screaming at each other. Fear embraced me, and I wondered, just as I did every time they fought, whether it was my fault. I sensed that this time it was about something beyond the usual quarrel. When I entered the apartment, Mother was yelling at my father, her face red and twisted by rage.

  “Tell him. Tell him!” she screamed. “Tell him you want to leave us! Tell him . . . you dirty cheater . . .”

  I stood in the living room, astounded by Mother’s fury. I had never seen her acting this crazy—this loud and out of control. Oh yes, she was usually loud and expressive, but this was something else.

  “Sit down. We have something to tell you,” Dad said in such a calm voice that he actually raised my hopes that this terrible horror could be settled somehow. “Your mother and I have decided to get a divorce. It’s better for us . . . and for you.”

  As he pronounced those words, fanfare trumpets in my head blew my childhood away in one moment. I felt as if our living room was becoming bigger and bigger and bigger, and as if the furniture, along with my parents, would soon begin to float and spin around my dizzy head. My world collapsed, and I was never to feel that cozy childhood illusion of security again.

  “Do you want to live with your mother or with me?” my dad wanted to know.

  “Will you choose your father or me?” Mother repeated that horrible question, focusing her big, swollen eyes on me. I was expected to decide which one I loved. But I couldn’t.

  “I want to live with both of you. I can’t choose . . .” I said, frightened. My eyes were wet with tears, as I whispered, “Because . . . I love you . . . both.”

  “Yes, yes, but that is not possible; you can’t live with us both. You have to decide,” Mother insisted. She was not herse
lf.

  “I can’t decide. I would like to live with you both. Perhaps one week with—”

  “No, that is not possible. You have to make a decision,” Mother said, interrupting my desperate suggestion.

  “If you come to live with me, you will have a more regulated and safer environment. You can see for yourself that your mother is not normal. She’s not able to take care of you. You can see that she’s crazy,” my dad told me, as if Mother were not standing right next to us.

  Like a volcano, Mother erupted in uncontrolled rage.

  “Cheater! You are not going to tell me anything. Who is normal here? You most certainly aren’t!” she screamed. Her dress grew wrinkled as she waved her arms furiously in the air.

  She turned to me, quiet for a moment, and it seemed as though she had regained some control.

  “I have to tell you this . . . your father has another woman. He found some slut while working abroad in Poland. So now you know. It’s not my fault. I wanted us to stay together as a family.”

  I started to cry. It was the only thing I could do. The pain and fear made me feel as though thousands of mountains were falling from the sky, suffocating every possibility that things might turn out well. I couldn’t see anything; everything turned into a giant white hole.

  “Yes, I have another woman . . . but . . . look at your mother. Could you live with her?” Dad asked me, knowing that this would push Mother over the edge and cause her more pain.

  “You are all against me. Go! Live with your father. You are just like him. You will come back to me one day when you realize what your father is like. He doesn’t really love you,” Mother screamed.

  She burst into tears, fell onto the sofa, and tried to catch some air; such was her pain, so deep was her wound. Little did I know that, for her, this rejection was a repetition of the unspoken rejection she had suffered at her mother’s hands.

  It hurt me to see her so weak and so powerless, and I was also afraid for her. Without reason, I felt guilty for the situation.

  “Go to your room and read,” my father told me.

  Somehow I found my room. I was torn apart inside, and every good feeling that I had about myself was gone.

  What can I do? Is this all my fault? Oh, boy, I’m so in the hole now.

  Not only was I painfully aware of myself in this impossible cleft stick, but I also wondered whether anybody would ever love me, since I knew that there was something different about me. At the age of ten, I couldn’t grasp what this could be. I only knew that I had felt this way for as long as I could remember.

  As Dad thought that the situation was unbearable, he called his mother the same day. Grandma Maria lived in the neighboring town, about an hour and a half bus ride away from us, and I counted the hours until she arrived the next day. I waited and waited for her under the tulip tree in front of our apartment block. To kill the boredom, I tried from time to time to throw small stones into the hole in the pavement. Once again, my head was full of questions. Will I ever be able to get out of this hole? Will I ever be able to get over the hurt I am feeling? Will my worries and fears disappear one day?

  My heart started pounding as I saw Grandma alight from the city bus. She gave me a strong hug, and her eyes were wet with tears.

  “Oh, my dearest child! I am so happy to see you. But you seem somewhat troubled . . . I know . . . those parents of yours . . . I reassure you that everything will be all right. Grown-ups do quarrel sometimes . . . you know how they are . . . but it will pass. Now I’m here to help you!”

  “I’m so happy that you’re here. I think that this time they will divorce. I don’t know what to do.”

  Grandma was the only person in my life with whom I could have serious conversations. She was smart, and, as a retired teacher, she knew how to deal with me. Mother was more or less emotionally unstable most of the time, and Dad never could give me the kind of feedback I wanted.

  “I spoke with your father,” she said, “Perhaps it would be for the best if you stayed with me for a while. You remember your aunt Dana? It might be wise for us two to stay at her house until your crazy parents settle the situation and come to their senses.”

  This sounded to me like a good idea. Leaving my familiar environment was certainly frightening, but in this situation of conflict and uncertainty, some peace and stability were all I wanted.

  “But . . . my aunt lives in Switzerland . . . Can I leave my school in Croatia? How will I attend school? Will I have to learn French? Today was my first day in the fourth grade . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Your father visited your teacher this morning, and she said that in such situations, home schooling is possible.”

  “Okay, but how? Who’ll teach me?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. I am a teacher, your aunt is a school psychologist, your uncle is a mechanical engineer, and your cousin is about to start her second year of medical school. There will be enough people around to help you in different subjects. Your teacher will prepare a special program for you, and she will also give us all the necessary materials. So, you will be able to reenter school at any time, with only some minor adjustments. Don’t worry; you are a very clever boy!”

  “That sounds great. I don’t like being at home with my parents anymore.” My eyes watered, and I started to cry.

  “Oh, Daniel, don’t worry. Now we have a plan, and everything is going to be okay. You will see . . . there are some very nice days ahead of us! They have a big house with a pool near Lake Geneva. You will still be able to swim every day, since this summer is so hot . . .”

  As I carried Grandma’s baggage into the elevator, I felt some of the weight lifting from my chest. I had mixed thoughts: on the one hand I was worried about what my parents would do, but on the other hand I anticipated with delight the delicatessen Grandma had brought from the local market in her town—homemade cheese and smoke-dried bacon.

  At first we all sat quietly at the table and mumbled about how good the homemade food was, but it was not quiet for long.

  “My son and I were thinking . . . since you two are having problems in your relationship, maybe it would be best for Daniel to spend some time with me. Dana and her family invited us to stay in Switzerland with them for a while. My son already spoke with Daniel’s teacher. She said she will arrange for all the materials to homeschool him.”

  I saw surprise and distrust in my mother’s eyes. Even before Grandma finished her thoughts, Mother was trembling, and soon she was in a fury.

  “Oh, yes! Sure! Who do you think I am? Am I just some slut from around the corner? Or am I Daniel’s mother? Are you proposing this solution to me—which would be outrageous in itself! Or is everything already settled, and you dare to just inform me of what has been decided?” She fell silent for a moment. She must have known that the battle was lost and thought that I was the only one who could rescue the situation.

  “So, Daniel, tell me! Tell me that you want to stay with me and that you will not be manipulated by your father and his mother! You have your own mind!”

  “I think I’d like to go to Switzerland with Grandma. I’m not happy here,” I said.

  I loved Mother very much, but her nervous episodes were difficult to bear. This family of mine was completely broken. I just couldn’t face any more fights or the animosity between my parents.

  “What? Are you taking your father’s side? Do you believe they actually love you? They just want you to hurt me!”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I ran into my room, and Mother ran after me.

  “Are you really taking your father’s side?”

  “No! I just want to go to Switzerland with Grandma Maria. That’s all,” I said.

  She didn’t hear me.

  “You’re just like your father!” she screamed furiously. “Just like your father! You are just like—”

  “I’m not. I just don’t want this circus anymore.”

  “Think! Think what you’re doing!” She shook me by the shoulde
rs.

  “I’ve decided—”

  “You’re just like your father!” she screamed at me. She slapped me across my face with all her might, and my nose began to bleed. As odd as it might sound, in that moment I loved her, and I knew that she loved me—that was never the question. I never felt that much love from my father. But I just couldn’t bear any more of the yelling, the accusations, and the unpredictability. I was disappointed and angry with her and wondered, Why does she take it all out on me? At that time I couldn’t understand just how weak and broken she was. Everything in her world was falling apart.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to—” She tried to hug me, but I pushed her away. She then turned to Dad and Grandma, who had come running. “See what you’ve made me do? You arranged all this behind my back—”

  “Leave the child alone! Don’t beat the child!” Grandma cried, taking Dad’s side. Furious, Mother ran into the bedroom and locked the door. At first I heard her screaming. Then she began talking to herself, and sometime after that I heard her crying. I was angry, hurt, and heartbroken. And I loved her. Things just couldn’t get any worse.

  The next day I found myself with Grandma on the train to Switzerland. I liked traveling, and even as a child I absorbed every single impression with a special gratitude. But this time we traveled through the night, so I saw little of the landscape from the train. In the morning we arrived in Lausanne, where my aunt had built her house. She was waiting for us at the train station, dressed elegantly in an Audrey Hepburn way. Although she and Grandma had agreed that we would stay there for some months, she seemed to be afraid that I might end up with her family for good. I noticed immediately that she wasn’t fond of the idea of having another burden placed on her shoulders.