‘MINGLING AMONG THE THRONGS’
Michael Raqim Mira is a photographer and writer based in Texas. He began practicing film photography in 2004 and later moved on to digital format. He is currently working on a photo book called "Dreaming in Monochrome."
MINGLING AMONG THE THRONGS
When Neil walked into the bar on 10th Avenue, though it had been years since I’d seen his face, I recognized him immediately. I estimate that he and I are about the same age. We are what I term as the “last of a certain breed.” Possibly fascinating but not to be envied. We are single, gay men of an “advanced” age, out on the prowl. At least that’s how I presume we are judged by those watching from the sidelines.
In an historically short amount of time, things have progressed for the better, particularly if you are young, gay and don’t struggle with what came before, if even aware of the shoulders on which you stand. And though there is a thriving business in gay bars, places to see and be seen, most are not patronized for the purpose of finding men of my years. Unless they are establishments that invite briefcase carrying Sugar Daddies in loafers and suits, where money is exchanged for companionship and services rendered, in the short or long term.
Neil and I are dinosaurs that can be found mingling among the throngs of young men drinking garnish clad cocktails and domestic beer from a tap. Nothing exceptional and not all that rare, at least here in this city of millions. Years of experience can lead to good conversation, as long as we initiate, and the younger man is either cornered and polite, or willing to listen. There are places more accepting of our kind but I don’t find stimulation there, nor persons I might want to date or fuck. It’s not that I’m adverse to meeting a handsome man near to my age, but almost all of those bachelors are trolling for youth. Or they aren’t bachelors at all.
The domino effect that applies, travels back many decades to a time when a personally complicated AIDS-related destruction altered all that would follow for me. Though I moved on long ago, something or things subconscious became road blocks to what might have been healthy pairings (that’s when I probably should have returned to therapy). Finding or choosing the safety of considering myself a father figure or repairman doesn’t open up opportunities for an equal relationship. Wounded masculinity is very attractive to me, since the focus tends to be on the other one. A deflection I have mastered.
Though not at another man’s request, after almost 40 years, I put away the photograph of Stephen — the one person from my past where dreamlike memories still affect my mood. If he were alive, he would not be anything like the picture I looked at everyday. It was taken before we met, when he was in his early twenties. As my imagination took flight visualizing what I
decided he might currently look like, I no longer wanted to see him as he had been in a photograph shot when he wasn’t yet 25. He would now be close to 70. Around the age his parents were when I met them.
I don’t spend my life comparing others to my memory of him. Though I’d be lying if I said that what happened doesn’t influence my present day behavior. Being unsuccessful in my finding committed love is not blamed upon the similarities to or differences from who came before. I know of a good many people, straight and gay, who survived unhappy endings to bravely pick themselves up and embark on subsequent pairings. As for people who decide to remain in damaged relationships, I guarantee there are those who settle in order not to be alone.
I know almost nothing about Neil. I don’t remember why I know his name. I have no idea where he lives or what he does for a living. I don’t even think we’ve ever had a conversation.
My obsessive fascination with Neil lies on my wondering how we both ended up in this state. He may not think about it like that, if he thinks about it at all. He represents something to me that probably has nothing to with who he is as a human being.
Whether I live an additional 25 years or leave Earth tonight, I don’t want to end my days with unaddressed regrets. One of the great privileges of my life is knowing that nothing was left
unsaid between my mother and I before she passed away. The only guilt I feel is the convenient distraction of wishing I had been at her side on the day she went to sleep forever.
One thing Neil and I arguably share is that we have both aged well. But that’s not necessarily a reflection of anything more significant than misdirected vanity. What I mean by that is, from a distance, you might mistake us for being 20 years younger than we actually are. Come close and you will uncover the truth. In my case you may discover the love handles I strategically keep hidden, or the noticeable sagging beneath my chin that cannot be camouflaged well, or the loss of youth in my facial expression. I have managed to deflect lines on my face usually associated with age. But I chalk that up to genetic fortunes.
Other than dropping dead, there is no escaping getting older. When I see someone who is 60 and has had a facelift, I think of the sentiments my friend Margie once said. I’m paraphrasing. “Yes, she’s had a facelift but she still looks like she’s 60 — with a facelift.” That may seem like a hypocritical comparison coming from a man who still works out with weights religiously. It helps in my fight, but the shape of the body as I get older, unequivocally changes. So much for defying gravity. For Neil and myself, I wonder how long we will go on in this delusion of unrealistic denial. I shouldn’t put Neil and I in the same category, since I know almost nothing about him.
When I was 39, I had a year long relationship with an incredibly handsome man who was married to a woman and had two teenage daughters. We met in the bleachered seats of a concert at Madison Square Garden. He was sitting in the row in front of mine and kept turning around to stare at me. And though it couldn’t last, most of my friends made up scenarios of what was going on in my private life. Since I didn’t talk about it, no one really knew anything. I still fight the urge to contact him, as if there could be some seductively desperate future we might share. I haven’t spoken with him in years, yet I still miss what we never had.
What is it that Neil has? A lover no one knows about? A choice he made not to opt for anything serious? Searching for something he can’t seem to find? I haven’t a clue. And though I write about him, it’s none of my business.
Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 75 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.
