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Jeff

It saddens me to have to tell you this, but I’m leaving you. Please don’t be hurt. It’s not you, it’s me. I mean, we’ve had some great times over the last 17 and a half years. But the fact of the matter is that I’m just not feeling the love for you like I once did.

This is hard for me because despite everything, I still feel very close to you. But I feel I owe it to you to be honest: Maybe it is a little you too. I mean, we’re just both so different than we were back in 1993. Of course, the more things change, the more they stay the same. And maybe that is part of the problem too.

I’m trying to keep things positive, trying to remember the good parts. How could I forget my initial crush on you? I remember how you took me to exciting places, opened up my world to new people and interests. If only that newness didn’t fade. You’ve changed over the years. Too often you’ve altered your character to meet the demands of an overwrought local government, big businesses and greedy real estate developers. You’re just not as fun as you used to be. And it’s too bad, because you held such promise.

I’ve decided that I can no longer live with your extreme meteorological moodiness, either. I realize you’ve always been like this, Chicago. In the beginning of relationships, we overlook the faults of our lovers and make concessions for things that irk us. But between the sweltering summer nights and the never-ending winters — and your overall schizophrenic nature — I cannot take it any more.

As you must have figured out by now, I’m leaving you for another city. He’s a much younger and has a different attitude, not to mention a much different climate. I suppose I’m wrapped up in the excitement of infatuation. I realize new love always has a glowing sheen which usually wears off. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. Whatever the case, I feel like I have to take a chance to start anew. I feel like I don’t have a chance to grow, to learn, to expand my horizons further if I stay with you.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to focus totally on the negatives. It wasn’t all bad, the almost 18 years we spent together. You schooled me and made opportunity possible. You truly were a loving, cosmopolitan influence that shaped who I am today. You taught me acceptance, pride, self-reliance and street smarts. More importantly, you helped me become a man. For that I am truly grateful.

More than anything you helped me find my “logical family”, as Anna Madrigal would put it. You opened the doors of possibility so that the most important people in my life could walk through. Because of you I have found love, kinship, acceptance and built life-long friendships with people who I’d have otherwise not met. You were a glorious way station for my fellow travelers.

Well, my dear city, I don’t want to drag this on any longer than needed. I think you know why I have to leave. You were my first love and I’ll always treasure our time together. Some call you The Second City, but you’ll always be Number One in my heart. I bid you farewell, my dearest Chicago.

My Love Forever,
J.

[Author's Note: This is the last entry under The Ungay Guy masthead. But don't worry, I am not going to stop blogging. I'm launching an all-new blog soon. You'll be able to follow my adventures in San Francisco and my general bullcrappery for years to come. Be sure to follow me on Twitter for updates.]

The Brown Elephant resale shop came today to take away last of the giveaway furniture. Friends are coming over this week for the rest of stuff I’m selling. What remains is an apartment in a state of mild chaos: Half packed boxes, dirty laundry, the stuff of everyday living that remains in limbo until the waning hours. I’ve managed to distill life to about four boxes and some luggage. As I survey a half-packed life, I still can’t help but wonder if I’m taking too much.

My credit cards are now completely paid off. I’m managed the seemingly impossible feat of both knocking our my debt AND achieving the money-saving goal I set for myself. I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in myself.

With two remaining shifts left at work, the next week remains mostly unscripted. It’s a paradox, because I feel like I’ll have too much free time, yet still so much to do. Mostly I’ll be saying goodbye to people, places, things. It’s a farewell to nouns.

Every goal must eventually be achieved. Now that I’m on the precipice of my personal achievement, my insides are a vortex of complex emotions. I find myself a little weepy at times when I think of what I’m losing — or more specifically who I’m losing. I have few regrets and no hesitance about taking my leave. But to quote a song that’s at least as old as I am: “Sometimes you gotta know how to lose to know how to win.”

I am happy about my decision to move on. I have no doubt that life will unfold as it should and all will be well. A new home awaits. In the meantime, I feel appropriately wistful about what I am leaving behind. It’s an end, for sure. But it is also a beginning. -fin-

10. The Food. Even though I’m trying eat less like a Midwesterner, I will most definitely miss Chicago’s culinary offerings. I’m heading to the land of localvores, farmers markets, vegan turkey burgers and soy fries, and that should do wonders for my body weight. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss the over-eater’s paradise that is the great city of Chicago. From the deep dish pizza to the hot dogs, I never met a bad food I didn’t love. I know, I know: “Hot dogs? Gross!” WHATEVER! You’ve not lived until you’ve had a Chicago Style Hot Dog or a specialty dog from Hot Doug’s. This feels like an Oscar speech at a a Weight Watchers meetings, but I have to say I’m going to miss dim sum at Furama, the delicious Cuban food — and waiters — at Cafe 28, the baguette sandwiches at Ba Le, the decadently wondrous custard from Scooter’s, as well as the food at Irazu, Bistro Margot, Standard India, Over Easy, Fernando’s, Sola, Crisp, The Soup Box and so many more. My pallet will miss them all, but my waistline will not.

9. Spring & Summer In The City. Old Man Winter decided to give me a proper meteorological send-off this past February by dumping on us the third largest blizzard in Chicago history. Of course, it’s April now and my seasonal amnesia is in full effect. Like a kiss from Prince Charming, the sunshine awakes me from the deep slumber of winter. I shed the layers, get on my bike and breathe the warm, yet crisp air. Spring, with it’s green and blossoms, will soon give way to summer and all it’s offerings: Street fairs, live music (much or it free and outdoors), lakefront bike rides, lazy beach days on the shores of Lake Michigan and shirtless mens as far as the eye can see. The horror of winter fades and is quickly replaced by the joy of a city alive with fun and frolic. Spring and summer are the best times to be a Chicagoan.

8. The Flesh Hungry Dog Show. For the last six years, my friend Gary Airdale has been booking and hosting an alt queer music night called Flesh Hungry Dog Show. One night a month, the FHDS transforms a leather/fetish bar into one of the most inclusive rock and roll parties in the city. It’s a great outlet for queer music that has really cultivated a nice little community and following at Jackhammer. I’ve been an enthusiastic FHDS concert-goer on and off for most of that six years, which has hosted such bands as (my favorites) The Joans, Bobby Conn, Bitch & Animal, The Cathy Santonies, Blue Ribbon Glee Club, Mucca Pazza, The Van Buren Boys, Heat Birds, Modern Day Rippers, Brilliant Pebbles and many more.

7. WXRT/93.1 FM. In this day and age of Internet radio, I should be able to listen to my favorite station — 93XRT — literally anywhere, anytime from either my computer or my iPhone. But there’s something just so much more satisfying about hearing it in real time. XRT has had pretty much the same on-air staff for the last 30 years. These people are like old, reliable friends. The warmth and depth of knowledge they bring to the art of rock radio is unparalleled. There’s no other media outlet that feels more like Chicago than this radio station. From  “New Noise At Nine” and “Going To The Show With The Regular Guy” to “Saturday Morning Flashback” and “Breakfast With The Beatles”, life without XRT live on the air won’t quite be the same.

6. Music Box Theatre. Built in 1929, the Music Box Theatre is the last of an almost-extinct breed of classic cinemas. For the last 20 years it’s been the premiere destination for foreign, independent and art house cinema in Chicago. In addition, it often hosts special events and screenings, the most popular being its annual Christmas Double Feature of White Christmas and It’s A Wonderful Life. It’s such a magical and communal experience, that even a Scrooge like me gets into the spirit. It’s a beautiful — and my only — holiday tradition.

5. Andersonville. I have three times made this north side neighborhood my home. Time and again, I found my way back to Andersonville, this little village in the city. With it’s Swedish immigrant roots and Middle Eastern influences, Andersonville is a veritable melting pot of cultures: Gay and straight, singles and family, nightlife and the everyday. It’s the perfect Chicago neighborhood in my opinion, with its welcoming small town charm and distinctly modern offerings. I. Love. This. Neighborhood.

4. Metro Chicago. Hands down, Metro is THEE best place in the city to see live music on a small club level. (I’m sure someone, somewhere wants to argue this point with me, but I’m sticking to the positive.) As a former music industry professional, I was lucky enough to see  dozens of shows over the years at Metro (often for free). A short list of artists I’ve seen play in this 1,150-person venue: Bob Dylan, LCD Soundsystem, Beck, Iggy Pop, The Smashing Pumpkins, The White Stripes, Cheap Trick, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Foo Fighters and on and on. It is a Chicago rock and roll Mecca.

3. My Clients. I’ve been a massage therapist for over six years. And though it hasn’t always been easy — especially at the height of the Recession — I’ve managed to grow a very nice client base. It never ceases to amaze me how generous and kind my massage clients have been. I’ve worked hard and provided the best possible service at affordable rates. My clients have responded in kind, allowing my practice to flourish. I will not only miss the business relationships, but also the interpersonal ones that have grown from them. I’ve been very lucky and am completely grateful for them.

2. Big Chicks, The Uptown Bar. Oh, how many hours and thousands of dollars have I spent in this establishment over the years? How many joys (and dramas) have occurred here? How many friendships made, lovers lost? How many vodkas drank and brain cells cost? There’s no adding machine powerful enough for the emotional calculations of this equation. Quite simply, Big Chicks is the friendliest, most fun, laid back, unpretentious gay bar in all of Chicago. The formative years of myself and so many others I know were spent here. It is truly a home away from home, which I believe is owner Michelle Fire’s intention. Although it has changed somewhat over the years, it’s always felt like my own personal Cheers, and I hope it always will.

1. My friends. I know we all have this thing called “the Internet” that allows us to keep in pretty close contact with all the important people in our lives, not to mention every stranger we’ve ever encountered on Facebook. But cyber-interaction is no substitute for real time interaction with flesh and blood friends. I’ve spent the last 17 and a half years cultivating many great friendships, many of which have become more important to me than any family ties. To my close friends — what Anna Madrigal would call my “logical family” — thank you for being a part of my life. I have more gratitude than words can express. Even though the Internet and airplanes may bring us together from time to time, it won’t be the same. I’ll miss you all, but I’m looking forward to starting this new chapter. -fin-

On my way home from the gym, I stopped at the UPS Store and bought one of four moving boxes I plan on purchasing. My first project was to be my kitchen. I know it sounds odd to pack up your kitchen when you still have a month and half left before you leave. But beginning Friday, the rental company can start showing my apartment to prospective renters. And the one room (other than the bathroom) that is always a wreck, is the kitchen. For a person who lives alone and almost never cooks, I always seem to have a sink full of dirty dishes. Often for weeks on end. The only way to keep on top of this, was just to wash everything and pack it away. It will keep my kitchen clean and put me one box closer to moving.

Later in the evening I talked to Troy on the phone. He’s a friend of mine who has graciously offered to drive me to California. We were hashing out some of the details on hotel rentals, departures times, etc. He and I pretty much have our plans set. Now it’s just a matter of watching the clock, working my ass off, collecting those dollars and tying up the many lose ends.

My move, that I’ve been talking about constantly for the better part of 11 months, was really starting to come together. The hugest benchmark has been my steadily growing savings account. I’ve worked harder and longer than any other time in my life and it’s absolutely paying off.

It was a very productive day on all fronts. I was winding down my evening on Facebook, posting, commenting, interacting, being a social media whore. I felt great pride in the progress I made, so I decided to take it a step further. I very casually posted the following status update:

I have stuff for sale. Mainly furniture. If you need stuff, I got some stuff. Send me a message if there’s anything you’re looking for. Everything must go — CHEAP!

Literally seconds after this post, email messages, IM’s and wall posts started pouring in. What do you have? Do you have pictures? How much? Can I come over and look at it? It was an unexpected onslaught of inquiries that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

I suddenly found myself fielding questions and negotiating with like six different people. It was a bit overwhelming, but clearly my little plan — as spontaneous and not well-thought-out as it was — had worked.

It had worked all right. I was selling all my furniture out from underneath my own feet. Holy fucking shit: I am moving! I am selling my shit. I am liquidating my life. All the talk and planning of the last 11 months was finally starting to turn into action.

I was suddenly sick to my stomach.

All I could think of was LCD Soundsystem. Their last album title seemed to completely encapsulate my feeling at that moment: This. Is. Happening.

I was ill because the reality and gravity of the situation suddenly crashed down like Thor’s hammer. The skies lit up, crackled with thunder, anxiety washed over me like a hard rain.

Make no mistake: I haven’t the slightest worry or hangup about moving to San Francisco. I have every faith in myself. I know I will succeed, I will flourish. But the idea of what I am doing is freaking me out right now more than the actual act of moving 2,100 miles away.

I am as prepared as I can possibly be, but it still feels weird. Here I am with less than two months left in Chicago and it seems like it’s all happening now so very quickly, just like everyone told it would.

I unexpectedly opened a Pandora’s Box with that status update. It’s been a good thing, but it’s left my head and heart swirling with hundred different emotions. If just talking about selling this stuff put me in such a weird state, I can only imagine what it’ll feel like when folks are carting stuff out of my apartment forever.

This. Is. Happening. -fin-

The last chapter of my friendship with Daniel X. ended in 1999, as it was the last time I had any interaction with him. Betsy and I are still friends. When we get together and talk about the old times, the man we call “Daniel X.” eventually comes up in conversation. We reminisce and laugh, wondering what became of him. As far as we knew, he was still somewhere out west. We often joked about hiring a private detective to track him down and see what’s become of him. Of course neither of us were serious about following through on such a thing.

At the time of this writing, I had just seen a film called Color Me Kubrick. It was about an eccentric little con man who successfully impersonated filmmaker Stanley Kubrick solely for the purpose of scamming people for small sums of money and alcohol. I could not help but be reminded of Daniel X. My interest renewed — and by now, living in the Internet Age — I decided to run a Google search on him. What could it hurt? Quite a bit of information came up matching his name.

His real name is somewhat common, so I had to sift through the search results until I found articles or listings dealing with things like porn video, autograph collecting and gay writers. I found an Amazon wish list bearing name with items such as I Love Lucy DVD’s and classic movie poster reproductions — that were definitely of interest to the Daniel. According to Amazon, this Daniel X. lived in the Houston area as recently as 2005.

Another search result contain this curiosity:

Danial X., a published author of erotica and other fiction and produced playwright, leads the writer’s group session…

Produced playwright? What kind of scam did he have to perpetuate to get a play financed and produced? Or was this just another one of his many lies? I wanted to know more; it was all so perversely intriguing.

These results were good, but still a little too vague. There was no substance and no real proof, really, that it was the same Daniel X. I then headed over to Peoplefinder.com where I discovered that for $7.95, I could get the current and former addresses for any name that I typed in. I said to myself: “Ptttt, $7.95? What’s that? Nothing. Pocket change.” I punched in my credit card info and before long, I got four hits. All Daniel X., all places he’d lived (or I suspected he’d lived). But it still wasn’t enough. I discovered that for $49.95, you could get a full background check, which included criminal record, employment history, income statistics and more.

My curiosity grumbled like an empty stomach. My pulse quickened and like a junkie with a spoon and a lighter, I felt like I was on the verge of a satisfying fix. I was just a few dozen keystrokes away from knowing everything there was to know about Daniel X. I’d finally get an honest look at the life of a person who had deceived me for so long. The gaps would be filled in, the questions finally answered.  But to what end?

I stopped right there.

As much as I wanted to know more about the saga of this minor sociopath, I knew  could go no further. There was no way in Hell I was going to spend fifty bucks just to find out essentially useless information on a ex-friend. As oddy fascinated as I was, hadn’t he already mooched countless dollars and immeasurable amount of energy? I needed to let it go. I needed to walk away.

This became immediately clear to me when I realized that almost a decade after our association ended, Daniel still managed, in a roundabout way, to scam me out of money. Hell, it was only $7.95. But it wasn’t the amount that bothered me, so much as the principle. -fin-

Epilogue:

Many years after the Daniel X. saga concluded, I came across a booked called The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout, Ph.D. In this fascinating tome, Dr. Stout posits that, based on her casework and research, true sociopathic behavior is way more rampant in our society than one might expect.

What exactly is a sociopath, you might be asking? The broad definition, as defined by the American Psychiatric Associations’ Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, is a person who displays “a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others…” A person with this disorder can display characteristics such as an apparent lack of remorse or empathy, persistent lying, a tendency to violate the boundaries of others, superficial charm, a distorted sense of self, irresponsible work behavior, just to name a few. Sound familiar?

I think when most people hear the word “sociopath”, what comes immediately to mind are people like Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer. These types of individuals do indeed embody the more extreme sociopathic traits: Aggressive/violent behavior, verbally abusive, Egocentrism, megalomania, etc. Where it’s true that a serial killer is always a type of social path (and there is more than one kind), a sociopath isn’t always an amoral monster nor killer.  In reality, you have probably met a sociopath and not even known it.

In her book, Dr. Stout posits that one out of every 25 Americans exhibits sociopathic behavior. I’m no mathematician, but could mean that at least four of our United States Senators is a sociopath. Although I’m pretty sure that number is much higher. But I digress…

My motivations for writing this story are similar to that of Dr. Stout’s for writing her book: To provide a cautionary tale. Obviously, her clinical expertise and detailed case studies do a much better job at explaining the different kinds of sociopaths and how to avoid them. My story is more of an anecdotal, a real life example (and hopefully entertaining one) of what can happen when you get mixed up with such a person. Thankfully, the end of my tale wasn’t as extreme as some run-ins with sociopaths — financial ruin, destroyed careers or relationships or murder. It could have turned out much worse if I wasn’t wise to his ways from the get-go.

“Sociopath” wasn’t part of my vocabulary when I first met him. For a long time I assumed he was merely a pathological liar, who’s worst crime seemed to be having an overactive imagination. In retrospect, his penchant for lying was only on part of his biography. If nothing else, Daniel X. became good storytelling fodder.

I can’t help but wonder who else out there has been victimized by his odd little cons. How many people were smart enough to call his bluff? How many of them end up caught in his deceitful little web? I suppose I’ll never know. However, I do walk away with the weird experience and knowledge of how to spot such a troublesome character. But do you?  X

After his one-off stint as an extra on The Practice, there were no other acting roles for Daniel X. It seemed the death of old John Candy left a void that not even “The New John Candy” could fill. He gave up on acting, left L.A. and moved to Phoenix where he was staying with a friend.

After not hearing from him for a few months, he called me up at work after one day. At first it was just casual chitchat. “How are things going? How’s work? Are you dating anyone?” And then, BAM! “Oh, yeah, remember that trunk you are holding for me, could you mail me the contents?” Not, “Could I send you a check for the shipping expense to mail me my belongings?” There was no empty promise attached; he was just asking for an outright favor.

I’d recently transitioned out of radio into a job where I did a lot of postal and UPS shipping, which Daniel knew. He knew all the angles to get what he wanted. I could have said “No” and been done with it. But I figured that this was as good a time as any to unload this trunk and its icky contents. I agreed and he thanked me. He was never as short on “Thank you’s” as he was on cash.

A few months after that I got yet another call from him. I rarely heard from him during this period, but when I did it was always for a favor. He didn’t have a job or any prospects in Phoenix. He was still writing erotica for the gay magazines and just barely making it. He began to ask me about myself, but I knew that a favor could not be too far from the asking. As if on cue: “I need a favor from you….”

His mother was ill and he needed to come back to the Chicago area for a little while. At first I was thinking – no, dreading – that he was going to ask me for a place to stay. At that point I think I was strong enough to say “No”. Him staying with me was absolutely not going to happen. To my surprise, that was not what he wanted. He was hoping the Greyhound back to Chicago and wanted to know if he could get a ride across the border into Indiana where his family lived. “I’ll give you gas money,” he said. I agreed, knowing that there was at least a 50% chance I’d be paying for my own fuel. I don’t know why I said yes. Even from several thousand miles away Daniel worked his weird, warped magic on me.

The ride to Indiana was about an hour and half on the Chicago Skyway. Daniel provided $10.00 in gas money a promised, but when we got to the Skyway tollbooth he didn’t offer to pay the $3.00 toll. “I said I’d give you gas money,” he reminded me without a single hint of apology. He was almost insulted that I suggested he pay it. I don’t know why, but this really steamed me. After all that time and all of his antics I’d witnessed and been a party too. After all the times I lent him money or gave him a lift somewhere without asking for gas money. After all the unwarranted generosity he’d been the recipient of, he could not kick in an extra $3.00. I bit my tongue, but it festered in me.

He didn’t ask me for a ride back to the city from Indiana. I think he knew better. Either that or he couldn’t spare the gas money and didn’t want to haggle over the toll. After he returned to Phoenix, I received one of his usual witty, joke- and sarcasm-laden letters. There was not one single mention of the toll issue, not even any kind of roundabout apology. The letter was fairly upbeat and he was happy to be back in Phoenix.

It was then I decided to do something drastic: For the first time in our friendship I was going to confront him. My return letter said something to the effect of “I think it was really ungrateful and selfish for you to not pay the toll. I know it’s only $3.00. But I went way out of my way to do you a favor. It isn’t the amount that bothered me, so much as the principle.” And I basically said that I am over it now and I’m not holding any grudges or anything. But as his friend, I thought he should know that doing that was not cool. I continued the letter, filling him in on what was going on in Chicago. I thought if I said my peace that would be the end of it. I was right, in a manner or speaking.

His return letter followed soon after. Scrawled in his neat, flowing script on yellow legal pad paper, it was brief and to the point:

Dear Jeff:

It’s disappointing that you are so petty. After your recent letter I’ve decided that I no longer wish to pursue a friendship with you.

No sign-off, no return address, no apology or admission that he might have been wrong. I had to read the letter two or three times, turning it over to make sure I didn’t miss anything on the back. But that was all there was. I shared the letter with Betsy and neither of us could believe his audacity.

The equation was quite clear. The continuance of our friendship relied largely on my never calling into question his cons, scams, deceit, half-truths and general bullshit. I think he sensed that I had grown up and grown wise to his deal. For years I had been the mark in his perpetual con game. But now I had outlived my usefulness. Like any good confidence man, he’d decided there was no more profit in our association so he needed to end it. Over $3.00.

In reality it wasn’t just over that petty sum. He lost control of me, if he ever had any in the first place. I think he’d taken me for a larger sap than I actually was. He mistook my kindness for idiocy and when it was clear that I would no longer be wearing the dunce cap, he was through with me.

It was a bizarre end to a bizarre friendship. And again, I was filled with a mix of relief and regret, much the same way I felt when he went to L.A. But there was also anger that he was so ungrateful. Or maybe I was angry at myself. I knew who Daniel X. was and how he operated. His capacity selfishness in the name of self-preservation knew no bounds nor shame. Why would I think our friendship was any different? He was always more frenemy than friend, anyway. Besides, a person like that doesn’t have friends. They have unsuspecting benefactors.

After too many years, I was finally free of Daniel X. -fin-

Tune in tomorrow for the final installment of “The Odd Cons of Daniel X”…

Things started to change for me: I went from unpaid intern to underpaid employee of the radio station. I started dating a little more seriously and had less time for the craziness of Daniel X. He didn’t completely fade from my life, but I saw less and less of him.

One day he called me with some surprising news: Daniel had decided to pack it up and moved to Beverly – almost literally. OK, it was more like Los Angeles County. In a rare display of both talking the talk and walking the walk, Daniel set out for Hollywood in pursuit of his dreams. He was abandoning most of his stuff so he could pack up a single suitcase and hit the road. It’s not as drastic as it sounds since he didn’t really have any furniture to speak of. What he did had a lot of were keepsakes, most of which he didn’t want to haul all the way to California.

In a final act of imposition, he asked me to hold a trunk for him. It was a cheaply made, beat-up steamer trunk. After some initial hesitation, I agreed to store it for him. He assured me I would not have to hold it that long, that eventually he’d send for his things. This meant that I would end up paying for the shipping, one way or another.

Not surprisingly, I had to go pick up the trunk. Daniel was still packing it when I arrived. The contents of the trunk included nude dude calendars, porn magazines and videos, photographs and some other unremarkable items things that anyone might have. There was nothing of great value in the trunk and I wondered why he didn’t he just dump this stuff.

I was actually sort of sad to see him go. Not long after, the sadness turned to relief. A very weird friendship was most likely at an end. Or so I thought. The trunk of course would tether me to him. I knew most of its contents, but curiosity was tormenting me. It didn’t help that Betsy was also dying to know what was in there. We joked that it probably had a false bottom containing body parts of missing busboys. After a surprising lack of moral debate about doing so, we opened it. Again, videos and dirty magazines and few keepsakes. Nothing scandalous…until we discovered about a dozen sets of photographs at the bottom of the trunk.

The envelopes bore the name and logo of Triangle Camera – a gay owned/gay friendly cameras shop. Each set of pictures featured a different hot, young guy in various states of undress. The subjects of these photo series were mainly young Latino guys who looked vaguely familiar. The backdrop for these shoots was a place that Betsy and I both recognized as Daniel’s gross apartment. When we came to the final batch, I was utterly shocked by what I saw: Joey, the cute waiter from the Melrose Diner Daniel and I used to flirt with.

Over the years Betsy and I wondered what Daniel spent his money on. Even when he was employed, he never seemed have any money. He owned nothing except a dirty futon mattress, a sad little TV/VCR and lived a cheap studio apartment in a cruddy part of town. It wasn’t like blew his cash going out to the clubs. He wasn’t a drinker and would not be caught dead in a gay bar (even though he claimed to have met Tom Cruise in one). There was no sign of drug use. If he had a substance abuse problem, he was doing an incredible job hiding it. As slimy as Daniel could be, none of those things really fit him.

Daniel could be quite Machiavellian in his own little way. I think he got his kicks from manipulating others to get what he wanted. In the past Betsy and I speculated that, lacking any obvious vices, he must spend his money on hustlers. These pictures told an interesting narrative that haphazardly fit our hypothesis. There was only one logical answer to the question “How do hot young men end up posing for sexually explicit pictures in the apartment of an aging, creepy gay dude?” Answer: Money.

Daniel had no trouble sharing with me all the gory details of his past exploits, but why would he leave out something that had obviously occurred so recently and with at least one person I knew? There was undoubtedly something unsavory that transacted, something that would shine a light on the dark underbelly of his life. As shocking as the photos were, Betsy and I never mentioned our little discovery to Daniel.

The further Daniel was from me, the less entrenched he was in my life. The distance between us was evident in our relationship. Despite the presence of his trunk in my apartment, I was less likely to be as understanding or charitable as I had in the past. But curiosity won over my aversion and I actually saw him once while in LA.

After visiting another friend in the Valley, I paid Daniel a visit. It was a different town, but the same old Daniel. He was living in this dumpy place behind Grauman’s Chinese Theatre just off of Hollywood Boulevard. It was what they call an “actor’s hotel”, but it more hostel than hotel. You could only live there for extended periods if you were in show business.

His constant down-and-own way of life notwithstanding, he actually seemed happy in California. Things were looking up for him: He’d been going on casting calls and even got a bit part as a juror on the ABC TV show, The Practice. This was no lie, since I saw the episode with my own two eyes.

Prior to my trip, my phone calls with Daniel were filled with stories of his new boyfriend. A hot Mexican guy who was, what else, a busboy. He sent me a shirtless picture of of him, taken in what was indeed his bedroom at the hostel. The picture was reminiscent to those I found in the bottom of the trunk.

In the days leading up to my arrival in LA, I inquired about the boyfriend: “When do I get to meet him?”

“Oh, I broke up with him.”

“Why?” I asked, playing along.

He sighed, “He is not out to his family. It was getting in the way of our relationship.”

Curiously, his boyfriends are like the Loch Ness Monster: He swears he’s seeing them, but then they mysteriously vanish when another witness shows up. -fin-

Tune in tomorrow for Part Six…

Lies were the foundation that Daniel’s petty scams were build upon. But sometimes there would be obvious freestanding lies too. He had a flair for story telling, both on the page and in his daily life. His various mistruths were easy to spot and I never became too invested in the things he said. But eventually he would tell me something that was so utterly unbelievable, so obviously a complete and total fabrication that it left no doubt that this storytelling quick of his wasn’t just a matter of exaggerating to get what he wants.. This whopper of a lie left no doubt in my mind that Daniel X. was a full-on pathological liar.

The thing about Daniel is that when he tells his stories, there’s no smirk or wink. There may bve certain amount drama in his voice, but he looks you straight in the. He really and truly believes the things that he says. No matter the subject, there is simply no question in his mind that he is telling the truth. Some people exaggerate as a matter or expression, they’re just prone to hyperbole. Others use calculated lies to get what they want. While Daniel is a bit of the latter, I really believe that his brain is unable to decipher fact from fiction.

So, the biggest fiction of all…

Daniel is about 10 to 12 years older than me. At the time I knew him, I was about 22. Originally from a small town in Indiana, Daniel had lived in Chicago a long time before I got there. He was a bit of a movie buff and autograph collector. His autograph book overflowed with the signatures of the stars of yesteryear. Mostly people like Jerry Mathers (TV’s Leave It To Beaver) and Frank Gorshin (The Riddler on the 60′s Batman TV series). Anytime there was some sort of convention or auto show where there was a B-Grade actor, Daniel would be there with autograph book and cheap disposable camera to preserve the moment. I had no reason to believe any of these were fake because I saw pictures of him with various has-beens. Plus, if you were going to fake a celebrity’s signature, wouldn’t you shoot a little higher than Gopher from Love Boat?

Daniel claimed to have met tons of celebrities, especially in the 80′s. During one of our many diner outings we were discussing this very subject. I remember that he got really quiet and asked me if I could keep a secret. I braced myself for some next fantastic falsehood, but I was totally unprepared for the whopper that lay ahead. He insisted that what he was about to tell me was to be taken as unquestionable truth. I agreed, fibbing just a little myself.

“I had sex with a very famous actor.” I nodded, awaiting the payoff. When he told me who, I have to say that I was a little stunned. I believe for a moment I was actually speechless. Not because I believed a word he was telling me, but because of the unmitigated gall it took to make such a claim.

According to Daniel, he had very hot tryst with one Mr. Thomas Cruise Mapother IV, better known to millions of adoring Scientologists as simply, Tom Cruise. As the story goes, they met in a gay bar sometime when Cruise was filming Risky Business. Remember, this would have been circa 1981 or 1982, long before Cruise was jumping up and down on talk show couches proclaiming his heterosexuality. He was a virtual unknown before Risky Business. After their rendezvous, no doubt at Daniel’s stately manor, Cruise swore him to secrecy, for fear it would ruin his career.

As much as we’d all like to believe this is true, what with all the rumors about Cruise’s sexuality that have floated around for years, it’s nothing more than another fiction. The boldest lie I think he’s ever told me or anyone, I suspect. What proves this unequivocally is the he next part of the tale. He delivered this last bit with such conviction, one could almost believe him. But it was so absolutely absurd, even the most gullible dolt would wouldn’t fall for it.

According to Daniel, The National Enquirer got wind of the story and offered him $10,000 for an exclusive interview about his affair with Tom Cruise. He flatly refused their offer. “I could never do that to Tom,” he said, his voice dripping with ennui.

Other than the one hundred and one reasons why this story was bullshit, the most obvious smoking gun was the fact that Daniel turned down $10,000. Pretty hard to swallow, since getting something for nothing was his chief modus operandi. Daniel X. refusing any amount of money makes an affair with Tom Cruise seem like a microscopic white lie. -fin-

Tune in tomorrow for Part Five…

Daniel X. was like my dirty little secret. I was hesitant to introduce him to my other friends. Except for Betsy, no one else in my life really knew of him. That was the way I liked it.

Among Daniel’s many talents (writer, actor, grifter), he also did Tarot card readings and claimed to be a little bit, ahem, psychic. Always challenged in the employment department, Daniel used the writing and Tarot readings to help get by. I mentioned him to my friend Teresa, who is always the consumer of the New Age. When she asked to meet Daniel for a reading, I remember thinking that it was probably not the best idea. But who was I keep a friend from trying to make a buck?

The thing you should know about Teresa is that she has a finely tuned bullshit-detector. Having been through a lot rough things in her life, she’s a no-nonsense kind of gal. She’s had to fend for herself much of her life and defeatism is not a tune she sings. So when a person says something like, “I don’t know how…” she says, “Well here’s how…” and presents solutions. She’s got tons of street smarts and is not afraid to tell you what she thinks. In short, she doesn’t take shit from anyone.

She did indeed get a reading from him and much to my surprise, the two of them became chummy. I have to say this surprised me, based on her low tolerance for other people’s bullshit. But like me, she saw Daniel for exactly what he was. And also like me, she played along and allowed him to burrow his way into her life.

One day while at work, she got a call from Daniel. They were chit-chatting about this and that when he slipped in the fact that he was really hunger. Could he borrow $10? He just wanted to get some McDonald’s, which is the sort of thing that Daniel lived off of. To this she asked, “Why don’t you cook at home? It’s a lot cheaper.” He replied, “I don’t have any pots and pans.” Unlike the hobos of yesteryear, it seemed Daniel had no all-purpose tin pan in which to cook his gruel.

She seemed sympathetic to his hunger and knowing what a generous spirit Teresa has, he took it a step further: He asked her if she could bring the money and/or some hamburgers over to him, since he was not feeling well. No doubt malnutrition was setting in. Teresa, being as clever as ever, decided to help Daniel help himself — whether he wanted to or not. But she didn’t tell him this. Before hanging up she told him, “Yeah, I’ll bring you something.

Later that night, she bagged up some old pots and pans that she wasn’t using. Collected from her pantry bags of rice and beans, Rice-a-Roni, canned soup and whatnot. Easy stuff that even an idiot could make. ”

He buzzed her into his apartment building, thinking she was bringing some hamburgers over. He waited anxiously at the top of the stairs, glaring down the stairwell the way he does. Teresa handed him two bags containing the pots, pans and various sundries. Disappointment and what must have been a simmering irritation started to wash over him. In her words, “He looked at me like I pissed in his coffee.”

He looks in bag and says, “That isn’t very nice.”

Rightfully confused, she asks, “What isn’t nice? Bringing food to the hungry? Please explain.” I wasn’t there, but I’m sure she had a huge shit-eating grin.

“I don’t eat that kind of food,” he said, “I don’t know how to cook.” Of this I had no doubt, since my few visits to Dan’s apartment the only thing I ever saw on the stove were dozens of empty plastic soda bottles.

Ever the master of cutting through the crap, she replied: “There’s instructions on each container of how to prepare it.” She continued to play along for her own amusement and said, “Well you can’t be that hungry then because when I’m really hungry and have no money I’ll eat whatever I can get.” She just smiled like she didn’t quite understand that he was pissed.

So let’s just recap: Daniel calls up someone who is barely a friend and asks for a loan. The loan becomes a plea for a food delivery. Teresa goes out of her way to take him cookware and food out of her own pantry to his apartment. Is he grateful? Does he have the decency to even feign appreciation? No. He seems insulted by her kindness.

She left shortly after that and it was the last she ever saw or heard from him. I am sure he was deeply insulted that logic and kindness had trumped his scam. If there’s one thing Daniel despises most it’s when someone won’t play his reindeer games. I certainly played them way too long. The situation with Teresa was definitely a behavioral pattern I was all too familiar with.

She summed up Daniel best: “He’s like Wimpy from the Popeye cartoon: ‘I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today’.”

But at least with Wimpy there was pretension of later payment. -fin-

Tune in tomorrow for Part Four…