The Transporter Couch

I hate the term “nancy boy” for a gay man. But I heard it the other evening and couldn’t help giggling because it really was apt.

There are four Nancys (Nancies?) in my life.

First: Nancy D’Avila. She’s a landscape artist. I’ve actually known her quite a while but in a sort of distant way. I knew her when she was married to a self-absorbed and self-created “fabulous” chef. I knew her before that. I knew her when she and her companion came home one night find her son hanging by the neck from a tree. The wretchedness of that moment lingers in my soul and I will always always have a soft place in my heart for Nancy D’Avila. Now, she’s found some peace in her work, and I hope in her life.

Second …. (and the order here isn’t categorical, it’s just about how I’m thinking at the moment…… all these descriptions are honest, heartfelt, and valuable)

Next, then, I should say, is Nancy Doyle. She and her husband are my parents’ neighbors. My parents live on one corner and the Doyles live on the opposite corner, not across the street, but down the block. For a long while there was nothing in between but a pecan orchard. I call it an orchard but it was just twelve pecan trees in a long avenue. And it belonged to my parents. The Doyle’s property was just a big ….. yard, a nice yard, mind you, (with dogs and all) but it was sort of treeless. (Though in all fairness the Doyles have lovely oaks in the front!) (Though, no, in ALL fairness, my parents have one of the prettiest yards in the entire town of Fredericksburg.)

Anyway, on the border of the properties there was this bamboo. Everyone knows what bamboo is but not everyone knows what an insidious weed it is! It is IMPOSSIBLE to get rid of. And I don’t know how it came to be there but I suspect my parents brought some from Galveston when they moved (but I don’t know that for sure) but in any case it was the fence-line.

Where am I going? I got lost Ah, Nancy. Nancy is a realtor, and among the top 5 most reputable ones in this town where you can’t buy a house for less than $300,000, which means, of course, she has the wherewithal to take herself seriously. She’s petite and pretty and she is always kind to me though since she deals with people all the time and since I’m not in the market for a house, she tends to forget who I am. But I saw her out last night and she quickly recognized me. She was pleasant and complimentary and I appreciate her for that and her many other accomplishments. I’d like to know her better. But the thing about knowing “sales” people socially is that you never know when the “act” stops.

Now for the guys. Len White is actually straight, but he’s a Nancy Boy if ever there was one. Here’s how I described him recently.
“Len’s str8. More or less. Maybe he is or maybe he’s just crafted a comfortable str8 life but he’s the gayest str8 guy I’ve ever met. Tall, cute, careful about his appearance, a clothes-horse, picky, never bitchy or whiny but definitely particular about how things should be, confident, extremely good with the public, and a music lover, hell, he’s ME except taller and he has a wife and a child. I’m lucky to have him in my life.”

And I meant that. He owns the nicest restaurant in town and is the most knowledgable wine lover I’ve ever met, and, further, he asks me my thoughts on whatever he pours and he seems to be interested in my input so I find joy in those moments. He also seems to like me personally, and I take joy in that. If you’re reading this, Len, thank you!

OHHHHHHH I said four but there are five. Let’s have a little intermission with
NANCY TURNER.
I don’t know her maiden name but her first husband was Randy Booher, whom I’ve met (for they’re cordial) but whom I don’t know. But then she married Rand Turner…. a fabulous fabulous fabulous piece of work, about whom, more, later (but know in this instant he was my former employer). Nancy is a sweet, sweet woman. Confident on some levels but frankly, I think she’s a horndog. I mean, why the hell else would someone put up with Rand?

OK Back to the meat of the matter.
And if he knew I referred to him as “the meat” he would be secretly delighted.
David Marquez
He’s not a faggy fag, but he’s an openly gay man and being gay is very much a facet of his personality. He worked for New Mexico AIDS Services, for instance. He’s a grass-roots activist gay man. And he doesn’t do that because he’s ANGRY but because it NEEDS TO BE DONE. He has his lethargic moments (like I can talk, apologies, Dave) but he is mostly very active, and in fact is this very weekend going to the “Black Party” in NYC. It’s a moveable feast and he’s there.

I’ve known Dave since he moved into our dorm, day ONE of St. John’s. His door was directly across the hall. We introduced ourselves and I loved him then and I’ve never stopped. He and Art are my best friends in the world and you can’t categorize who is first and who is second, and it’s weird and fucked up that people ask you to do that but they do! They’re different persons, but they’re equally valuable. For instance, if I needed to get out of jail, I’d call Art. If I just “needed to be held” (which guys somesimes do) I’d call Dave. Art and I have an intellectual bond and Dave and I have an emotional bond.

And we’re all NANCY BOYS!

OK was that the longest Hallmark Card ever written or what? I’ll stop.