I fell in love with an alien, an illegal alien, a gay illegal alien, a Mexican gay illegal alien. I fell hard into a new experience. I had never loved a Mexican man: that task had always been left to my daughter. I had never loved a Mexican gay man, so I had a lot to learn about how Mexican culture tends to evaluate gay men and how people there often choose to deny the existence of such men especially within their families. I had never loved an illegal alien and in this relationship came face-to-face with the issues the whole country is now trying to solve. I had never loved an alien—well now I’m lying, but that’s another story. The big story was this: I had never fallen in love so conventionally, so thoroughly, so openly, so obsessively, so delightedly, so…, so…; the words flee at the prospect of being employed, as if they know the impossibility and my ineptness. Some nine years later I can hardly understand what happened to me, let alone describe it, but I fell in love with a Mexican gay illegal alien, his name Rafael.
My alien had an accent as well as a small, expressive, high-pitched, scratchy voice. He almost squeaked at times, a sound that surprisingly didn’t irritate but, rather, attracted me. It was so cute just like he was so cute. His English was passable in that he could communicate well enough to have a sales job in an electronics shop. His often fresh approach to the language endeared him to me. I liked having to listen carefully, to fret out meanings, to solve the communications like a crossword puzzle.
My illegal alien saved me from too much information. I wondered if he was afraid that I might not like him for being in America illegally or at some angry moment I might call the INS on him. Later I realized he may have been protecting me from knowing anything that would make me an accomplice to his illegality. I had no idea he was already in trouble with the law over some other matters as well as his immigration status, and quite frankly, I didn’t care all that much.
My gay illegal alien touched something deep within me even when I didn’t know if he was gay or not. When I met him, he wore a wide gold wedding band. Still, the connection from our first three meetings was so compelling to me that I determined if he weren’t gay, lived here with his wife and kids, or was supporting them in another country, I would befriend him and relate to him as the best friend he’d ever have. I didn’t care if he was not gay although I did realize my developing attraction to him then might call for great restraint. But I’d lived almost all of my fifty-plus years as a straight man, a closeted bisexual male, who made friends easily and took loyalty seriously. I wanted to be his friend—at least that.
My Mexican illegal alien looked more alien than most Mexicans. Pakistani and Indian customers where he worked spoke to him in Urdu or Hindi assuming he was one of them. For me his exotic looks of indeterminate origin added to his attraction, that plus his dark eyes that snapped with delight when we were together and his warm smile that stretched across his face whenever he looked at me. He registered as much enthusiasm upon seeing me as I felt upon seeing him.
One spring day I was on my way to do volunteer work and left home a few minutes early so I could stop by an office supply to flirt with another man who seemed interested. The sun was shining so intensely I was ready to cross the street to where some large trees promised shade. Just as I was deciding, I looked down the side of the street I was on and saw, about a block away, a black-haired man pulling a two-wheel grocery cart. I thought I was the youngest man in my neighborhood to pull one of those things in public and so had to see who was challenging my place. I continued toward the man who as it turned out was quite a lot younger. He was Rafael who with his cart was bringing home food from a Mexican grocery. I was astounded at my good fortune since I had missed seeing him for several weeks. I shook his hand. This time as we talked, I impulsively touched him several times more knowing if he wasn’t gay, I’d probably never see him again. Finally I gave him my card with my phone number asking him to call me and offering to take him for breakfast or coffee. I finally had to hurry off to my volunteer work and forgot all about the other guy.
Then the big wait began, one that showed me new things about myself. He didn’t call. I walked the neighborhood at night hoping to see him get off the bus. Still he didn’t call. I walked the neighborhood in daylight watching out for his black hair. Three weeks passed. I looked up and down streets, made a grid search of the area. Surely I would find him; he rode the same bus as I. But where was he?
A good friend who knew me well was amazed that I was both so focused and so relaxed about it all. We laughed together at the signs of obsession that Rafael had produced in me. It seemed so unlike me. I had fallen in love—whatever that was. I had sung love songs to entertain but had never entertained the idea that they would apply to me. I wasn’t falling in love with love, that old make-believe; I was falling in love with Rafael. The most beautiful sound I’d ever heard was his name. I got him under my skin; I’d grown accustomed to his face; I just had to get that man.
Six weeks and I still hadn’t heard from my obsession. I was ready to start singing the blues. I woke up this morning and the blues was standing by my bed. I wanted Rafael to stand there. Where was that man? Seven weeks and finally I received a message on my answering machine. The high-pitched, scratchy voice that I had fantasized hearing again said he was well and wanted to get together. I could think of nothing I would like better, so I called the number he left and told his answering machine my kids were in town. We were going to the BuskerFest downtown but would serve spaghetti in the evening. I wanted him to come for dinner. I left my address. “Call me when you get home from work,” I instructed.
That Saturday night he called me. He came over and met my son and one grandson. We ate. Then the two of us went out for desert and wine. I got home in time to catch a couple hours of sleep before fixing breakfast for my brood. From that day my South-of-the-Border gay illegal alien and I slept together every night until he entered the hospital.
The blues did catch up with me in our shared apartment, on the bus to Denver Health, in the AIDS clinic, in the examination room, in the imaging clinic, in the emergency room, in the intensive care unit, in the bedroom the night Rafael established home hospice, and finally at the Hospice of St. John. There, the blue tones were heard in the love shared around his bed, in the Rosary prayed there, in the tears of his Mexican parents, in the stories his Mexican sister shared about this brother she loved and admired, and in his Mexican brother’s eyes as he pondered Rafael’s death.
The blues clothed me in those last days, accompanied me to the park where we left some of my beloved’s ashes, stood with me as I waved goodbye to his mourning family. The blues walked with me to my studio, now again my home, slept beside me in my bed, and supported me for days, for weeks, for months. The blues still hang around some days to give voice to the loss of my Mexican gay illegal alien Rafael whom I loved and whom I still miss obsessively.
© Denver, 2011
About the Author
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot
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