you?”
The voice came from behind me, and I spun around to see an elderly man in a black short-sleeved shirt with a small white tab in the front of the collar. His sparse, neatly trimmed white hair shone in the low light.
“Have you seen this boy?” I asked, handing him the picture of Jamie. He studied it for almost an entire minute before handing it back.
“I meet with every soul who passes through those doors. I talk with them about trying to get into one of our programs, I pray with them, and I try to help them find their way again. This boy has not been here.” My shoulders sagged, and I folded the picture back up and put it in my pocket. My defeat must have been evident as I turned away because at once he called me back.
“Come with me. Maybe I can help,” he said and led me back to an impossibly small office with duct-taped chairs and a desk that looked like it might have been new sometime in the late sixties. The tile on the floor was cracked, and the books overflowing the shelves seemed like they’d seen better days, but the office was clean and even friendly. I don’t know what I expected; maybe that he would do a few computer searches or call a few friends. I didn’t expect him to sit back in his chair and ask me to tell him about Jamie.
“We were friends back in Alabama. Well, more than friends,” I started, trying to ignore the shame of telling this priest I was gay.
“There are no judgments here, son,” he said softly, encouraging me to continue. I told him about Jamie, about how I felt, and about Jamie’s parents. The tale ended with Jamie’s mother catching us and moving him to San Diego. Finally, I told him about the letter and how the boy at the center had told us about Jamie coming to San Diego with nothing but the clothes on his back.
“How big this city is scares me. I may never find him,” I told him finally, voicing my fear for the first time. It was possible I would never find Jamie. My abstract vision of San Diego, as a boy from a tiny town in Alabama, was nothing compared to what I’d found when I got off that bus. With so many people and so much going on, Jamie could be on the next block and I would never know.
“That is possible,” he conceded. “Do you have a list of shelters that you’re searching to start?” I nodded and handed him my printed list from the Internet. He looked it over and added a few more. “I might start with Leo and Margaret over at the gay and lesbian center in Hillcrest. They help a lot of gay runaway boys.”
“Leo? As in Leo Horshiwitz?” I asked.
“That’s the one. Have you already been over to the center?” he asked, and I shook my head.
“No, I live at his boardinghouse on Eighth. I moved in a couple of weeks ago.” To my surprise, he sighed.
“Leo does a lot of great work in the community. I’m just not comfortable with how he uses sex to keep that place running.” The memory of those men having sex in the bathhouse made my face flush. I could not stand here and talk about that with a priest, so I tried to change the subject.
“I’ve talked to him about Jamie. Do you have any other suggestions?” I asked.
“I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but a lot of young boys that end up on the streets here survive by selling their bodies, so there are places where you could start looking.” The wind left my body in a harsh gasp. I refused to believe that Jamie would consider it. I didn’t care how many teenage boys the priest saw go through here.
“Jamie wouldn’t do that,” I told him firmly, offended by the fact that he’d even suggested it. “He was always shy about sex. There’s no way he’d become a prostitute.”
“You’d be surprised what you would do to survive when you have no other choice.”
A S I flipped through the channels for the twentieth time, I finally understood why people had jobs during the day. Daytime television was an utter nightmare. If I had a job, I’d work just so I
The voice came from behind me, and I spun around to see an elderly man in a black short-sleeved shirt with a small white tab in the front of the collar. His sparse, neatly trimmed white hair shone in the low light.
“Have you seen this boy?” I asked, handing him the picture of Jamie. He studied it for almost an entire minute before handing it back.
“I meet with every soul who passes through those doors. I talk with them about trying to get into one of our programs, I pray with them, and I try to help them find their way again. This boy has not been here.” My shoulders sagged, and I folded the picture back up and put it in my pocket. My defeat must have been evident as I turned away because at once he called me back.
“Come with me. Maybe I can help,” he said and led me back to an impossibly small office with duct-taped chairs and a desk that looked like it might have been new sometime in the late sixties. The tile on the floor was cracked, and the books overflowing the shelves seemed like they’d seen better days, but the office was clean and even friendly. I don’t know what I expected; maybe that he would do a few computer searches or call a few friends. I didn’t expect him to sit back in his chair and ask me to tell him about Jamie.
“We were friends back in Alabama. Well, more than friends,” I started, trying to ignore the shame of telling this priest I was gay.
“There are no judgments here, son,” he said softly, encouraging me to continue. I told him about Jamie, about how I felt, and about Jamie’s parents. The tale ended with Jamie’s mother catching us and moving him to San Diego. Finally, I told him about the letter and how the boy at the center had told us about Jamie coming to San Diego with nothing but the clothes on his back.
“How big this city is scares me. I may never find him,” I told him finally, voicing my fear for the first time. It was possible I would never find Jamie. My abstract vision of San Diego, as a boy from a tiny town in Alabama, was nothing compared to what I’d found when I got off that bus. With so many people and so much going on, Jamie could be on the next block and I would never know.
“That is possible,” he conceded. “Do you have a list of shelters that you’re searching to start?” I nodded and handed him my printed list from the Internet. He looked it over and added a few more. “I might start with Leo and Margaret over at the gay and lesbian center in Hillcrest. They help a lot of gay runaway boys.”
“Leo? As in Leo Horshiwitz?” I asked.
“That’s the one. Have you already been over to the center?” he asked, and I shook my head.
“No, I live at his boardinghouse on Eighth. I moved in a couple of weeks ago.” To my surprise, he sighed.
“Leo does a lot of great work in the community. I’m just not comfortable with how he uses sex to keep that place running.” The memory of those men having sex in the bathhouse made my face flush. I could not stand here and talk about that with a priest, so I tried to change the subject.
“I’ve talked to him about Jamie. Do you have any other suggestions?” I asked.
“I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but a lot of young boys that end up on the streets here survive by selling their bodies, so there are places where you could start looking.” The wind left my body in a harsh gasp. I refused to believe that Jamie would consider it. I didn’t care how many teenage boys the priest saw go through here.
“Jamie wouldn’t do that,” I told him firmly, offended by the fact that he’d even suggested it. “He was always shy about sex. There’s no way he’d become a prostitute.”
“You’d be surprised what you would do to survive when you have no other choice.”
A S I flipped through the channels for the twentieth time, I finally understood why people had jobs during the day. Daytime television was an utter nightmare. If I had a job, I’d work just so I
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