In the fall of 1992, I was working at Camp Routh, a probation camp for juvenile delinquents, and sneaking a Gay 101 unit into their sex education class, under the nose of the old-school homophobe director, Denman. A boy named Chazz turned out to be gay, and asked if I could get him a day pass for his boyfriend's birthday:
"Ramon and me been ...um, you know, like dating for awhile. This will be our second birthday, and so that's why I don't want to miss it."
It wouldn't be an easy task. Asking Denman for a day pass to see a "boyfriend" would only result in yelling, Bible thumping, and probably a visit from the staff psychiatrist.
We couldn't even demote Ramon to a "friend." In juvenile delinquency theory of the 1990s, friends were always trouble, steering kids away from the safe haven of home into late night bacchanals of sex, drugs, and vandalism.
But I had another idea.
Any of the staff members could ask to take a juvenile out as a special reward for good behavior or good grades -- a movie, a basketball game, or a pizza, as long as the expedition didn't take more than four hours, and the juvenile was back by 6:00 pm. I told Denman that Chazz had submitted an excellent practice "employment application" in my life skills class, and as a reward I wanted to take him to see Home Alone. He agreed.
It was still risky: if anyone found out what we were really up to, I would be fired, and Chazz would spend the rest of his term confined to his cabin.
We left the camp at 1:30, right after lunch, and drove down into the San Fernando Valley. On the way I quizzed Chazz on every aspect of Home Alone in case someone asked later.
He waited until we were past Pacoima to reveal another problem: Ramon's father was ok with him being gay, but disapproved of his relationship with a "thug," so the visit would have to be clandestine.
"Don't worry, though -- his father works nights, so he'll be asleep when we get there."
Wait -- I was imagining a birthday party, with twenty people wearing funny hats, noisemakers, blowing out the candles on a cake. I didn't sign on for a secret meeting with Dad snoring in the next room.
But that's exactly what I got. At about 2:00, we pulled up to a tiny house on Vanowen Street in Reseda, with a spiked fence outside. Chazz led me around back and rapped lightly on a bedroom window. It was opened by a Hispanic kid, black haired, dark eyed, thin, even younger-looking than Chazz.
"I'll wait in the car," I whispered.
"No -- what if somebody sees you and wonders what you're doing there? You have to come in with us."
So I pulled myself up over the stucco into a small, dimly lit bedroom. The bed was unmade. The floor was littered with clothes, comic books, toys -- how old was this Ramon, anyway? (Turns out he was 17.)
Chazz and Ramon hugged, then moved to sit on the bed. I froze with embarrassment and fear. Was I about to see a teenage sexual encounter? It was legal in California for two 17-year olds to have sex, but not for an adult to watch!
"You can kiss and hug, but no sex!" I said. "I'll be in the living room." I grabbed a comic book from Ramon's desk and eased my way out before they could protest.
An hour passed. I read my comic book, read TV Guide, turned the tv on very softly, listened to rhythmic snoring from Dad.
At 3:00 sharp I figured they were finished -- or should be -- and returned to Ramon's bedroom. I couldn't knock without waking Dad, so I opened the door and peered into the darkness. They were lying on the bed in each other's arms, apparently asleep. Fortunately, fully clothed.
"It's time to go," I whispered. "Chazz, let's move!"
They didn't hear me. I walked over and nudged Chazz to wake him.
I didn't notice that the snoring had stopped.
Or that Ramon's father was standing in the doorway, tall, hirsute, muscular, wearing only underwear, staring in disbelief at the 30-year old man bending over his son's bed.
What happened next is a blur. I remember yelling in Spanish, grabbing Chazz, and shoving him out the front door. I remember Chazz giggling all the way up the mountain. I remember blushing when Denman asked if Chazz had a good time.
Remarkably, we weren't discovered, and Ramon was simply grounded. But I had the nagging feeling that I had been played by a teenage con artist.
Chazz and I stayed in contact. When he left Routh and moved in with his parents, he used to come up to West Hollywood to visit every couple of weeks.
See also: Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz
We couldn't even demote Ramon to a "friend." In juvenile delinquency theory of the 1990s, friends were always trouble, steering kids away from the safe haven of home into late night bacchanals of sex, drugs, and vandalism.
But I had another idea.
Any of the staff members could ask to take a juvenile out as a special reward for good behavior or good grades -- a movie, a basketball game, or a pizza, as long as the expedition didn't take more than four hours, and the juvenile was back by 6:00 pm. I told Denman that Chazz had submitted an excellent practice "employment application" in my life skills class, and as a reward I wanted to take him to see Home Alone. He agreed.
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We left the camp at 1:30, right after lunch, and drove down into the San Fernando Valley. On the way I quizzed Chazz on every aspect of Home Alone in case someone asked later.
He waited until we were past Pacoima to reveal another problem: Ramon's father was ok with him being gay, but disapproved of his relationship with a "thug," so the visit would have to be clandestine.
"Don't worry, though -- his father works nights, so he'll be asleep when we get there."
Wait -- I was imagining a birthday party, with twenty people wearing funny hats, noisemakers, blowing out the candles on a cake. I didn't sign on for a secret meeting with Dad snoring in the next room.
But that's exactly what I got. At about 2:00, we pulled up to a tiny house on Vanowen Street in Reseda, with a spiked fence outside. Chazz led me around back and rapped lightly on a bedroom window. It was opened by a Hispanic kid, black haired, dark eyed, thin, even younger-looking than Chazz.
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"I'll wait in the car," I whispered.
"No -- what if somebody sees you and wonders what you're doing there? You have to come in with us."
So I pulled myself up over the stucco into a small, dimly lit bedroom. The bed was unmade. The floor was littered with clothes, comic books, toys -- how old was this Ramon, anyway? (Turns out he was 17.)
Chazz and Ramon hugged, then moved to sit on the bed. I froze with embarrassment and fear. Was I about to see a teenage sexual encounter? It was legal in California for two 17-year olds to have sex, but not for an adult to watch!
"You can kiss and hug, but no sex!" I said. "I'll be in the living room." I grabbed a comic book from Ramon's desk and eased my way out before they could protest.
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An hour passed. I read my comic book, read TV Guide, turned the tv on very softly, listened to rhythmic snoring from Dad.
At 3:00 sharp I figured they were finished -- or should be -- and returned to Ramon's bedroom. I couldn't knock without waking Dad, so I opened the door and peered into the darkness. They were lying on the bed in each other's arms, apparently asleep. Fortunately, fully clothed.
"It's time to go," I whispered. "Chazz, let's move!"
They didn't hear me. I walked over and nudged Chazz to wake him.
I didn't notice that the snoring had stopped.
Or that Ramon's father was standing in the doorway, tall, hirsute, muscular, wearing only underwear, staring in disbelief at the 30-year old man bending over his son's bed.
What happened next is a blur. I remember yelling in Spanish, grabbing Chazz, and shoving him out the front door. I remember Chazz giggling all the way up the mountain. I remember blushing when Denman asked if Chazz had a good time.
Remarkably, we weren't discovered, and Ramon was simply grounded. But I had the nagging feeling that I had been played by a teenage con artist.
Chazz and I stayed in contact. When he left Routh and moved in with his parents, he used to come up to West Hollywood to visit every couple of weeks.
See also: Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz
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