Rafe held my hand all the way to his car in the parking lot. The only time he let go was when we had to put our coats back on after retrieving them from the checkroom. And that was only a matter of seconds. I’m sure everyone thought we were a middle-aged couple acting like teenagers. Which was funny since, in reality, we never acted like this when we were teenagers. Rafe came closer to kissing me at the time than ever holding my hand.

Even this late in the evening, it was a nearly two-hour drive back to the West Side of Manhattan. I begged off any conversation on the trip home. I felt exhausted and drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat next to Rafe as he drove, having stopped whistling some old pop song when I emphatically requested he do so.

He didn’t stop talking though, even if his voice remained barely above a whisper.

“I’m glad you’ve found someone, Joey. I hope Alastair and I can spend some time together before Christmas. Listen to me, I sound like a father who wants to give his daughter’s date the third degree before he takes her out…”

I must have murmured something in reply, not sure if I was dreaming this “conversation.”

“I guess I acted like a protective father when you introduced Elizabeth to me that time I visited you at Columbia out of the blue. She and I took an immediate dislike to each other, that much is true. But you have to admit, in the end, I was absolutely right about her. She did break your heart…”

After the graduation night party and the kerfuffle of the early morning hours of the next day, Rafe and I didn’t see each other for several months. I spent the last of my summers with my father in Los Angeles while Rafe reunited with his parents in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. In September, Rafe began classes at M.I.T. in Boston and I moved into Columbia University’s Carman Residence Hall on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

For the next two years, Rafe would visit me at school once a semester for a few days at a time. Although Sally had married Martin by this time and lived in an apartment only a dozen blocks from the Columbia campus, Rafe always chose to stay in one of the Harriott hotels in midtown. He’d get his father’s secretary to book the rooms. Usually, because of his father’s relationship with Harriott, they were gratis.

During his visits, we would take advantage of the city’s innumerable cultural events and culinary hotspots. With a Gold Amex card in hand, money was no object. I had the sense he was trying to impress me, going further than one would for a mere friend, even of such longstanding.

Each time, I would ask him if he was seeing anyone. He would smile and just say he was “socially active.” In return, he’d ask me the same. I answered honestly that I had few friends in school, never mind any kind of social life. A girl had asked me out once to see a festival program of classic noir films but she transferred from Barnard to Bryn Mawr almost immediately afterward. My sister thought I probably drove her to it somehow. Another time I plucked up the courage to ask a girl I worked alongside in Butler Library out to see a Talking Heads concert. She smiled sweetly and declined my offer, saying, “I don’t swing that way but I hear Lori is a lesbian so you should ask her…” This girl had shelved books in the stacks side by side with me for months!

Outside of these semi-annual visits (I visited him once in Boston in the Spring of our sophomore year), our only communication was by long-distance phone calls and letters and postcards (collecting postcards was one of his weird hobbies). I had to work summer jobs in the city both to earn some extra spending money and to keep out of my mother’s way. She re-married during my freshman year. To a fellow teacher at Port Jefferson High School. A nice guy, but I figured one less brat under foot would be a welcome balm for the middle-aged newlyweds. Rafe, for his part, had to spend summers working in his father’s architectural firm. The plan all along was Rafe would work alongside his dad after college and one day inherit the firm.

It was a party I had no desire to attend, even though it was being held in the common area on my dorm floor. One of the guys was celebrating dropping out of school and there was music, dancing, all kinds of noise and frivolity going on. The door to my room was not thick enough to hold back the din of voices and rock music so, sighing melodramatically, I surrendered and wandered into the mob of celebrants. I decided to do the socially correct thing and congratulate Eddie Gleason on becoming a roadie and guitar tech for The Cramps, a “psychobilly” rock band led by a husband-and-wife team who went by the impossible names Lux Interior and Poison Ivy.

Eddie was surrounded by my other floor mates and girls I had never seen before. One of them, a blonde girl wearing an NYU t-shirt appeared to be detached from the lively discussion going on. I sat down on the sliver of space on the couch that was available and offered Eddie my right hand. Eddie pressed his finger into my cheek as he always did. He thought it was funny.

“Hey, Joey, nice to see you’ve decided to join the living.”

“I was trying to study but the racket got too loud. So, here I am. Congrats, man.”

“Joey, meet my lady, Elizabeth. She’s an English major like you, except she’s at NYU, a decidedly second tier institution of learning. No offense, babe.”

“No offense taken.” She nodded at me and turned to the girl behind her to re-light her joint. She took a drag and held it out to me. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“No, thanks. I don’t partake.”

“Yeah, Joey’s a straight arrow. Well, he’s an arrow of some sort, I think. We can never quite figure him out. There’s beer on the table. Help yourself.”

“I’ll drink to your future success in music, Eddie.” I walked over to the table and picked up a can of Coors. “I’d prefer a Heineken but this’ll do, I guess,” I said to myself.

Elizabeth strolled across the room to the table, ostensibly to select a brew, but she looked straight at me, her head at an angle.

“You’re very pretty, Joey.”

“I’m a guy. Guys aren’t usually called pretty.”

“You don’t like being called pretty?”

“I guess I don’t mind.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Whoa, your boyfriend’s not ten feet away. He’s looking this way—”

“Ex-boyfriend. I’m not going on the road with him. He can throw his future away by playing at being a rock star but he’s not taking me down with him. I’m staying in school.”

“Good for you. Tough break for Eddie. If I were him, I’d rather stick with you than be a fuckin’ roadie for a couple of weirdos.”

“I think that’s a compliment. Thank you, Joey. I like you. There’s something…unique about you.”

“I’ve been told that before. But never in a nice way.”

“Let’s go back to my place. I’d like to show you the paintings I’m working on—”

“You mean etchings? Ha ha. That’s an old pick-up line.”

“Not interested? Don’t swing that way?”

“I’m not gay. People assume all sorts of things about me. They hardly know me.”

“I’d like to get to know you, Joey. Come on, let’s split this scene. It’s depressing the hell out of me.” I put my can of Coors, unopened, back down on the table. She did the same with her beer.

“What about Eddie?”

“Eddie who? Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the elevator. As the elevator doors opened, I could hear Eddie asking someone, “Where’s Elizabeth?”

Four months after I moved into Elizabeth’s loft apartment on Grand Street in the Tribeca section of downtown Manhattan, Rafe paid one of his semi-annual visits. I told him about my new address but he was dumbstruck when he emerged from the elevator to see Elizabeth and me standing there, hand in hand. Of course, I hadn’t mentioned Elizabeth to him.

By the time I placed the tray holding the demitasses of espresso and a plate of biscotti on Elizabeth’s antique coffee table, Rafe and she were deep in conversation. I felt ignored as they proceeded to interrogate each other like police detectives with a murder suspect. They were sparring over me!

As their animated discussion of me proceeded, Rafe would turn toward me now and again, a disappointed, almost hurt puppy expression on his face. Elizabeth, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about my relationship with Rafe, from early sandbox days to the present. She had never been curious about my early life in Port Jefferson. She did, however, wanted me to listen to her go on endlessly about her broken relationship with her mother. Having met her recently when her parents visited the loft during Spring Break, I thought she was a rather pleasant woman.

Finally, tired of being left out, I suggested we all go over to Chinatown and have dinner at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Silver Palace on Mott Street. It was a 5-minute walk from the loft. We all agreed and walked west at sunset, three abreast, with me sandwiched between Rafe and Elizabeth. Of course, the two of them argued over the check until I surreptitiously stepped away and paid the cashier myself. Then they argued over who should leave the tip. I just placed a fiver on the table, got up, and walked out to get some fresh air. I should have anticipated this, shouldn’t I?

The next morning, I walked over to the kitchen area to find Elizabeth on the phone, talking to Rafe. When she saw me, she quickly ended the call.

“What’s going on? Was that Rafe?”

“Yes, I told him our plans for today—”

“I didn’t know we had “plans.” Rafe was just going to drop by around six and see what we wanted to do. There’s a Le Corbusier exhibit at MOMA that’s got all these detailed scale models of his most famous buildings—”

“Oh, mercy, Joey! That sounds like SO much fun! I told Rafe we’re going to see Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan at The Lone Star Café tonight—”

“When did you get the tickets?”

“Tickets? Silly boy. We don’t need tickets. Eddie and I used to get in all the time for free. We know the doorman. It’s Eddie’s uncle or cousin or something like that.”

“We don’t have to wear like Western outfits, do we? I mean Lone Star’s country music, right?”

“Leave that to me, Joey. I have the perfect outfit in mind for you. You’ll see.”

The Lone Star Café stood on the corner of 5th Avenue and 13th Street from 1976 to 1989. Known for the gigantic iguana on its roof, The Lone Star was the pre-eminent venue for country music and allied genres. The biggest country artists and some rock and blues giants performed there, giving the lie to the belief that New York City was not a serious market for country-inflected music. As with everything else in NYC, it drew celebrities from every field of human endeavor to fill the room on any given night. That night Willie Nelson was the headliner but special guests included Bob Dylan, The Band, and, for comic relief, Bill Murray.

When Elizabeth discovered that I had dressed en femme in the past, she was unexpectedly accepting. In fact, she encouraged me to do it whenever I felt the urge (which I insisted I rarely if ever did). I made the mistake of telling her that I had once spent the better part of a day traipsing around Port Jefferson in various feminine outfits at the behest of Rafe, whose excuse was that he needed a model for his school art class project. Her eyes glowed with the light of a thousand suns whenever I spoke about it. Meeting Rafe was the last piece of the puzzle for her.

“I can’t wear that, Elizabeth. I’m not a drag queen. Rafe will be very upset. You’re wrong about our relationship. It’s not sexual—”

“You could’ve fooled me. The heat between the two of you is palpable. Darling, that boy is absolutely in lust with you. Totally. I think he’ll just explode when he sees you in this outfit.”

“Don’t make me do it, Elizabeth. Please.”

“I’m doing it for you, Joey. It’s got nothing to do with me. You and Rafe need some closure. It’s time to shit or get off the pot. Excuse my French.”

“He’ll probably never want to see me again.”

“Well, that’s your closure for you.” She entwined her arm around my waist and started to change the part in my hair with her other hand. “And then you can forget all about him. He’s not right for you. He doesn’t love you like I do.”

The outfit Elizabeth forced me to wear was, sadly, one of those huge fashion mistakes of the ‘80s. A maxi-length skirt, wide belt and crew-neck top, all in pastel colors. I looked like a refugee from an episode of Degrassi High or a Brat Pack movie. I drew the line at a side ponytail. Elizabeth wore a sensible denim mini skirt. When I upbraided her about that, she shrugged her shoulders and said she wasn’t the star of the show tonight, I was.

In the final analysis, I didn’t feel that embarrassed when I saw Rafe in his get-up. Acid washed jeans! My God, did he have no shame? Of course, it didn’t assuage my fears of going out in public dressed like a teenage girl…again.

“What do you think, Rafe? Doesn’t Joey look nice? Just they way you like her to look—”

“Did you just say her?” I crossed my arms and my lower lip formed an unconscious pout. Seeing that, both Rafe and Elizabeth broke out in laughter.

“It’s not funny. Just say the word, Rafe. I’ll go and change.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Rafe. You know Joey’s been dying to dress up for ages. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”

“Joey, is this what you want to wear?”

“Well, would it upset you? Really, it’s Elizabeth’s idea.”

“You look nice, Joey. I like your hair parted that way.”

“See, I told you, Joey. Rafe’s all for it. Let’s mach schau! As they said to The Beatles in Hamburg. The first show starts at 9. We’ll have enough time to grab some dinner first.”

“We’re…we’re…going to a restaurant? Dressed like this? I thought we’d just hit the Lone Star and come back home for a late dinner. I can cook a steak for you, Rafe, if you’d like—”

“She’s the perfect little homemaker, Rafe.”

The doorman at The Lone Star palmed the twenty Elizabeth slipped him and waved the three of us in. Inside, a large crowd was already gathering in front of the stage. Some of Willie Nelson’s band were already warming up, although the show wasn’t scheduled to start for another 20 minutes. A few of the band members were holding conversations with people in the crowd. I recognized Paul Simon and Carrie Fisher right off. Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd were there, bottles of beer in hand. Robert Duvall and Dustin Hoffman were standing at the bar, taking in the scene. Rafe pointed out someone who looked suspiciously like Linda Ronstadt but I wasn’t convinced. There were other celebrities we probably didn’t recognize.

We hurried to position ourselves close to the stage. Willie came out promptly at 9. As he was strapping his guitar on, his gaze fell on me and he actually winked at me. I smiled and probably blushed. I was going to excitedly tell Elizabeth and Rafe that Willie had winked at me when Willie charged right into his traditional concert opener, “Whiskey River.” I’d never been a big country music fan but Willie had me bopping to “Whiskey River” like I was a line-dancing veteran.

About half-way through the first set, Rafe asked us what we wanted to drink. He was thirsty and was going to make a run to the bar for a beer. We told him we’d have whatever he was having and he made his way through the crowd.

“I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. Give my bladder some room for the beer. Wanna come?”

I shook my head. I was really into another up-tempo number from Willie, “On the Road Again.” Elizabeth slipped away and I found myself alone, an island in a sea of Willie fans. As if sensing my unease, Willie looked down and winked at me again. I smiled in return and forgot all about my worries, even though Rafe and Elizabeth hadn’t come back yet. Willie was already into the last verse of his big hit, “Always on My Mind.”

I was trying to find a line of sight to the bar and see what was holding Rafe up when I felt a man’s rough hand grab my left buttock. I turned around and was face to face with Lonnie Duffy, the actor who starred in the popular police drama, Glock on the Beat. His breath reeked of beer, at least two 40-ounces worth. I tried to slap his hand away but he had a strong grip.

“Hey, baby, looks like your friends left you high and dry. You know who I am?”

“Yes, I do and I’d like you to take your hand off me!” His other hand was trying to cup my crotch through the skirt.

“Let’s go make some music of our own. You look like a girl who’s up for some fun.”

“Hey, take your hands off…her!” It was Rafe, three bottles of beer in his left hand, ready to swing at Duffy with his right.

“Go away, junior. You lost your chance. She’s with me now—”

The three bottles crashed to the floor and shattered, spilling beer everywhere, including the other patrons. Rafe’s right cross landed solidly on Duffy’s jaw but, unexpectedly, he only wobbled for a second before popping back up to deliver his own jab to Rafe’s chin. That staggered Rafe but he put his head down and charged Duffy, wrapping his arms around him and driving him into the lip of the stage right in front of Willie Nelson. The band stopped playing and The Lone Star’s security guards rushed in to pull Duffy and Rafe apart. Quickly, the guards escorted us into the manager’s office. We were told that the police had been summoned. I took a pack of tissues from my purse and tried to clean up blood oozing out of Rafe’s split lip. The manager shot daggers at us with his eyes and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

The police arrived within five minutes and carted us off to the nearby police station where Duffy decided not to press charges, probably fearing the scandal would cost him his cushy TV job. I was going to press charges myself when Rafe reminded me in so many words that accusing Duffy of molesting me would be problematic for everyone concerned. That’s when I remembered that Elizabeth never returned from the Ladies’ Room. The cops allowed me my one phone call and I dialed the loft. Shockingly, Elizabeth answered.

“Elizabeth! What happened to you? Did you fall in or something? Why are you home?”

“What’s with the attitude, missy? You’re calling from Rafe’s hotel room, probably snug as a rug beneath silk sheets—”

“Elizabeth! Rafe and I are at the police station. You’ve got to come and pick us up. They’re being nice and releasing us. I’ll explain later. Just come pick us up.”

The next day, I accompanied Rafe to the train station. He was going to catch the 10:15 back to Boston. We stood on the platform and Rafe started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Me. I’m laughing at me. I’ve been blind. All this time—”

“Blind? Blind to what?”

“That you really don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you.”

“I love you, Rafe. As a friend. As a really, really good friend. The best. Look, you’ve come to my rescue so many times. I remember the time I almost fell off the monkey bars and you used your spider strength to hold on to me—”

“I love you Joey but more than as a friend. I don’t how but there must be a world where we can be together. You’re the most beautiful—”

The train rumbled into the station and I pulled Rafe back from the edge of the platform.

“Next time you visit, Rafe, I’ll cook you that steak I promised. I’ve gotten really good at cooking. Elizabeth doesn’t really cook…”

“Don’t argue with me, Joey, when I tell you. She’s not good for you. She’s got her own agenda in that squirmy mind of hers. She’ll break your heart one day and soon. I don’t know if I’ll be there to put back the pieces—”

“You’ll be there, Rafe. We’re best friends forever. Forever and always.”

“Take care, Joey.” He stepped into the train and didn’t look back as it pulled out of the station.

Years later, I was right. He was there to put the pieces back together. Elizabeth decided to sell her loft and use the money to pay for medical school. In the wake of that decision, our relationship ended. The fact that I had started to seek counseling in advance of transitioning was the last straw for Elizabeth. It had all been fun and games but now it was serious.

Rafe was a junior architect for a firm in New York City by then (he and his father had had a falling out of sorts) and was living on the Upper West Side. He offered a temporary place for me to stay until I could get a place of my own and I gratefully accepted. He waited for me on the stoop of his building. A friend for life.

Rafe woke me up when we arrived at Alastair’s apartment building. I had slept through the entire two-hour trip from Port Jefferson. I yawned and apologized for being a zombie.

“That’s alright, Joey. Having you sitting here next to me the whole time after the evening we had at the gala…just being with you again after all these years. You can’t imagine how much this has lifted my spirits. And just in time for the holidays.” He laughed.

“I had a nice time, Rafe. Thank you. I enjoyed myself too.”

“Joey, Harlow is looking at some apartments on the East Side. She’s graduating in May and she’s hellbent on finding a job in the city. Would you have some time tomorrow to help us out? You know much more about the city and the East Side specifically than Sally or Martin. And, as you know, I’ve lived in Maryland for almost 30 years…”

“Where are you looking?”

“Harlow says 2nd Avenue—”

“Well, I haven’t lived there in 25 years so…alright, what time?”

“We’ll pick you up around noon. There’s a nice place we can have lunch…”