Twin Beams of Light In My Wallet

Frieda Gwisdalla gave me my first job in the Big Apple.

I thought for sure with my writing skills and Army experience, I’d land a job in the World Trade Center on the top floor.

Fresh out of the Army, I threw away my camouflaged uniform and put on a suit and tie. My hair still had a buzz cut and it was a time when dudes still wore their hair long.

She itched during the interview. I knew the position was mine.

Our cubicles connected and I was her assistant.

After working in the gay friendly environment of CT Corporation System for just over a year, my blonde boss, who looked a lot like Madonna, but much prettier, insisted that I go on a date with her younger sister.

I was in a closeted gay relationship with an Army buddy and I didn’t want to ruin the work relationship with Frieda.

I agreed to take her sister, Cherille on a lunch date.

“Here’s her senior picture, take it!” she ordered. So I did, and put it in my wallet behind my credit card with no more available credit.

I never wanted to go to gay clubs and be “out”. My Army lover insisted that we let loose and have a cocktail or two at Uncle Charlie’s.

Sure as shit, there stood Jerry Spychala, the big office queer at the bar.

Like George Michael found wacking off in a public restroom, the tabloids broke loose in the office.

Suddenly Frieda had issues with my productivity and wanted Cherille’s senior picture back.

I ended up leaving the place and went to work for an AIDS charity.

Years later after determining that I didn’t know a soul who perished in the Twin Towers, I turned on CNN one evening in 2001 to see Frieda Gwisdalla talking to Larry King.

Her very handsome brother, James had perished and Frienda was leading a group of families of 9/11 victims. How very sad I thought. I always wanted to carry his photo in my wallet instead of Cherille’s.