It was a month before Y2K in December of 1999 when the world was supposed to change forever.
It didn’t.
For the few years before that, my life had been in a rut, too. I was working at a top-notch talent agency managing residual commercial payment cycles for the likes of Mr. T and Liza Minelli. I hated the job. But I was still required to attend the annual Christmas office party held at a ballroom in the Hilton on Park Avenue. You know the kind—forced fun, people trying to cut a rug and so on. It was almost like seeing my coworkers naked, which was a side of them I’d rather not have seen at all. Even worse, my date, a wannabe actor named Rob, was supposed to meet me there, but stood me up because of some untold resentment. So there I was, seated alone at a table amidst the dull chit-chat from the HR staff. So I pulled the old Irish goodbye and snuck out the back exit. Thank goodness I did.
Timing is everything, and as I was walking back to the subway thinking I could easily just make an early night out of it, I ran into an acquaintance named Martin. He was a tiny little man; a very gay comedian who had landed a few local guest spots on various talk shows like The Joan Rivers Show. I used to flirt with him at the gym.
“Why don’t you come with me to a Christmas party, Aaron?” he queried. “Then you can be a part of my holiday season, too.”
Wanting to still salvage the night, I said yes. So after a short cab ride, I stepped into a party in a tiny one-bedroom place in the West Village. The air was a sea of pot smoke, and Martin’s comedian friends were there, laughing and chatting and bitching and cajoling and impersonating. The night still seemed imperiled when a man in his 40s who looked like Steve Martin walked through the door. And this was not the white-haired, distinguished Steve Martin we know today, but the goofy-cute one from The Jerk and Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid.
Shelby Criswell
The goofy-cute man said his name was Phillip, and we gave each other that exchanging look for which gay men are known for and do so well. He told me he was an entrepreneur; a former owner of one of the most famous stores in New York. He had become a real estate investor, though. He lived in Cape Cod. Most people would have been impressed by this, but I just cared about his bright green eyes and messy auburn hair.
Later, I’d already made it to the street when I realized I’d left my hat and gloves behind. To this day I don’t know if I subconsciously left them, but when I buzzed back into the apartment, Phillip uttered the fateful words: “Are you heading uptown on the A Train? I’ll ride with you.”
We walked along 8th Avenue to the A-Train, chatting about holiday movies. When Phillip spontaneously grabbed my hand, it suddenly felt like we had known each other forever. At 2 in the morning, the train was less than half-full. Within minutes we were wildly making out. No one batted an eye—this was New York City. Phillip got off at 45 Street, and I headed back to my dirty one-bedroom apartment in Queens.
When I got home, there was already a message from Phillip in my inbox: “I have a hard-on with your name on it,” the subject read.
In his email, he invited me to spend the next weekend with him at his home in Wellfleet, Cape Cod. Even though I barely knew him, I booked my plane ticket right away. And I called in sick to work.
Phillip picked me up at the airport that weekend with the unbridled energy of a teenager. Being that Wellfleet was a place I had regularly visited as a child with my family, the weekend felt akin to a homecoming. That weekend felt like we talked for 3 days, nonstop. During that weekend, it felt like time had stood still. But Monday morning came, and I burst into tears.
“I don’t want to leave!” I cried. “I don’t want to go back to New York!”
Was this what it’s like to be in love?
We climbed into his Audi for the ride to the airport. Dido sang from the car speakers: “I don’t want to call my friends. They might wake me from this dream.”
My plane took off, and as it entered the clouds I sensed that my life was about to change forever. When the plane landed I wasn’t the same person anymore, and thus began a season of many risks, many chances, many rewards. See, love isn’t just about the person that you’re with—love is about how it can change the entire direction of your life. After a year embroiled in a shamelessly romantic long distance relationship, I left my secure job, Mr. T and Liza Minelli behind. I left my rent-controlled apartment. I moved in with Phillip in Wellfleet and reconnected with my first love, the theater. I found my center once again. At the age 32, I was finally an adult.
Aaron Leventman is originally from Massachusetts and studied Theatre Arts at University of California at Santa Fe then screenwriting at Columbia University in New York. He's been in Santa Fe for over 20 years where he's contributed to the arts community as a playwright, actor, teacher, producer and curator for film festivals, as well as an administrator for many nonprofits.
