Gay Like Me

Famous comedian Todd Glass describes the hilarious and poignant story of coming out at the age of 45.

OCD IN BLOOM

Todd Finds His Dream House

If there was one thing I could always count on as a kid, it was having a house that was tidy and organized. My mom was a compulsive cleaner. Everything had its place. Dust never had a chance to settle in our home.

But when we moved into our new house in Lafayette Hill, I started to notice that my mom had developed a new tolerance for disorder. Now, as an adult, I can see that she was probably just letting go of a lot of unhealthy compulsion, embracing my aunt Ruth’s philosophy that while your dishes won’t leave, your company will.

But as a kid, I felt like my world was falling apart around me. I had enough trouble concentrating when things were orderly. I hated the fingerprints all over the cabinets. I missed the reassuring vacuum marks on the carpet. A dirty glass in the sink could ruin my afternoon. Things got even worse once I started sharing a room with my brother Corey.

Let me make this clear to you (and to Corey, who’s prob- ably reading this right now): By any reasonable standard, my younger brother was a normal ten-year-old boy, no messier than most kids his age. I could list the things he did that drove me nuts, but that would only highlight how crazy I was. I looked at Corey and I saw a hoarder—I’m not talking about the high- class HGTV kind, but an A&E, living-in-your-own-filth-with- three-dead-cats-under-your-bed type.

My issues didn’t go away when the room was clean. I’d find any excuse to vacuum, making one up if I had to. “Ugh,” I’d say, after intentionally dropping a plant on the rug, allowing some of the dirt to spill. “Which one of the dogs did this? I guess I better get the vacuum cleaner.”

When Corey’s hair started falling out, I knew it wasn’t (as my parents told me) because of an allergy, but from the stress of having to live with me. He moved across the hall to bunk with Spencer, and I got my own room, where I could enforce my in- sane standards of clean.

To my family’s great credit, they all did their best to ap- pease my craziness. But I was about to meet people who really understood me—our neighbors across the street, the Nalibotskys.

Like we had with our previous home in Churchville, we made a few visits to Lafayette Hill to see our new home being built. On one of these trips I noticed the mini-mansion that was going up across the street. Holy shit—they’ve got a three-car garage! And a circular driveway! They must be rich!

To this day, the things I saw the Nalibotskys do represent to me what “rich people” do. Rich people roll their towels. Rich people don’t leave their mops to air-dry outside the kitchen door. Rich people don’t keep their dish soap on their kitchen sink. As funny as it might seem, I’m not wrong about this— when was the last time you opened Architectural Digest and saw a $5 million home with Palmolive on the sink next to an old sponge full of bacon grease? Yeah, that’s what I thought. (By the way, if the people at Palmolive want to send me a case for free, I’ll drop this bit out of the act.)

I know now that you can also have all the money in the world and still not get it. Lots of rich people have terrible taste. Either way, the Nalibotskys got it.

Keep in mind, the Glass family wasn’t exactly doing without. My dad owned a successful wholesale shoe business. We were comfortable, building a very nice house in the suburbs for the fourth time in the last five years. But I became obsessed with the house across the street.

The landscaping was immaculate, like something you’d see in a magazine. The lawn was a perfect shade of green, the drive- way freshly sealed and free of cracks. Everything was arranged in clean lines and rows, separated by crisp edges and railroad ties. In time, I found out that it belonged to Phil Nalibotsky, the builder behind the new development. He held on to three or four of the lots to build what was probably his dream home. Little did he know he was building twelve-year-old Todd Glass’s dream home, too.

I still fantasize about it today. If I ever decide to buy a summer home, I’m going to be the only person in the world who owns a vacation property in Lafayette Hill, Pennsylvania. You’ll know it when you see my dream car in the driveway: a ’77 Ford LTD with wood paneling and lights that open and close.

I had to see the inside of that house. Maybe if I crashed my bike in their driveway they’d nurse me back to health. I could track down their lost dog (after letting it out myself) or save them from a fire (that I may or may not have started). Eventually I dismissed all of these ideas (especially the last—how was I going to see the inside of their house if it was on fire?) and went for a more direct approach: I walked up and knocked on their front door.

I was glad that I did. I didn’t know anything about design or decorating, but there was something about the inside of the house that immediately made me feel calm. The sense of order was incredible: zero clutter; everything had its place. You’d never know that three kids were living there. Unlike the other houses in the neighborhood, which all seemed to be carpeted with randomly colored wall-to-wall shag, the Nalibotskys’ home used themes that made each room feel like it was connected to the rest. Years later, Mrs. Nalibotsky—Myra—explained to me that she’d hired a decorator who believed that there was “beauty in unity and simplicity.”

When Phil got home from work, he walked right to the kitchen sink to put away whatever few dishes were sitting there. Keep in mind—this is a family that had full-time help in the housekeeping department. “I noticed that the hose was un- raveled outside,” he said to his kids. “Did someone forget to roll it back up?”

His kids were obviously annoyed by the observation. All I could think was: This guy gets it. I still think that way today, organizing my house as if Phil and Myra might stop by at anytime. There aren’t any sponges full of bacon grease. I don’t leave dishes in the sink. I keep a laminated list of frequently used numbers hanging in my kitchen, just like the Nalibotskys did, a totally unnecessary gesture given that I’ve got them all stored on my cell.

Shortly after my bar mitzvah, my parents left us alone for a weekend, figuring we were in good hands with our neighbor’s daughter babysitting us. I remember standing in the middle of the street watching the landscapers tend to the Nalibotskys’ perfect yard. Then I turned to face our house and its perfectly ordinary grass lawn. Back to theirs, back to ours. Back to theirs…

This went on for an hour until, finally, I knew what I had to do. I strode over to the landscaper in charge. “I want our yard to look like theirs,” I said.

It’s funny to look back now and try to imagine what was going through this guy’s mind. He obviously doesn’t own the home . . . unless he’s the most successful thirteen-year-old I’ve ever met. I told him that my parents had left me in charge of the house. More importantly, I showed him cash—almost a thou- sand dollars from my bar mitzvah. I guess if a thirteen-year-old hired me to do stand-up comedy and paid cash, I wouldn’t ask any questions, either. (Seriously, I’m not kidding—call my agent. Special discounts for Monday- and Tuesday-night bookings that won’t cut into my comedy club schedule.)

My parents must have thought they’d come home to the wrong house. They stared at the yard, trying to process what had happened in the short time they were gone. There were new railroad ties lining the driveway. Crisp, clean-cut lines separated the grass lawn from the large piles of dark mulch that had been spread around the shrubs.

“Todd’s a big man in a little man’s body,” the landscaper ex- plained to my confused mom and dad. But it looked right, and my parents had to admit that I’d improved things while they were gone. My dad even said they’d repay my investment, but I don’t think they ever did. So, Mom, if you’re reading this . . . I’m pretty sure you owe me some money.

THE STOMACHACHE

Fake Vomit and False Stereotypes

The move to Lafayette Hill also meant I had to start all over again at another new school.

I hated it. I hated it from day one. A new group of teach- ers that I had to fool into thinking that I was actually learn- ing something. A new group of kids that I had to try and make friends with, kids that I really didn’t even like all that much. I felt like I had a stomachache that wouldn’t go away. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite sick enough to stay home from school, not as far as my parents were concerned.

Keep in mind that when a sixth-grader—or in my case, a seventh-grader in sixth grade—fakes throwing up, he doesn’t necessarily think things all the way through. I grabbed some saltines from the kitchen and crumbled them into the toilet.

The result wasn’t really that convincing, so I added a few squirts of ketchup to give it a pukier feel and ran off to tell my parents.

By the time they got to the bathroom, the saltines had pretty much dissolved, leaving nothing but a thick red mess floating in the water. A few minutes later I was being rushed into the emergency room, my parents trying to stay calm while they explained to the doctors why they thought their son was bleeding internally.

At this point I was way too scared to tell anyone about the ketchup. The doctors ran tests on me. My dad skipped work so that he and my mom could sit in the waiting room.

Obviously they didn’t find any internal bleeding. The only thing the doctors did find was a packet of saltines in my pocket. Did I tell my parents the truth? Of course I did . . . Just not right away. I waited until about two years ago, when I was forty-five, to confess the truth to my mom, figuring enough time had passed for us both to laugh about it. Man, was I wrong—while I’d like to say I was making this up for comedic purposes, my mother was still really upset with me. If she could have taken TV away for a week, I’m pretty sure she would have.

Once the real stomachache and fake vomiting had sub- sided, I was surprised to find out that I really liked sixth grade. They placed me in a program called “Open Space,” which en- couraged group activities and lots of social time. I seemed to be making progress. I felt like I was flourishing and, possibly, even learning a thing or two.

That didn’t stop me from failing.

The next year I went to a private school called Wordsworth Academy that was known for having a great “special education” program. My parents couldn’t really afford private school—the whole experience was paid for by an anonymous donor. (My guess was that my mysterious benefactors were the Nalibotskys, but if I was right, they never gave me a clue.)

Despite the generosity that got me there, my experience at Wordsworth wasn’t ideal. They put me on Ritalin, which only killed my appetite, not my confusion. My new pool of potential friends was limited to kids who either had serious learning disabilities or were suffering from emotional problems that seemed a lot more severe than mine. (Although, in retrospect, it was probably perfect preparation for a lifetime of friendships with writers and stand-up comedians.)

I was old enough at this point to be absolutely terrified by my lack of progress. Focus . . . Just FOCUS, I’d yell at myself every time I felt my mind drifting off in the middle of class. Not an effective approach—it’s almost impossible to learn algebra when all you’re focusing on is focusing.

The teachers were all very nice. They tried desperately to find ways to connect with me and engage me in schoolwork. Most of them could tell I wasn’t lacking intelligence, which made my academic troubles that much more frustrating for them.

One day, when I was acting particularly miserable, a teacher pointed to a sickly-looking plant on the windowsill. “Todd, what do you think is wrong with this plant?”

Now my mom had obviously told the teacher that I liked plants. This poor woman was just trying to find a way to con- nect with me. It’s easy to see, in hindsight, that these were loving people who didn’t know what to do. But the thirteen-year-old me was tired of being patronized. And besides, I didn’t even like plants—I liked landscaping. Not the same thing! I wanted to say. Not even fucking close.

“It’s sick,” I said. “You should throw it away.”

“Are you sure?” my teacher replied. “What if we gave it some water?”

“No, that plant is sick. You better throw it away before it spreads whatever it has to the rest of the plants. It’ll kill them all.”

“Maybe it just needs a little sun.”

“What it needs is to be put out of its misery.”

Outside of school, I desperately wanted to be friends with Albert Nalibotsky, who I saw as my in to becoming a part of their family. Albert and I didn’t have much in common. He loved sports and would beg me all the time to go outside and toss a football. I hated sports. Whenever sports were on TV in our house, I wasn’t allowed to talk, so you could forget about me being interested. Sports still represent two of my least favorite things in life: exercise and not talking.

Now stop.

I know what you’re thinking. Obsessive about cleaning? Check!

An eye for landscaping and design? Check! Doesn’t like sports? Check!

It all adds up. It was obvious, even then, that I was . . . Bullshit!

A lot of people seem to think that being gay automatically means you’re great at design, fashion, or throwing great dinner parties. This idea really bothers the hell out of me. Gay people aren’t born with these particular interests or skills in their DNA; they have to learn them slowly over time, like any other interest or skill. It would be like if you met an Asian doctor and said, “No wonder you’re a doctor, you’re Asian! You people are smart!” Oh yeah? What about the years of medical school and thousands of hours of work and study? Did you ever take that into account, you lazy piece of shit?

You’ll sometimes hear that stereotypes exist for a reason: because they’re true. I don’t think that’s right, either. I know a lot of straight guys who, if they pretended to come out of the closet, would have people falling all over themselves to tell you how they knew it all along. “No wonder he’s a great dresser and has such a beautiful home! Now it all makes sense . . .”

The truth is that some guys are good at this kind of stuff; some are not. Gay or straight doesn’t have anything to do with it. Most of our “stereotypes” are simple observations that don’t have any connection to what’s in your DNA.

Gay guys have style? They also have two incomes and no kids.

Asians love cameras? They’re on vacation in our country, fuckface!

Jews are cheap? You’re right, everyone else loves to overpay for shit.

So an eye for design and a dislike for sports didn’t mean that I was gay. However, there was one small detail that might have hinted that something about me was a little bit different: I started to have feelings for guys.

Which, I’ve got to admit, sounds pretty gay.

GAY LIKE ME

Just When It Couldn’t Get Any Worse

Look, discovering sexuality is hard enough for kids to go through when it’s accepted by everybody. If a boy likes a girl, and he’s thirteen and she’s thirteen, dipping their toes (and whatever else) into a heterosexual relationship embraced by society, it’s already so difficult. Holy shit are there feelings to go through. Feelings that are complicated and new and weird and exciting and terrifying.

Now imagine going through this process and also feeling dirty about it.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

By the time I was thirteen, I knew. Sometimes I would see a guy and I’d feel a sense of attraction for him. I also knew enough not to say a word about it to anybody.

We’re talking about the late 1970s. While I wasn’t necessar- ily sure what my feelings meant, I was old enough to know that words like “gay,” “fag,” and “homo” were insults.

I should point out that I was a lucky kid in that none of these prejudices came from my parents, who socialized with people of every race, religion, sexual orientation, and economic class. But I grew up in the same straight world as everyone else did. If you could hide being gay, you did. And even if you couldn’t, you still did. (One word: Liberace.) I learned that “normal” people got uncomfortable when they saw same-sex couples, so I did, too. Whenever other boys my age started to talk about the crushes they were developing on girls, I immediately clammed up. I was pretty sure that my own weird feelings would go away. I just had to hide them until that happened.

One night I stayed over at a friend’s house. We were watching TV and our legs touched.

We didn’t say very much after that. There wasn’t any kiss- ing, just a lot of groping. “Heavy petting” is the phrase that comes to mind—the kind of stuff you might expect a thirteen- year-old boy and a thirteen-year-old girl to do. It felt good. It felt right.

And when I woke up the next morning, it felt dirty.

I can’t say that I handled it poorly, because I didn’t handle it at all. I went out of my way not to see him again. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when, a few months later, he moved away, so I could get on with the business of forgetting that it had ever happened.

I mean, what the fuck? I was failing out of school and didn’t know what was wrong with me, met people who hated me for being part of a religion that I hardly practiced, had been to five different schools in eight years leaving me with almost no close friends, and now I was going to have to be gay, too?

I must have been a real asshole in my past life to deserve all that in this one.

Excerpted from The Todd Glass Situation by Todd Glass with Jonathan Grotenstein. Todd Glass has been performing standup comedy since he was sixteen. Now living in Los Angeles, he’s headlining his own club dates and touring with comics like Jay Leno, Jim Gaffigan, David Spade, and David Cross. He’s also the host of The Todd Glass Show. The Todd Glass Situation is his first book.

Copyright © 2014 by Todd Glass. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster.