Compromise



I enjoy reading short stories by gay authors, and fortunately there are a few quarterly literary magazines online that provide me with such. I was looking through Lode Star Quarterly, and Blithe, when I came across a story by someone named Patrick Roscoe. It’s called “Compromise."

I thought to myself, “I recognize that name!”

I tried to read the story, but it seemed so esoteric and poetic, that it irritated me, so I just scanned through it, and I didn’t get the point of it.

So I looked under “contributors” and found this bio on him:

“Patrick Roscoe is the author of seven internationally acclaimed books of fiction which have been translated into nine languages. His widely published and anthologized work has appeared in Christopher Street, The James White Review, Blithe House Quarterly, and Harrington Gay Men's Fiction Quarterly. Patrick Roscoe's short fiction has won two CBC Canadian Literary Awards, a Pushcart Prize, and a Lorian Hemingway Short Story Award; it has received a pair of Distinguished Story citations from Best American Stories, and is frequently selected for Best Canadian Stories.”

“Hmm, that still sounds familiar,” but I couldn’t quite place him yet.

It wasn’t until that I saw his picture that it clicked for me. Even though it’s a poor representation, I remembered how I knew him. Many years ago…8? 10? I had met him for a coffee date. This was still when the internet was in its infancy, and we had met through an online dating web site for gay men. We wrote back and forth a few times, and seemed to have enough in common to meet for a coffee.

It’s said that writers love visual artists, but the reverse is also true. Visual artists are fascinated by writers’ ability with words. So we met for coffee at a small café in the West End.

He was older than me, as I recall. Maybe 5-10 years older? I can’t remember for sure, although he looked older. He was handsome, in a craggy way. A little rough around the edges. My knowledge of culture is very poor, but isn’t “Roscoe” either Irish or Scottish? He had that Irish look, of having lived a lot, and probably drank too much. Still handsome, but in a nearly brutish, boxer-kind of way.

I guess you could also say he appeared to typify the suffering artist look. A little dark, a little angsty, but charismatic, intelligent and rough at the same time.

Patrick had just finished writing another book, to awards and acclaim, and was doing his publicity tour, reading his book and doing signings. I can’t remember if he gave me a copy of his book, or if I went out to buy it, and neither can I remember the name of the book. I probably have it in storage somewhere. Anyway, I tried reading it, and was totally lost. I couldn’t get through the first chapter. It was so dense, and so artistically composed, it was lost on me, even though I’m quite educated. To be honest, his writing irritated me. It was obviously the kind of writing that other academics with too much education love to analyze, pick apart, and try to figure out.

In person, he was a lot like his writing. He spoke in circles, never making a concrete statement. Everything he said was couched in some deep metaphor that I didn’t comprehend. But he also exuded a strong and nearly uncontrollable sexuality.

He was living the life of Somerset Maughan. With the grants, awards and book contracts he received, he would move to some obscure country, live in some hot and humid place, take on a local lover, or live entirely alone. I got the impression he drank a lot. But he would write. Meet locals. Soak up the culture. Notice weird details about the place he lived, which he’d poetically put into his novels. He was always on sabbatical, living off of grants and awards, which he’d eventually use all his experience to create another obscure award-winning fiction novel.

I decided early in our coffee meeting that I’d be interested in being friends, but nothing more. I don’t mind intensity…but his intensity was tsunami-like. I felt like I’d be caught up in a dysfunctional web of charisma and intensity if I got sexually involved with him. I bet he’s a hot sexual partner. But I’m too “white bread” for that. (Also, I prefer guys who can fix a car.)

Anyway, I did a google search, and found another story called “Mutilation,” published by the Danforth Review. A very dark story. I actually read it very carefully, and did understand it. But at the end of reading it I found this short bio:

“Patrick Roscoe is a Vancouver sex worker whose seven internationally acclaimed books of fiction have been translated into nine languages.”

My first reaction was shock. My second reaction was, “I thought so.” There was something about his smouldering sexuality and darkness of spirit that made me sense there was a “sex worker” behind his rough, though fine academic yet rebellious façade. One that I could relate to (read past posts on my own history this way).

After getting over my shock, and gratefulness that I didn’t get involved, I re-read his story called, “Compromise.” After trying to appreciate his poetic prose, like a painting, I realized his story was really about love. And learning how to be with another person. With a whole bunch of fancy language!

Being an artist is never an easy calling. But it appears that Patrick is learning to temper it, with the art of compromise.