Almost 50 years ago, I made a decision that didn’t just change my life — it may have saved it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the man I was about to meet would later be identified as one of the most notorious serial killers in American history.

I came out at 24, but before that, I had been married and had a son. As a newly out gay man, I went through a delayed adolescence, partying and having as much sex as possible. This was not uncommon for men who had been living a lie, and this was pre-AIDS, when gay life was reaching its apex and sex was all around. 

I had just finished college and was working as a play therapist in a hospital. The pay wasn’t great ($200 a week, and quarter of that went to child support). I worked as many part-time jobs as I could find, pizza deliveries at night, a cater-waiter, and at a florist on the weekends when I didn’t have my son. 

Chicago had a gay newspaper back then, GayLife, and it had a classified ads section in the back. I would often go through it looking for jobs I could squeeze in whenever I could. One time, there was an ad in the paper for part-time work, evenings, and weekends, as an assistant to a contractor. 

I’d never done any kind of construction labor but had helped my dad around the house growing up, so at least I knew which end of the hammer to hold. I dialed the number listed for PDM Contractors and spoke to the man who placed the ad. He asked a lot of questions about my age and what I looked like.  

He was advertising in the gay paper, so I assumed that a little sexual harassment would be part of the job, and frankly, I wouldn’t have minded it. Remember, this was about the time that the Village People were around, and I had a crush on the construction worker in the group.  

He was just my type.  

I figured out quickly that he was looking for what we then called “chicken,” men under 20. The ad called for teenage boys, but I was young enough looking that I could maybe pass. I figured if I wore a close-fitting t-shirt and tight enough jeans, the guy might not notice that I was a few years older than he was looking for.  

I shaved a few years off my age, telling him that I’d just turned 20. He seemed hesitant, and I was about to give up hope, when he said that he thought I might work out, but that he wanted to meet me in person first. I mentioned that I didn’t have a car but could take a bus to meet him. He asked where I lived and offered to pick me up. I said that I lived with my parents, and I gave a nearby intersection. I knew better than to give my home address, just in case he was a creep. 

He said he sometimes hung out at a bar near the intersection I gave him, and that he could pick me up. We planned to meet the next day at the intersection, and then he would take me to his shop. 

The next day, a few hours before I was supposed to meet him, I rummaged through my clothes for the most youthful-looking things I had. I settled on a pair of very tight jeans, which made it look like I had a big basket and showed off my then, still perky, ass. I squeezed my 30-inch waist into those 28-inch waist jeans and adjusted my crotch. I put on a pair of chunky work boots that would be good for waiting in the cold at the intersection, if he even showed up. 

I had a t-shirt from a local lumberyard with its logo emblazoned across the front. The Crafty Beaver shirt was a hit every time I wore it. I tore off the sleeves, so it looked a little more rugged, though I didn’t have the pecs or biceps to support it. I slipped it over my head, looked at myself, and thought, “If he looks at my crotch, maybe he won’t notice the older face.” 

I put on a hard hat that I had used one Halloween, turned and posed in the mirror. I didn’t look like one of the Village People; I looked like the village idiot.  I thought, “Who do you think you’re kidding?” 

Now I was mad at myself because I’d ruined one of my favorite t-shirts.  

With just 15 minutes to go until the meeting, I paused. I thought about how creepy the guy sounded, how ridiculous I looked, and the fact that I really couldn’t do the work.  

The guy gave me a weird vibe.  

I called the number in the ad and got his answering machine (remember, this was way before cell phones), and I said, “You’ve probably already left to pick me up, John, but I’m afraid that this job isn’t for me. Sorry.” And then I hung up, before I had a chance to change my mind. 

I had never given him my number, so he couldn’t call me. I threw the ad in the trash and booked another cater-waiter gig.  

It wasn’t until a few months later that I realized how lucky I was.  

Looking back, I’m convinced the contractor I spoke to was the serial killer John Wayne Gacy. 

Gacy, who was arrested in 1978, later confessed to murdering at least 33 young men and boys in the Chicago area, often luring them with job offers through his contracting business. He was executed in 1994. As I recall, he often ran ads in GayLife and frequented a bar just a few blocks from where I lived. 

I didn’t think much of it at the time. But I should have. 

This is just one of the interesting things that happened to me growing up in Chicago, coming out, and ending up writing for almost every LGBTQ publication in town over the years.  

An abbreviated version of this memory is included in my memoir, Paper Cuts: My Life in Chicago’s Volatile LGBTQ Press. Available on Amazon and via RattlingGoodYarns.com.