RANDY REMEMBERS AN ANNIVERSARY

RANDY REMEMBERS AN ANNIVERSARY

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I was sitting at my desk, in my office, in my house, minding my own business, contemplating my impending radical life-style change (that’s another story) when it happened again.  The ever-comforting scent of sulfur tickled my nose .  I looked over and saw Kyle filling the doorway.  When your gay demon shows up, looking all disappointed, well, it can chip away at your self-esteem.  Luckily I have esteem to spare.

 

 

He ducked his head down to clear the doorway and clomped in with heavy hooves.  I usually just ignore him, forcing him to speak first.  He stood there for our obligatory silent standoff until I heard the pre-rant snort he’s famous for.

 

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” he lamented.  “But you don’t give me anything to work with other than snarky one-liners, sarcasm and apathy.  What am I supposed to do with that?  It’s why I hate working with atheists!  Are you listening to me?”  “I would if you were saying anything,” I replied.

“Maybe you didn’t get the memo,” he snorted, “but the sullen homosexual went out with the…”  He paused, catching himself and hoping I wouldn’t notice.  “You were going to say ark, weren’t you,” I interjected.  “Shut up!” he snapped.  “What’s wrong with you?  There’s so much to be had out there, why do you constantly refuse it?” At this point I could tell that he was going to go on for a while so I just went inside my head again as I feigned interest.

What was wrong with me was that I remember.  I remember the very first news stories where they actually said the word ‘homosexual’ and that apparently we now had our very own cancer.

 

 

 

 

 

I remember wave after wave of death, protests, quilts, politicians and preachers and what they said.

 

 

 

I remember the first man I ever kissed (who went on to be my one and only boyfriend) and the knee weakening ecstasy (that I had always heard about but had never experienced) that came with it.  I remember him telling me one day that he was ‘concerned’ about his HIV status.  I remember finding his HIV medication and learning that he was not merely positive but in the end-stages of AIDS.  I remember the anger that consumed me; anger at him, anger at me, anger at HIV, quilts, politicians, and preachers. 

I remember going to the hospital the day he died and kissing him on his forehead as he lay unresponsive and whispering that it was okay.  I remember watching his mother fall apart at finding out that her son was gay and dying of AIDS at the same moment.  I remember going to his funeral and feeling every stare. 

I remember going to the health department (alone), holding a piece of paper with a number on it (alone), hearing my number called (alone), sitting in the exam room (alone) and having a stranger ask me questions that left me humiliated (alone).  I remember feeling dirty (alone).  I remember repeating this every 3 months for a year and a half (alone) until I was finally ‘cleared’. 

I remember failing every time since him, when trying to capture the feeling of that first kiss. I remember missing him.  And every now and then, from out of nowhere, I remember it all at once.

The words ‘Harrison Ford’s jock strap’ jolted me back to the present.  I looked over and Kyle was still ranting.  “Could you back up a few sentences before that Harrison Ford thing?” I asked. 

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to walk into the lounge down there and all the other demons just go quiet,” he demanded.  “I mean, even Eddie Murphy’s demon…uh…caseworker won’t look me in the eye!”

“Honey, honey,” I whispered calmly.  “I promise you, if you stop yelling at me, this weekend I will go out and do the gayest thing I can think of.”  Kyle’s expression melted from anguish to relief.  He lumbered over and pulled my head to his heaving chest like a mother in cradling mode.  “Oh, if you only knew how long I’ve been waiting to hear those words,” he gushed.

He stood there just long enough to be uncomfortable when he released my head and headed toward the office door with a much lighter gait.  Just as he was disappearing he turned.  “Now remember your promise,” he instructed.  And then he was gone.  I sat there, looking at the now empty doorway.  “I’ll remember,” I whispered.