See Me Feel Me

I was taking a bath the other day when he walked right in and sat on the edge of the tub.  I was naked but I didn’t mind.  We’re longtime pals.  And he died in 1992.

But that didn’t stop us from having a great old gossip.

We talked about friends and family.  Who got divorced, who died, who had grandchildren, who had moved to Sun Valley and Santa Fe.   We reminisced about the now-shuttered Cafe des Artistes.  He caught me up with the New York hipster art scene.  I brought him up to speed on my love life.

And then, smiling, he was gone.

Funny, I always remember him smiling.  That wry, shy, ironic grin.  It went well with his impish sense of humor and sweet personality.

Remember where you were when you heard that President Kennedy had been shot?  Or when the Challenger space shuttle exploded?  Or when the Twin Towers went down?

Sure you do.  Now remember how you felt?

That’s how I felt when I first heard that he had AIDS.

Back then it was a death sentence.  With no reprieve from The Governor.

Today, thank God, people who contract HIV infections can take drugs- most still undiscovered when my friend got sick- and lead long, pretty normal lives.

Look at Magic Johnson.  Or better yet, don’t look at Magic Johnson.  I think he has done more harm, unwittingly and ironically as that may be, to the cause of curing AIDS than many a loathsome bigot or indifferent bureaucrat.

He’s the “face” of HIV, and he’s still okay, right?  Still smiling, right?  He’s a grandfather now.  You can live a great life with HIV, right?  You don’t have to worry anymore, right? You don’t have to fundraise anymore, right?  Didn’t we whip this with AZT and other wonder drugs?  I mean who dies from AIDS, nowadays, right?

Wrong.

The scourge is still out there.  Hungry for more.  It’s no chauvinist.  AIDS kills men, women and children with equal opportunity.  But people just don’t seem too concerned anymore.  It’s not an “in” disease anymore.

I didn’t want to tell my old friend that.

I’m sure that he knows.  He was just too polite to rebuke me.

He was an artist here on earth.  He made paintings, videos, collages.

The collage he did for me was a star on a dark red painted canvas.  There were hundreds of tiny movie star faces that he had painstakingly cut out of magazines and meticulously pasted into the star itself.

He made it for me because he knew I loved the movies.  He and I had had some great times going to them together.  When we went, we used to sit in the back of the theater and whisper.  Lots of laughs and dish.  Who was hot stuff.  Who had grown too big for their britches.  Who had become pompous and foolish.  We never talked about anything serious back in those carefree days before he got sick.

We never talked about anything serious after he got sick, either.  I just didn’t know what to say to him.

I do now.

I’m sorry that I never told you how much I admired your talent.  I’m sorry I never told you how much I admired your courage.  I’m sorry that I didn’t know how to save you from this terrible disease.

These days, when I look up at the night sky, I am reminded of the collage that he made for me.

I like to think he’s up there now, cutting out star collages and embellishing Heaven.

I know this post is way too short, almost over before it’s begun.  Ended way too soon. Cut off for no good reason.

Just like his life.

Thanks for stopping by, my friend.  Come back and see me anytime.  My bath tub’s always open.