One of the biggest quarks I have is “free association.” My mind with connect all sort of dots before I come to a complete thought. That is the foundation of this post.
This past week a friend posted a music video on Facebook that took me on a trip down memory lane. As I get older I now realize the allure of music stations that focus on a certain period. As I listen to the Communards version of “Don’t Leave Me This Way” (extended mix), I could close my eyes and clear as day see the dance floor at Badlands in DC or the Saint in New York. I could smell the poppers and I could see the fear in the eyes of the living. Many of us were dancing and focusing on the lights and sounds. Focusing on every thing and anything in order to escape thoughts of the plague. We tried to remember faces that had disappeared in the past months. We memorized the faces of friends still with us. So many songs came out that registered the desperation of that period. “Who Want to Live Forever?”, “Forever Young” and in my case, “Don’t Leave Me This Way”. Enter Barry.
Barry and I had met during this period. I think when I bar-tended, but even that was a blur. We dated for a brief time but decided that we made better f*ck buddies and BFF’s. I have searched for a picture of Barry but the only one I could find was a picture of his AIDS quilt panel. I lost a lot of pictures when I tried to purge my memories of that time. It didn’t work.
We would meet late at the Exile in DC to dance and play. The Exile was an rehabbed chicken processing plant in NE DC. The back room was one of old refrigerator rooms. We’d dance for a while, grab a drink then head back to the dark room. If there was nothing going on we would start something with each other. If there was already action we would go different directions, every so often meeting up to compare notes. I am certain we had dated in a past life. Or at least been siblings. God we loved Jimmy Summerville. We would dance and sing to every mix until the gay plague finally came to claim Barry.
I am not sure who was more distraught over his diagnosis, me or Barry. During that time we all believed that we were living on borrowed time. A diagnoses meant the waiting game was over. Barry was in many respects the stronger of us emotionally. I became a defacto “AIDS buddy”. It was one of the hardest points of my life. I was loosing a best friend and at the same time I thought I was witnessing my own future.
I would visit Barry as often as I could. Sometime to play cards, sometimes to listen to music (he had a top of the line sound system) and sometimes to just sit in absolute quiet and hold hands. He was deteriorating quickly. He eventually moved back home to Chapel HIll NC to spend his final weeks with his parents. When that happened almost all of his friends were cut off by his family. I remember laying in obed with him shortly before he left. He wanted to be held and at the same time his body, his skin hurt to the touch. I tried to be as close as possible with out hurting him. It is amazing what memories a song can evoke. Now what does this have to do with Barney Frank?
During this time I actually, formally, met Barney Frank. Barney lived in the apartment directly adjacent to Barry. At first I just nodded to him as we passed. After a few regular visits We would chat about Barry’s condition and soon Barney was involved in the care of Barry to the point of taking out his garbage when time allowed. I had “interacted” with Barney on several occasions but this was the first time we operated as equals. We were both loosing a friend. We remained friends for some time.
When I was in law school in Omaha Barney invited me to Chicago for a weekend as his date to a huge HRC fundraiser (No the trip was not financed by the tax payer). After I got back to DC after law school, I found out that I was not the only law student Barney had “encouraged”. I guess along with some of his kink fetishes, the primary fetish was cerebral. He really enjoyed being challenged intellectually. This is not the venue for the sordid details of a tell all queen. But then I was never a tell all queen. Only tell enough to keep them interested and guessing. That brings me back to Jimmy Summerville. His song “Small-town Boy” always touched me. The need to keep things hidden and realizing that the love and life I sought could not be had in a small town or with “small town” people. And now that circle is complete.
PS This is the first of my posting where I actually had to stop to cry. Very embarrassing on an airplane.