Haven’t forgotten about the list of loves, though I have realized—sitting on the edge of my bed, I balled my eyes out after writing the first thirty-seven—that I have forgotten about most of the ones I loved.
Remember, this is my list of a hundred loves: Before the semicolon is who; after the semicolon is why. So, to continue…
38. Sean, the red-haired, blue-eyed, big-for-his-age convenience store boy who would not let me pay him for coffee when I went there during breaks from work (across the street); because his face lit-up every time he saw me, because he was kind, generous, open-hearted, and because he’s gone since the night the store was robbed and I can’t find out what happened to him.
39. The timid, sensitive, slightly goth, slightly dweeby convenience store boy who replaced Sean; for being bravely vulnerable despite being timid and sensitive, and for being different. I love him.
40. The one-month Pope, John Paul I (not II); for being a saint who will never see sainthood, and for doing in one month what it took Jesus the entire three years of his public ministry to do—get self-centered powers pissed-off enough to kill him.
41. Daneane (dg), a companion in the riot of life, and a visitor here; for her consistent wisdom, unflagging faith, incessant encouragement, and for the time she demonstrated her trust (infinitely flattering me) by asking me for advice.
42. Fr. Bob, who introduced me to a deliciously secret gay-underground, who tolerated my excessively dramatic lamentations for Jimmy (previously mentioned, number 12), and who revealed to me that I really do have a pretty big cock; for being a courageous friend with an open heart, for being honest and faithful to important truths despite their unpopularity, and for sporting a bad toupee with dignity and panache.
43. From the same time period as the previous Dave (number 13), the other Dave, who I didn’t dare love because it probably would have gone somewhere (Yup, there.); for having me as his best man, for trusting me absolutely and unhesitatingly, and for loving me despite this disability of mine that prevents me from ever telling him these things.
44. Tim H., who was a van driver where I work; for sitting with me in an emergency room for 12 hours while I laid there, mostly unconscious, after one of my seizures. The world is full of people who don’t have somebody, but fortunately, the world is also peppered with people who are able to be somebody.
45. The retired lady who ran the bed and breakfast in her home on a former farm in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia where Bobby (number 21) and I stayed in 1987; for treating us with impeccable hospitality despite her husband’s obvious but unstated objection to her playing host to a 27-year-old fag and his nine-years-younger lover, and because deep down she disagreed with her husband, and matched his objection with her equivalently obvious but unstated acceptance.
46. Billy Percival, the murdered, accused murderer, who you can get a snapshot of here; for never once surrendering. Ever.
47. Lorraine Gustavson, ‘Gus’, a nurse at my first job, in an emergency room, who saved my life in 1978 by knowing intuitively that I was gay without saying she knew, by hearing in her heart and soul all the things I needed to say but couldn’t, and by loving me without limit or condition, which was a whole hell of a lot but very nearly not enough; for these things I love her, and for allowing me to glimpse through her the stunning brilliant joy of the universe.
Sorry. I wanted to make it to at least 50 tonight (this morning), but dawn has preceded that goal. Not only that, but I vastly overestimated my capacity to traverse these reminiscences and emotions. I thought I would be done by now, but these things seem to move through me at their own pace, like a receiving line at a wake.