Free Rat Bohemia by Sarah Schulman Page B

remembered suddenly how much taller he is. His hair is shaved at the base but has a crown of hanging dreads that fall gamely on his neck, like a black version of Veronica Lake. Suddenly he was so much taller than me that eye level was directly into his razor burn.
    As always he was cool, very poised and dignified. I managed to listen to Fabio’s yapping politely without ever once turning to look at Kurt’s lithe back. But finally I did have to pass by on the way to the urinals and managed to touch him gently, but possessively, on the shoulder. It was a natural, open touch designed expressly to feel the shape of his slender back. I waited in the stall for him to follow, hoping we could fuck on the stairs, but he never came around.
    At home that night I played a Minnie Ripperton album a couple of times. What a star. If she had been called to opera instead of to schlock she would have been a coloratura—that firm, thin, high soprano. More dear.
    Minnie reminds me of the threat of impending banality that I have to live with daily. I see it creeping everywhere. How to keep jazz from becoming dinner music. How to keep love poems off of greeting cards. How to keep AIDS from being pathetic.
    I read in Herve Guilbert’s book that Foucault died, not knowing exactly what had hit him. His lover found his handcuffs and
whips and couches full of leftover manuscripts on such trifles as the history of socialism. Charles Ludlam was the most profound loss. America doesn’t even know what she’s missing. I saw him and his lover Everett in Irma Vep and sat sobbing at his funeral. It was the first time I cried after my boyfriend’s death in ’82. But what do we do with all the mediocrities who never created anything worth remembering and never would have even if they had lived to be eighty-five? It drives me crazy how quickly the great ones get canonized. Blah-blah-blah is such a terrible loss . Does that mean that the death of one mediocre slob is not as terrible? Do fags have to be geniuses to justify living?
    There is almost nothing left to be said about my dead boyfriend Don at this late date. We’d only been going out for a few months before he suddenly called me from the hospital. I’d never been in one before, not since I was born. It was so unbelievable. Most of my memories of Don are in bed, plastic tubes up his nose and arms, lying there, infusing. Where the fuck were his parents? Why did they abandon us?
    I remember one afternoon I was sitting next to his bed. He was lying there, wan, very anxious, plastic in his orifices. I looked down at the pillow and he looked up at me and waved his eyes in one of those high camp queenie gestures that means completely giving up and saying fuck you to the world at the same time. It was so absurd. I still don’t believe it.
    For a while I tried really hard to remember his chest the way it was at first in my hands. Like the side of a mountain. But the real memory is tired and sad with silvery worms of plastic coming out of his nose. That is how I will always picture my love.
    By two a.m. I was going through my phone book wondering
who I could possibly call. Could I call Kurt? It really was too late. What about all those people in San Francisco? Amy is in Berlin. Bob isn’t agitated enough for late night phone calls. John is dead. Mark is dead. Sam is dead. The other Bob is waiting for his boyfriend to die. Maybe I’ll call Kurt. I called Bob.
    â€œHi Bob, how’s kicks? ”
    â€œOh, Fred seems to be doing a lot better.”
    â€œThat’s great,” I said.
    â€œYeah, today he went outside on his own.”
    â€œHow are you doing? ”
    â€œFine. Let’s see. This morning I took Fred to the herbalist. Those Chinese herbs are really miracle drugs. Then I took him into the clinic for a spinal tap and it really made him feel a lot better. He’s not so disoriented as he was last week.”
    â€œGreat. How are you