No one living ages 38 – 45, February 1994

It hurt to remember. Yet, in this context, he felt he must.

The letter came from Maryland. It was late winter, and my boss wasn’t prepared for its arrival. The letter was from the parents of an old friend. Enclosed was a picture, along with a letter telling him that his old friend had died two weeks earlier. He had lingered, and his death had taken a long, painful time to arrive. His name was George, and he and my boss had known each other back when they were in their 20’s, smokin’ hot and wild and loose and sexually free.

I had arrived at work a little late that day, tired but amped from the pot of coffee I’d ingested just to get there. He sat at his computer, alternately staring at the half-empty monitor, the picture, the keyboard, and his hands. He didn’t say too much at first, just that an old friend had died. He gave me some work due at the end of the day and returned to staring and being quiet.

Then, not more than a few minutes later, he jumped up and said, "Let’s go upstairs." This was the cue to get high, as we smoked a lot of pot at work. So we smoked a joint in silence, and I sat on a box, looking at him looking out the attic window. "Should we go back to work?" I suggested, snapping him back to the present.

He stared at me for a moment, then said "No, let’s go for a drive." Ok. It was becoming obvious we wouldn’t get much work done today, anyway. We went back to the studio; told the secretary we were leaving, leashed his insane, hyperactive, and not very bright Dalmatian, walked downstairs, and got in his Jeep. The nutso Dalmatian had to be watched closely when we drove, as she had a tendency to jump out while the Jeep was still moving. When she was properly secured, my boss turned the ignition and we proceeded to wander around Old Town, no destination in mind. We cruised the streets, watching people, looking at houses, enjoying the 75 degree February morning. The wind blew, the trees rustled, and the dog barked and bit, not sitting still.

He began to tell me about George, their younger days, the friends they had, the things they did together. Then he told me about the other friends that he had who had also died. How he knew them, how they died, what they meant to him, and that, one by one, they had all gone and left him alone. "Do you know what that’s like? I have no friends. They’re all gone. AIDS wiped out everyone I loved. There’s no one left…"

I kept silent. No, I couldn’t know what that’s like. I had no idea what to say. Nothing was most appropriate.

He had been friends with a really famous gay porn star, as he’d told me on many occasions before. Porn made him money, but he was also an accomplished artist. His art came from discarded construction equipment, metals, woods, even soil. He had gained some notoriety in southern California for his work, but he too, had died, leaving only the legacy of his mega-star porn career behind, his sexuality overwhelming his creativity as a lasting impression.

Somewhere, in the course of my life, I picked up on a statement concerning the process of grief upon the death of a family member or loved one. A loose paraphrase like, one never really "gets over" the death of someone close. Little by little, the pain becomes manageable, and the sorrow will recede. With the process of time, the death of a loved one becomes, simply, a burden one can bear. But you’ll still remember. You will never completely "get over" it.

"There’s no one left, Lance. I have no friends my own age. I’m the last one…" He never cried, but the remembrance of those friends now gone came back, each old friend heaping more memories upon the burden he could hardly bear to begin with. I rode shotgun and kept quiet, letting him talk when he needed, letting him remember what he needed.

It was a beautiful day, that winter’s day in Key West, with the sunshine, the clouds here and there, the color, and the light. That crazy dog, though, was of no comfort to her master. Oblivious to his pain, she just wouldn’t sit still. We drove around for several more hours, then returned to the studio. Our jobs had not completed themselves, and he worked in silence, typesetting like he had done the day before.