It is so hard to say goodbye to a friend.
A year ago tonight, just about now, I got a horrible telephone call from the cousin of one of my dearest friends. She had been trying to reach me for two days -- she had wanted to reach me early enough so that there would be time for me to say goodbye. But she had outdated phone numbers. And so, the news did not reach me until it was too late to say a few last words, in person or over the telephone, to a young man I had known and loved for 17 years, and who died a year ago tonight from AIDS.
This wonderful young man -- who had more writing talent in his little finger than I will ever possess, who had a white smile as gleaming as a full moon, who had a heart that broke so often and was so gracious -- had been a great and infuriating friend to me for so long. Even today, a full year after his death, I hear things on NPR or read something here at Daily Kos and my first impulse is: I need to call him and tell him about this. Had I been able to, I know that the hairs on his neck would have stood up in that glorious way they did when he was on to something. And heaven help you if he was on to you.
But I did not love him simply for his swift talents with a pen. I loved him for the simple insanity of our friendship. For two years, we shared the ugliest beach house in America, on the Gulf of Mexico, on the tip of a barrier island. When the dishes piled up (there was no dishwasher), the designated dishwasher had a view of the Gulf through the window, and the non-designated dishwasher read aloud from Raymond Carver.
There was a hideous screen-covered "garden" full of ferocious-looking evil plants. We set up a grill there. The cook of the night chose the menu. I had been skinny when I moved there, but he was a Texas boy with a fondness for steaks and burgers and I sure wasn’t skinny by the time we left.
I tended the garden. I rescued the neglected hibiscus and crepe myrtle and brought them back to life. Somewhat.
We had a Christmas tree the first year we were there that was so fragrant and beautiful that we left it up until April. And all that time, until that April, it smelled wonderful. I hated to take it down.
We did a lot of silly stuff. I remember hundreds of card games in the living room, shell collecting on the beach, the watching of much trash TV, and one marvelous night when we tuned in to HSN and he got through to the host (on a dare) and asked a lot of absurd questions about the product he was displaying. He kept the host on his fishing line for more than 10 minutes. I videotaped the whole thing, but the tape is shaky because I was laughing so hard.
Along the way, I got involved in a very difficult mess at work, and I became sleepless with worry. It was then that he kidnapped me (my hysteria notwithstanding) and drove me to Disneyworld for the day. We went on a gazillion rides (some -- including Pirates of the Caribbean -- twice). I was (and am) terrified of roller coasters, but he would not hear of it. We stood in line for an hour for Space Mountain, and I got on and I loved it. We left the park only when we were thrown out, close to midnight, and he drove us home.
At some point, I don’t remember exactly when, he fell in love. At some point thereafter, he needed to move out to be with his love and, because I could not manage the beach house by myself, I needed to move into town. We packed boxes. He decided to sell his truck and get a Jeep. I went with him to do the negotiations. Neither of us remembered that we needed to get the house’s owner’s stuff out of storage until after the truck was sold. Oh, well.
I do not remember a whole lot about our last night on the beach. Maybe I’ve purposefully forgotten it. I moved to a very sweet Spanish style house in town. It was pink (my favorite color) and I rented it unseen, and then had a pile of work to do when I moved in. He moved into a fancy condo with his love.
A few weeks after I had moved into my house, I decided I needed a dog. The house was all on one floor and I no longer had my pal there to make sure I was safe. I looked through a bunch of ads in the newspaper and went to see puppies and one fine day in June 1994, I came across Madison. She wasn’t Madison then, of course, she was just a pair of puppy ears on a soft warm puppy body. But when I went to the enclosure where the puppies were kept, she sprung toward me. She weighed 8 pounds and was covered with puppy down.
My dear friend paid the money so that I could have Madison, and on a hot night in July 1994, I drove that sweet puppy the more than 50 miles from the place of her birth to her new home. Subsequently, she ate a living room (while I was on the phone). She also dug pool-sized holes in the backyard and became famous for her barking (unfortunately, the daughter and son-in-law of one of the Justices of the Florida Supreme Court lived behind us, and "Famous Barking Madison" got mentioned during oral argument of a case).
My dear friend loved Madison. When I had to be away, it was this great friend that I called upon to take care of her. And he always did. Madison always greeted him with love and affection. As he did with her. She never, ever ate his shoelaces.
On the day I moved back to Washington, D.C., my dear friend drove me and Madison to the airport. She rode up front in the car, with the top down. We both cried after we loaded Madison onto the plane.
In the years since, we saw each other off and on, sent emails and letters, talked on the phone. We had some nasty arguments, the thought of which now makes me cry.
The last time I saw him was in 2002. He was in Washington for business. I met him on the corner of Connecticut and M with a bear hug. We had dinner at a West End restaurant and talked and talked and talked.
Then the talking stopped. I received odd emails. When we talked, the conversations were odd. And often angry. He seemed mad at the whole world, including me. I knew he had the AIDS virus; I did not know that he had developed a drug problem.
Eventually, the drug problem became a life problem. At a memorial service for him last November, I learned more than I wished to know about it. Although what I heard explained so much, all of it made me so sad.
This is what I know: He was a great human being and a great friend. He was 38 years old. He died a year ago tonight. And I will always miss him.