FIRST-HAND ACCOUNTS
An Apartment, 20th & Castro Streets, San Francisco-Fall, 1985
The AIDS epidemic had reached uncontrollable proportions by this time and obituaries lined the pages of every Noe Valley newspaper. Burials had become all too common, yet, life went on. Now, after a long battle with AIDS, Tony had died. Another beautiful young man emaciated and completely destroyed by complications associated with this unstoppable disease. The funeral had been the previous day, and John, who was Tony’s partner, Greg, our close friend, Mark, my lover and I all toiled with heavy hearts, as we performed the task of packing Tony’s personal belongings which were to be removed from the third floor dwelling.
Not a word was spoken, and there were no more tears to be shed as we worked; every one of us depleted, defeated and shocked. For now, we had lost one of our own, a member of our immediate pack- the pack with which we ran. Countless friends and casual lovers, many of whom we had shared, were stricken, some bed-ridden others had died, but Tony was one of us, and now any one of the four, or all of us would most likely succumb to the virus we so fearfully called “The Plague.” How long would it be before someone else got sick? The emotional trauma was in itself devastatingly unbearable. San Francisco, the perfect world, created for the perfect society, had crumbled at our feet.
On the wall in Tony’s room were framed pictures of magazines he had modeled for, Colt, Honcho, Playgirl and other publications which exploit beautiful men. One by one, I helped John remove the photos until all were wrapped and stored in a box. It appeared to be a reenactment of the funeral service from the previous day, as together we gently sealed the lid on the box which contained the remnants of Tony’s life.
Gathered now in the living room were the piled boxes and scattered pieces of furniture waiting for the movers to arrive. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, the four of us found chairs and sat in a circle facing one another. I clung tightly onto Mark, rubbing his thigh and then the back of his head and neck. The anxiety of losing the man, the best of friends and the most passionate of lovers, to whom I surrendered, pushed me to wrap my arms around his chest, embracing him, clutching desperately to keep my love, my life, from slipping away. For a long, long while, the four of us, sat in silence, studying one another’s faces and thinking of Tony, the way he once was; then, one by one, we began to speak. Comfort was restored within us by relating stories of how Tony, a young boy from West Virginia, moved to San Francisco, the Promised Land, and like us all, changed his life. We spoke candidly about the pack of wolves we ran with, the endless warehouse parties South of Market that lasted till dawn and beyond; the playful weekends and the extravagant poolside gatherings at Drums, a gay resort nestled in the heart of The Russian River. We reminisced freely about the after gym meet-ups at Welcome Home, the Castro’s infamous greasy-spoon; the round table that was always ours because Lucia, the owner, loved her boys.
Another long silence fell, fear began to pervade the room once again. A bewildered John looked out the window to the patio. There was a small potted plant on the now barren patio floor. It caught the attention of us all and vigilantly we moved towards it. Picking up the tiny plant, John cradled it in his arms, as if it were Tony himself. Still puzzled, he looked at me and asked, “What should I do with it?” As if I was thinking aloud, I said, “Leave it behind. Leave something living behind for those who follow. John, leave a reminder that life will continue to flourish.” For the first time in months, I saw that glazed-over stare leave John’s eyes. It was if he realized there would be life again one day, and nodding his head with assurance said, “You know, that’s a good idea, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” And that tiny plant, marking a young man's existence, was placed back upon the floor.
As the four of us got ready to leave, we took one last look around the apartment where our friend Tony’s life had centered. We all hugged one another, and my hand was once again rubbing the back of Mark’s neck. Shutting off the lights, we headed to the door, and for whatever reason, I turned for yet one more look.
The interior of that humble dwelling was dark now, all was still. Then, for a moment, I focused my eyes upon that tiny plant lying peacefully upon the patio floor, lit only by the California sun; the indelible image now burned within my mind. That small plant, vibrant, healthy and so physically strong, proved to be the symbol of hope I needed to face the grief-stricken days and trying years that lie ahead.
Stephen Addona
Revised, December 1st, 2016, WORLD AIDS DAY
