Eden Cafe

As an underage party girl hitting the nightclubs in the early eighties, my friends were a curious mix of gay men, punks and those on the fringe of society. Viewed as social outcasts and misfits by mainstream culture, we formed tight bonds to protect ourselves from the abuse regularly hurled our way. Between the ages of 23 and 26 I lost four friends to AIDS. Another passed a few years back. And there are two newer friends who are survivors, living with HIV in very different ways.

These are their stories. It’s a reminder about the lack of knowledge and prevailing attitudes at the end of the eighties. It also shows how far we’ve come, and it’s not all good. But mainly, this is a celebration of my love for them.

Part 1: WR – Young Love

My first boyfriend was affectionate and sweet. We made out, held hands, hugged and went everywhere together. We shared the same warped sense of humor and taste in music. After a few months, I wondered why things weren’t moving along for us physically. That is when he confessed that he was having sex with boys he’d pick up on the subway. Strangely, even after this revelation, we didn’t break up for another several months. We so cared for each other, that we didn’t want to lose the special connection that we had.

I loved WR and we remained friends for years. When I moved overseas in my early twenties, he wound up in the same city a year later. We didn’t see each other very often. He lived more than an hour away and we both worked long hours. He would stay out at gay clubs dancing until the wee hours. I lived a quieter life, writing and taking classes, commuting to the suburbs on the train and trying to get by on a meager wage. About 6 months before I decided to move back home, he told me he was HIV positive.

He didn’t want to talk about the details of it. He’d had it for some time but felt good. WR looked healthy, in top form and good humor. But, upon coming out about his condition, many of his friends had abandoned him and he felt hurt and betrayed by that. He had yet to even tell his parents that he was gay, let alone tell them that their only child had HIV.

I moved back to my hometown and we kept in touch through letters and the occasional phone call. A year later, I received a letter from WR’s boyfriend advising me that he had died a few weeks before. I had no idea that he had even been sick and I was shell-shocked.

His boyfriend knew nothing about me, but found the letters that I’d written to WR over the years. It was clear to him how much WR and I cared for each other and he felt compelled to write to me with the grim news. He said that WR had died peacefully and that he was by his side at the end. He was 25 years old. In the final stages of the disease, WR made his own square for an AIDS quilt. I have no idea which quilt or where it is. I don’t know if he was buried or cremated. I don’t know if his memorial is over there or over here. I wrote to his boyfriend and never had a response.

WR’s parents were elderly, even then, and I never spoke with them about him before they died. I was afraid to mention something that perhaps WR had not told them before he passed. And I didn’t want to bring them any more pain. WR remains a beautiful memory, with nowhere to lay flowers.