DIED 2012
I MET HIM MANY years after he changed his whole life: he quit drinking, came out, and left his wife in a single day. Sitting in the audience at his book signing, I instantly loved him; he had a deep, luscious Georgia accent, a courtly manner, and a wicked sense of humor. I rushed right up to start telling him my life story, eager to begin our friendship without delay. Soon I was on the guest list for his many gatherings. Dinnah will be ready in one ow-ah and fawty-fahv minutes, he would say at the door. Finally at the table, he blessed the food and his guests and always, last of all, the New York Times.
He was rarely on time for anything, spent money as if he had a trust fund, wrote slowly, lusted randily, and could always be counted on for special requests in restaurants. Ah’d lahk it molten, he’d tell the waiter, sending a piece of chocolate cake back to be microwaved. At his regular spots, his ice water arrived at the table with eight slices of lemon. They know me heah, he explained. As at the apartment, dinner took hours. Then he drove me home in his old boat of a car, airily bouncing, then noisily crunching over every bump.
At the time he learned he had Lou Gehrig’s disease, I was pretty sick myself, about to finally start the yearlong treatment that cured me of hepatitis C. At first, it was fun to complain together, but that wore off. Soon nobody could understand him but his daughter. The last time I saw him leave the house, he had invited me to go to a production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He sat stoically in his neck brace as half-naked cast members shimmied and shook inches from his face. Some people should really keep their clothes on in public, he remarked as we left.
Even that night, making our interminable way back to the parking garage, there was something magical about him, a rare combination of chivalry, joie de vivre, and ease. Being his friend was like some kind of painless cosmetic surgery, leaving you just a little prettier and more interesting than you were before.