Ron coaxed me out of the house to grocery shop with him at Ralphs a few weeks after John died. It was one of my first public appearances, which I agreed to solely because I had been promised pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream and gallons of vodka. I was moping behind Ron, who actually shopped with glee.
I was standing behind a fogged and frosty freezer door, headfirst into the ice cream, when I heard Larry and Phil talking to Ron.
“How is Teddy doing?” Larry asked.
“He’s...”
Before Ron could say, “right here,” Larry continued.
“I mean, knowing how his behavior must have influenced John’s mental health.”
“What do you mean?” Ron asked.
“Teddy’s antics,” Phil added. “His drinking. He was never very sensitive to John’s ups and downs. I mean, a joke and a gin and tonic don’t make someone better.”
“Teddy loved John,” Ron said, his voice trembling. “He was the one who got John help. This was a tragedy. He will live without his husband the rest of his life, questioning what he could have done. But love and emotional support are not a substitute for professional treatment, and John had been lying to all of us about the help he had been receiving.”
“Teddy should have known,” Larry argued.
“This conversation—and alleged friendship—is over right now!” Ron said furiously.
By the time they had finished, I was standing in the freezer, door closed, entombed in mint chocolate chip. Ron played nursemaid to me for another month before I could venture out again.
And here they were acting like nothing ever happened, not the conversation at the grocery or the ones behind my back, as if we just saw each other last week for drinks and a card game.
“Wonderful!” I lie. “Show’s going great, as you know.” I bow dramatically and give my tunic a dramatic flick. “The Golden Gays are all still golden.”
Phil and Larry exchange a glance. It is not subtle. They are reading one another’s faces to gauge whether to believe my levity.
“I’m so relieved,” Larry finally says. “We’ve missed you.”
I look at both of them, my head nodding even as bile sears my stomach.
And that’s when I see it: Larry is wearing one of John’s old watches. A gold Timex I’d given to John when we first opened Dorian Gay.
“This will forever be a symbol of time,” I told John. “Of how much it took for us to find each other, and of how much we should celebrate every minute we have left together in this world.”
Why did I let Larry have it when he told me it would just be too painful for me to keep?
In the background, I hear Keith announce, “Karaoke is starting in the next room!”
I stand.
“Well, they’re calling my name,” I say. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes,” they both say, fidgeting, smiling a smile that lets me know I will never, ever hear from them again. Larry looks at John’s watch. “Well, look at the time. We never stay out this late.”
I nod at the Timex. “Time sure flies,” I say. “Bye.”
I move through the crowd and head into karaoke, where I patiently wait my turn while a middle-aged gay who fancies himself Britney Spears croons off-key, “Hit me, baby, one more time.”
“I’d like to,” I tell a couple next to me.
When it’s my turn, I pick a song few will know. Even fewerwill understand its personal history. Dorothy performed this on an episode ofThe Golden Girls, and when I first heard her sing it, I wept—for one of the few times in my life—like a baby. I was all alone at the time, and it struck a chord deep inside. I now sing it only when we perform that episode, and its lyrics touch me like no other.
The music to “What’ll I Do” begins to play. I sing in a deep, dramatic mezzo-soprano.
As I do, my eyes scan the crowd. Slowly, patrons began to sway.
