Al and Me

  

Al and I met when I was 43. He was 38; I think. Truth in gay men online encounters is subjective. That’s where the story begins.

My life at forty - three was hanging in a balance, a single misstep threatening a plunge into the unknown. I was married with a wife and child, living in a conservative rural community. He lived an urban life, with his wife and daughter. We rarely touched on this part of our lives. Our chat room aliases ignored inconvenient tags like MGM (married gay male), GMK (Gay Married with Kids). We disguised ourselves among the hidden. It was a schizophrenic existence. Our alternate selves never left our sides, providing ample room for guilt and self-doubt.

Early on, I could tell that Al was a doting father to Marion, a high school senior. They would walk their dog around their neighbourhood, and she would chat about her life. Marion was bright and often challenged his conservative middle-class views on current events. He was proud of her independent nature. In some ways, I envied their relationship. My son Sheldon was about eight years old. He was already showing aspects of what would become his defiant and challenging personality.  

Al’s wife, Darlene, was a senior administrator in the private sector. Their relationship and mine was nearly casual. I think it was the path of least resistance for all concerned. But it doesn’t adequately consider our children’s best interests. As a result, we were left with half-lived lives.

My job required travel outside the province. Following a month of online conversations, we met. A port city always attracted me. It was at what had become my favourite watering hole over the years, a rowdy downtown Irish bar called The Split Crow. I was into my second beer when he came through the door. Using pictures we shared (all G rated), he was recognizable at about five feet ten inches tall, and his light brown hair was greying at the temples. Moving from the bright summer afternoon sun into the cool dark interior of the bar caused him to walk cautiously. We exchanged greetings, friends. He wiped the sweat from his brow, clearly yearning for a more tranquil setting. After a couple of drinks, he relaxed a bit. We talked about the city and its historic harbour. His knowledge of the local area and its significance was impressive.

We talked about our jobs. He was desperately unhappy with his work in a massive government bureaucracy. His work had long since extinguished his initial intellectual curiosity. I watched as he scanned the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

A popular local band wound up the crowd for the evening performance. Groups of young men enjoyed a midsummer outing. We surveyed them with a practiced gay man’s eye and jokingly shared a few lurid comments. Had I been solo, I would have chatted up someone who caught my eye and returned the look. I had discovered an aspect of my gay character I was unaware of. I was a bit of a lone wolf, not interested in banter. Seeing an attractive man, I observed his group comfort level. In my insecurity, I limited myself to masculine-looking and acting men. I’d approach intriguing individuals, start a conversation, and gauge their reaction.

Al’s strategy tended toward passive, preferring observation over approach. At the end of the evening, however, we both agreed, at our age, we were late to the party and not too skilled in modern dalliances.

That warm summer night came to define our activities during my visits, peppered with occasional sojourns to the local gay bars. We interspersed these jaunts with walking tours of the city and many enjoyable restaurant meals I wouldn’t ordinarily visit. This was Al’s world, and he was gracious in sharing it. 

We continued with our regular emails and occasional phone chats, updating each other about ongoing life events. Encounters between men who are gay often lead to sexual events. Ours would not go in that direction. We found ourselves in a unique state of finding a trusted friend. When Gary, my future husband, entered my life a few years later, it felt like Al had made space for him. He tried to introduce Gary to new culinary experiences with little success. Undeterred, Al made extra efforts to befriend my young partner, and we three enjoyed lots of laughs and conversations. 

In 2004, Al was granted extended sick leave because of his growing depression. It was a tremendous relief. He talked about the places he and Darlene would visit when Marion went to university the following year. It was the most outwardly happy I had ever seen him. I still have a picture of Al shovelling his driveway after that year’s massive blizzard. He has this crazy grin and a mound of snow twice his height behind him. He told me it took three days to clear the snow as he met neighbours he had never spoken to before. It was a snowy block party. 

About a month later, Al complained about being tired and unable to catch his breath. After a visit with his doctor, he called me to at my. He was whispering. I assumed he didn’t want Darlene to hear. He had tested positive for HIV. He spoke in a cracked and weak voice. Al’s doctor was optimistic about controlling his condition, but Al hadn’t told Darlene. We talked about how she might handle the news, and he agreed it was best to share the news with her. The following week, he called, sounding more optimistic. His treatment had started and the early blood results were promising. But weakness consumed him, sapping his strength. They agreed not to tell Marion, as it would distract her from focusing on end-of-year exams and university applications.

I visited Al in the early spring of 2005. A small restaurant, our regular spot, became the setting for our talks and watching others. My first view of him was shocking. My friend had aged thirty years. His once youthful face was gaunt; his skin, wizened. He wore a winter parka despite the warm day and shuffled with the gait of a man twice his age. He threw himself onto the chair, exhausted. A wide grin spread across his face at my arrival. If he had seen my shocked look, he didn’t show the isolation he must have felt.

He asked about Gary and how our relationship was developing. Al being Al, he couldn’t avoid requesting any salacious details I could offer. Satisfied that we were doing well, he leaned in to share his own news. He had full-blown AIDS. Two days before, a scan had shown lesions on his liver. He reached over and placed his hands over mine. I shivered, unsure if it was because of his chilled skin or the sudden reality that my friend and I were about to embark on a dark path.

I let him take the lead in conversation. He talked about Marion; she had completed her exams and would graduate with honours. His face lit up when he reported her acceptance into the prestigious university’s science program. She hoped to go into medicine. His unabashed pride as a father was palpable. He had shared the news of his sickness and prognosis with her. Since his initial diagnosis, he dreaded the moment, anticipating she would respond with vitriol and bitterness. Instead, she gathered him in her arms and held him, saying nothing. Life offered him unprecedented solace. We talked a bit more, but it was apparent he was tiring. He promised to be up for a more extended conversation during my next visit.

As I walked back to my hotel, I considered Al richly blessed amongst those who suffered. He had a wife and daughter whose love was steadfast and a person who he could call his friend.

My last visit with Al was in the late summer. Reviewing work emails, I noticed an unfamiliar address. It was Al’s wife, Darlene. She got my email address from him. I had not met her, preferring to avoid any uncomfortable moments with the wife of a gay friend. Her message was direct but sincere. Al’s condition had deteriorated over the past week. Her silence notwithstanding, his physician delivered grim news: his life was over. Then the most extraordinary thing happened: she asked if I would visit him. Al had told her about our friendship, and she felt it was important that I say goodbye. Gary would also be welcome. I was astonished.

Two days later, we pulled up in Al’s driveway. Without the circumstances, the event would have felt unreal. Here I was with my partner half my age, visiting a man I had befriended in a gay chat room. Darlene welcomed us. She directed us to the sunroom, where Al sat snoozing.

She said he was excited about our visit and had insisted on shaving that morning, but even that was too much and he had fallen asleep afterward. He didn’t wake up as we came around to take our seats opposite him. His breath was barely audible and came sporadically. Jaundice had discolored his once-tanned skin.

Gary and I whispered so as not to startle him, but Al slowly opened his eyes and smiled his welcoming smile. We began with our usual banter, which dissipated as the moment weighed on all of us. Then, I did something that still surprises me today. I reached over, took my friend’s hands, and held them in my own. The warmth seemed to bring Al comfort as a few errant tears slid down his cheeks.

I smoothed them away, realizing how incredibly deep and blue his eyes were. We said nothing for a few moments. Words were superfluous. He thanked us for the visit and wondered what brought us down his way. I invented a nearby meeting, yet I believe he detected my falsehood.

We talked about how we met and embarrassed Gary by describing some late nights at the gay club. The visit was, by necessity, brief. Following Darlene’s signal, we left for supper. He apologized for missing out but promised to join next time. We would all go to a fancy restaurant where Gary could not find hamburgers or fries. I embraced him, knowing it would be our last. When we reached the front door with Darlene, we heard the soft sound of Al snoring in the warmth of the sun-filled room.

Gary came to the funeral with me. It was an early October day, sunny and mild. This marked Gary’s first close friend’s funeral; I worried about his response. Throughout my time as an altar boy, I learned to steady my emotions during these events. We took seats near the back of the church. A few moments later, the minister began his walk from the altar to greet the family.

Sometimes, despite our best intentions, life throws us off balance. The choir’s hymn marked that moment for me. A tidal bore came rushing against the wall I had built to protect myself from feeling my emotions. The wall disintegrated. The overwhelming emotion left me gasping for air. I struggled against drowning in grief. It was the loss of my friend, combined with the reality I could not hide how I was feeling. I felt exposed and alone. Gary’s hand on mine was like a hot knife. I recoiled, leaving him startled. The emotional cascade slowed as the choir took their seats. I heaved myself into the pew, spent. While the minister continued the service, I tried to shore up my defences against another emotional tsunami. But as the service concluded with a familiar hymn, I was once again caught in roiling emotions. 

I attempted to pay my respects to Darlene, but the result was a jumble of words which did nothing but put her in an awkward position. I left the church as people stared at this person, probably thinking he was one of Al’s sex partners. It was a mixture of sympathy and scorn. The embarrassing event left me struggling to understand what had happened to my defence shield, which had kept me fortified for decades. I don’t think I had the resources to pursue an answer. I was unprepared.

Reflecting upon twenty years of considerable personal development, I recall that day. First, I should shift the focus off me and onto Gary. Picture a young, recently out gay man’s love for a closeted, older married man. You try to find your place in the hall of mirrors built by this older man and then you meet one of his friends, who is also married and dying from AIDS. At his funeral, you see your partner collapse before you. We have remained together and now, as my husband, with quiet determination, he is helping me to replace that emotional facade with self-acceptance. There are lots of retreats on the battlefield, but knowing he is there gives me confidence in finding the real me.

PostScript addition: I add this note to examine Al’s fatal pursuit of another man’s affections and spent the years I spent playing sexual roulette, hiding from myself. How does it happen that I’m the one who got to meet this young man whose love has outlasted my growing-up period?

Compassion characterized Al’s friendship. Maybe he also loved me. Self-absorbed, I disregarded it; return was impossible, undesirable. But he stayed and taught me more than he learned. My aging mind recalls a poem. “The Prayer of an Unknown Soldier” speaks to our feeble attempts to design our own world while ignoring the chances of growing from the negative circumstances that befall us. The poem reflects what Al and Gary have shown me. “I asked for all things so I might enjoy life, I was given life so that I might enjoy all things…I am among all men most richly blessed.” Allan Gray rest in a peaceful graveyard with a granite marker. His wife Darlene’s name is inscribed beside his.