death

But who would I be, If you had not been my friend?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Today is World AIDS day.

I haven’t heard much about it this year. I’m sure there will be ceremonies. And speech giving. And there will be protests. And picketing. With signs.

But you have to wonder if it will change anything.

Even in a perfect world an AIDS vaccine is years away. A cure is even farther away.

And yet every day you hear less and less about HIV and AIDS. You hear about gay marriage. And Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. But when was the last time you heard something in the mainstream news about AIDS related issues.

I have but it’s because I read a couple of blogs that cover news in the world of gayness.

In case you missed it, there is a recent study that covers the Efficacy of Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis. Seems if you are prescribed a specific drug currently used to treat HIV it lowers you chance of becoming HIV+. If you are consistent about taking the medication every day it is even more effective. How many of you saw this in the news this past week? I thought so.

AIDS has become something we just live with. People aren’t keeling over dead like they used to. It’s considered a chronic disease now far more than a terminal disease. And unfortunately, with the new attitude has come complacency. We still have people not practicing safe sex. We still have sex education that doesn’t allow the discussion of safe sex alternatives. And god forbid we actually discuss how to have safe “gay” sex. Then we are surprised when the number of infected people continues to rise.

As a 45-year old gay man I count myself VERY lucky. I have only had one close friend die from AIDS. Most men my age have known too many to count. I’ve known acquaintances who have died. But only one close friend.

His name was Tony Giatras. I met him in the spring of 1989. I had just put my stuff into storage and was living with my friend Shelley until I figured out what I was going to do with my life. We met in a parking lot of a gay bar in Atlanta. He was short. And cute. We hooked up that night and that should have been the end of it. But of course, then he asked for my number and what was I supposed to do? I gave it to him.

He called. We went out. I called. We went out. And then he took my prisoner. After about two weeks I told him that enough was enough. I didn’t want to be his boyfriend. That he was smothering me. And that he needed to back off. The next day he brought me a bouquet of daisies and a note apologizing. I still have the note. Even though we would never be boyfriends we became very good friends. We hung out together. We shared waiting tables stories. I worked at Bennigan’s. He worked at Steak and Ale, which was owned by the same company. Our friendship was sealed.

That summer I moved back to Kentucky to start grad school. He stayed in Atlanta. We continued to talk on a very regular basis. My best friend at the time Stacey also lived in Atlanta so I drove down to visit often. Tony and I always had lunch/dinner/drinks when I found my way there.

I don’t remember when I found out he was HIV+. I had called a couple of times and he’d been sick both times. The last time he’d just gotten out of the hospital with phenomena. I finally asked what was going on and he told me. It changed nothing about our friendship. We continued to talk. I continued to visit Atlanta. Whenever I was there I always made time to see him.

Tony’s birthday was three weeks after mine. He’d always call me on my birthday to say hello. And I always called him on his birthday to say hello. In April of 1992 I was in the middle of tech for a show and forgot to call. It was five or six days later and I said, “Oh fuck!” I picked up the phone, called and his roommate answered.

“Hey Jeff. (His roommate was Jeff) Can I talk to Tony?”

There was a long pause.

He didn’t have to say the words. I knew. He explained that Tony had died the previous week. It was very sudden. He went into the hospital and died three days later. He’d lost his sight about 24 hours before he died. But he didn’t suffer and he seemed peaceful at the very end.

I asked why no one had called.

His roommate explained that he couldn’t find my number. He’d looked and looked and had been unable to locate it. He apologized over and over. I asked if there was going to be a memorial service. He explained that Tony’s family had taken him back to Tennessee and hadn’t discussed any of it with his friends. They’d never been accepting of his being gay.

The thing that was most sad about his passing?

Tony had been a lost soul. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. He had no goals. Wasn’t very motivated. He was a NOMAD. He drove a truck that didn’t work half of the time. He was a waiter. And then a this. And then a that. He didn’t stick with things very often.

In the few months right before he died, he’d finally gotten a real job. One that would have provided him with some stability and was most certainly leading him toward a career. He and his roommate had just gotten a new apartment. The week before he got sick he traded in that fucking truck and got a new car.

He’d finally gotten his life on track and it was stolen from him.

I think of him often. I miss him often. I don’t really think of him as dead. We hadn’t spoken for a little while before he died. In my mind he’s just one of those old friends you just lose touch with. He’s out there somewhere. And he’s got an awesome boyfriend. And an awesome job. And an awesome dog. And he’s as happy as he’d ever wanted to be. I just wish he’d call and tell me about it.

One last note. The Christmas before he died he sent me a Christmas card. It was a beautiful card with three trees and the word peace written on the front. When I called to thank him for the card he told me that he’d made it. He’d hand drawn the card with me in mind.

When I was home over the summer I found the card in a box with lots of other items from my past. It made me tear up then. It’s making me tear up now.

You will always be loved Tony.

Jeff today:
I wrote this post in 2010. It was World AIDS day and I was thinking of Tony.

I still think about him. 40 years later.

About five years after I wrote this, someone found my blog and said that he’d also dated Tony in the 80’s and said my description fit him to a T.

I still have the Christas card he sent me. I still have the card he gave me with the daisies. I think of Tony often. I’m misty-eyed writing this. He was a sweet soul, who was on his way to finding himself when his time was up.

I’m lucky. So, so many of my friends have lost so many people. For me, it was the benefit, of seeking out female friends instead of male friends. Even today, almost all of my friends are female. It also helped that I moved back to Kentucky after Atlanta and spent all my time in the theater department.

Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

32, 013 words.

23 Chapters.

A million miles to go.

I called my Aunt Debbie yesterday, just to check in. She is the last of my mom’s siblings. We’ve been close my whole life. Well since her parents passed, and my mother became her guardian.

That was 59.5 years ago.

I check in every so often to see how she is doing. What’s up with the family I never hear from and to have a connection back to Kentucky and home.

Yesterday she asked me if I was still writing.

I assured her I was.

We talked about what I was writing. How it was going. And how much longer till I was done.

It felt nice to be asked. To have someone in my family be interested in what I’m doing.

I had told her about my writing about 6 or 8 months ago, as I needed her help. I needed facts, stories, folk lore about my family. I confessed to her that I was writing a book about my mom’s passing. Of course, that was just the way in to the rest of the story. It’s actually a book about me, my family, and where I come from.

I like to think of it as Hillbilly Eulogy without the eyeliner and hate.

Thing is, most of the people I’m connected to, that know the truth are all gone. This is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because there is no one to yell at me for the telling the truth. A curse because there is no one to confirm that it is the truth.

A while back, I reached out to Debbie to ask questions about something I was including. The death of my mother’s father. The details of which I knew with broad strokes, but did not know the exact details. I had written a chapter about his death and wanted to know how close I was to reality.

The facts were there, but I’d invented a good portion of it. Which is fine. It’s far from non-fiction. I was never an astronaut, but when the books starts, I’ve just gotten back from Mars. I kid, I kid.

When we talked 6 or so months ago we talked for about an hour. I was typing notes as she filled me in on the truth about his death, but also the stories of a million other things that I wanted to know.

My mom’s best friends? Who she dated? Where she worked? What kind of car did she drive?

I now have about 10 pages of notes that I took that night.

After we talked, I realized that most of my details of my grandfather’s death were far from factual. The question became, do I make it real? Or do I let it play out in my way?

Anyway.

I talked to Debbie yesterday. And she asked if I was still writing. It felt good to know she cared.

Someday, I’ll let her read it, reminding her that it’s my version of what I remember hearing around the dinner table.

Now on to Chapter 24.

Give it to me quick. Or drop it in a dish.  Slip it in my pocket, I won’t mind that a bit.  Leave it on the table, I know just where you sit, don’t you bother come back if you haven’t left a tip.  

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t posted a real restaurant post in a while.

So here goes.  

I may have written about this, but it was two years ago, so hopefully if I did you don’t remember it. 

Tonight, on the Facebook, a friend posted that she didn’t like dining out with friends who give the waiter a hard time.  

One of her friends commented that she wouldn’t even send something back if it came out wrong.  And said she’d ordered a burger medium well, it came out mooing so she ate her fries and left the burger.  

First and foremost, you should never be afraid to send something back.  Restaurants get it wrong.  We know this.  We undercook or overcook a steak.  We forget that the dressing is supposed to be on the side.  We miss the note that you wanted no onion and tomato and you get the whole set up. 

These things happen.  

Just politely call your server over, explain the problem and know that it will be a minute before you get what you wanted.  The key is to not be an asshole.  But always, always, get what you ordered.  We want that.  It’s fundamental to who we are.  If the restaurant gives you a hard time, it says more about their hospitality program than you.  

That being said, also remember that sometimes you make the mistake.  You ordered the chicken when you meant the steak.  You forgot the dressing on the side.  You ordered pinot noir when you meant pinot grigio.  

So always own that as well. 

So.  

Two years ago, this fall, I went home to Kentucky for the first time since my mom died.  2018 – 2022.  

I saw the relatives.  I saw friends.  

I visited my Aunt Doo in her nursing home, picked her up and took her to Jim’s Seafood in Frankfort, Kentucky.  It has beautiful views of the water, and serves up the best fried frozen food in the area.  It was her favorite restaurant.   Adam and I love it, as who doesn’t love fried food.  

My aunt order fried banana peppers, and even got an order to go when we left to take back to the nursing home. 

We spent the afternoon laughing, and after lunch we drove around looking at the beautiful Kentucky countryside. 

When we got back to the nursing home, she begged me not to take her back to jail.  She laughed.  I laughed.  We all laughed.  

I got her back to her room.  Said goodbye and that I’d see her tomorrow for lunch again.  

At 7:00 a.m. the next morning, I received a call that my Aunt Doo had died in her sleep, overnight.  

I like to think she was holding on till I got home as it had been four years since I’d seen her.  We were super close, and I was one of a few people who remembered to call her on her birthday, and send her flowers.  

Adam is convinced the fried banana peppers killed her.  He also was the last to hug her when we left.  He was touched that she wanted to hug him.  She’d accepted him into our family from the very beginning. When we chatted on the phone she always asked about him, something my mother never did.  

That morning, after we gathered at the nursing home to say our goodbyes, my Aunt Debbie, Adam, and I went for a late breakfast at the Cracker Barrell.  It was my idea, as I wanted breakfast, it was close by and we just needed some place to unpack the previous 24 hours.  

We get there, are seated, and order breakfast.  

The server is cute as a button, and very sweet.  You can tell she is new, and a little nervous.  We’ve all been there, and didn’t think anything of it.  

Our food took a while, enough that we were starting to comment on it, but once again, we only noticed because we were hungry, not because we were impatient.  

Finally, the food is carried out of the kitchen.  In fact, like 12 people come out of the kitchen at the same time, all carrying food. 

The food is placed on the table. 

It takes about 90 seconds to realize this is not what we ordered.  It’s kind of what we ordered.  But not really what we ordered.  

We look across the dining room and realize that our order, and the table across from us have had parts of our orders mixed up.  

We decide to go with it.  We don’t expect them to recook two orders.  We are hungry.  And so, we eat.  

The manager comes by to apologize and we assure her that all is well.  We are hungry.  The food is good.  And none of that is a lie.  

We finish eating.  Drink our 5th cup of coffee.  And we realize that we need to get on with our days. 

We ask for the check.  

The server brings it over, and we realize that it is not what we ordered.  It’s not what we ate.  It’s an entirely different check.  

And I said fuck it, we are not giving the new girl a hard time.  

And I paid the check.  And I tipped 25%.  

And we all went to the parking lot, where we hugged extra hard, and extra loving.  Said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.  

So, to summarize.  

We ordered food.  We got different food.  And we paid for food that was neither what we ordered or what we ate.  

And fun fact.  I didn’t complain.  I didn’t yell.  I made no one feel stupid.  

And why you ask?  

Because life is fucking short. 

Do you really need to get upset that the dressing is on your salad?  Do you need to get upset that your steak is 1* past the temp that you ordered?  Do you need to get upset that your egg is over medium, instead of over easy? 

That day was not the day.  

We needed to have a place to unwind.  To unpack and be with each other.  

Adam and I have sent things back.  In Boston, we got something we didn’t order.  We asked for it to be corrected, and it was.  Once, we got a bad bottle of wine.  We mentioned it, they corrected it.  

There is absolutely, no reason to give the waiter at your table a hard time.  

Not even in jest.  

Waiting tables is not for the faint of heart.  

It’s not for the meek.  

You get beat up every day.  Every day.  

Not to mention the number of people who ask what your real job is?

Love that one.  

I had a server come to me crying because a “bro” asked her if her parents were proud that she was using her college degree waiting tables.   

Those of you feeling obligated to challenge me on the tipping structure in America. Don’t.  It’s the way we do things.  Change it.  

Those who don’t think it’s a hard job.  

You are the same folks who complain about your five-year old driving you crazy.  

I challenge you to just watch what the servers and bartenders are doing.  

They are managing four to five, to ten tables.  They are keeping all their balls in the air.  They a remembering your extra ranch, your blue cheese olives, and the change you need for the valet.  

They have gotten all the drinks to the table, without spilling them.  They remembered the 6 different kinds of martinis your guests ordered.  And they even remembered the birthday candle for your husband who’s birthday is three months away, because you just wanted to embarrass him.  

I watch my team every day, and am amazed at how talented they are.  

Of course, sometimes, I have to remind them that grandpa Jeff, back in the 00’s, was just as talented.  They don’t believe me, but my HRC folks can assure them that I indeed handled station 12 with no station 11 which was a counter with 10 chairs and 5 four tops.  And I kicked ass, ran no food, pushed people out of my way, and made a living for 5 years.  Selling 3,500 dollars a night in 15-dollar cheeseburgers.  

At the end of the day.  

Just be kind.  

That is all.  

When in doubt.  

Just be kind.