He came to Orphan Andy's often, though never alone. But when Drew said it, I got goose bumps. "Come back, Shane" became our running joke at Orphan Andy's. Returning to the kitchen, I heard someone call: "Shane! Come back, Shane!"ĭrew was holding up his empty glass for a refill. I introduced myself with the nickname I use among friends, Shane. Then Al Parker introduced himself by his real name-Drew. Then I accidentally knocked down a tower of plastic glasses.īy the time their food was ready, I'd mustered enough courage to say, "Once I sold you a cock ring and a bottle of poppers." He and his friends laughed. I froze as I realized that one of them was Al Parker. One day at Orphan Andy's in 1992, I turned away from a table of men who'd just placed drink orders. I rarely got sick, except for that ear infection that put me in the emergency room, or those annoying night sweats, and that weird spot on my leg that I continually obsessed over. I took vitamins and had a gym membership. I'd convinced myself that I was robustly healthy. I got tested back in Los Angeles, but I was too afraid to get the results. Sprinkled throughout were the walking sick: gaunt, frail, sallow-skinned men, unable to keep pace with the hurried throngs, sometimes escorted by a partner or caregiver, but mostly alone. When the diner was slow, I'd watch the endless parade of strange and beautiful passersby. As men were dying, I'd come to feel invisible, like an out-of-focus extra on the set of someone else's nightmare. It was okay if it didn't lead to a hookup, there had at least been a connection, a mutual sense of "I see you," a measure of validation. I hadn't lost anyone close, but I grieved for how life had been-the smiles I used to get from men on the street, the lingering eye contact, the exchange of glances to the crotch. "I refuse to go to another goddamn funeral," said Gary, a 76-year-old leatherman. I don't want to know anymore-who died," and slammed her paper down. Ruby, a retired security guard, abruptly announced one Thursday, "I don't want to hear about it. Every Thursday, the gay paper was filled with pages of the faces of newly dead men. Regulars told me stories about the glory days-before the acronyms and dark diagnoses. It filled up after the bars closed, sometimes with a line out the door. Orphan Andy's existed outside of time-or in all eras at once.
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The jukebox played everything from Edith Piaf to the B-52s. The Tiffany lamps looked plastic, and the fake potted plants looked thirsty. Orphan Andy's was a classic greasy diner with two window tables, a row of booths, and a long counter.
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