Of Mirror Balls, Crystal Balls, and NOT Having a Ball

The Art of Steve Abeyta...A portrait of Rob that Steve finished shortly before he passed away from AIDS fifteen years ago. I'd never seen this sketch before and I apologize for the glare from the flash, but it gives you an idea of his talent. Steve would work on many of his pieces for years...never totally satisfied with what he produced. If anyone has a copy of the poster mentioned in the essay below, could you send it my way as a digital image so that I can post it for those who have not seen it?

Planning for None of the Above

By Timothy Anderson

Recently I called my longtime friend Rob in Virginia to catch up. Rob and I have been friends for nearly two decades and although he’s been front and center for many of the events portrayed through my writing, he’s escaped acknowledgement or a staring role in the literary version of these adventures.

Until now that is.

Indeed Rob’s been “present and accounted for” during so much of my life, he can correct the record, deny it, or reinforce it-Sometimes all in the same sentence. Because of his honesty, Rob’s perspective is one I value. With that kind of shared history, everything lands in context.

First introduced to one another in early 1988 by artist Steve Abeyta, my initial friendship with Rob is best defined as triangulated by Steve. I’d first met Steve during a trucking run through Phoenix, where he was visiting his home town. Still very wet behind the ears in every sense, I was 22 years old, I’d only been out of the closet for a year, and I’d never been in a relationship. While trying to navigate the challenges of reconciling who I was with my faith, I also faced the frightening hurricane bearing down on the gay community better known as AIDS. Steve became my introduction to AIDS and all its ghastly side effects. It was also through Steve that I first witnessed undeniable courage under the assault of the most horrible odds.

At the time I met Steve, he lived in San Francisco. Matter of fact, I learned in short order that he faced his illness and its relentless progression through his art, direct action protests, and committed involvement with the Names Project. Effective medications didn’t exist, and people were dying everywhere. As a volunteer-slash-artist with the Names Project AIDS Quilt, Steve shocked me with his tremendous artistic talent. The artwork he created for the Washington DC display of the quilt, portraying loved ones sewing panels of the quilt together, super imposed over the Reagon White House and the Capital Mall became one of the most famous artistic expressions put forward during that crisis. As the nation slowly confronted AIDS, Steve’s art and the AIDS Quilt became the most powerful and perfect statement for that moment in history. The project’s determination to honor all the lives prematurely destroyed by AIDS brought people of multiple persuasions together, uniting strangers in a common sadness.

On a personal level, Steve possessed an affinity for interesting relationships, obsessions, and combinations of both. Rob and I often fell under his spell and he under ours, but never in a way that would make sense on paper. Because of Steve’s ability to talk us into just about anything, I once found myself tending bar at the San Francisco Eagle, a notorious Leather Bar, during a benefit for The Names Project. Surrounded by all sorts of people and accessories that I dare not inquire the origin of, I gave free truck rides to anyone who bought raffle tickets. Rob and I seemed like choir boys in that environment, and I still remember Steve’s delight at our presence there.

He took pleasure in pushing boundaries. When he allowed my parents to try to convert him to Christianity so that he wouldn’t burn in hell, he emerged from that conversation as fearless as ever. Such was also his glee when a protest he participated in caught me on the Bay Bridge with 70 feet of truck to turn around. When I gave him a ride on my horse Khen shortly before he died, it was a fulfillment of one of his dreams. And it turned out Khen behaved wonderfully for him. I was the one who got bucked off.

Although initially Steve served as the common link between Rob and me, as he became sicker and sicker, Rob and I became closer. I believe that Steve still follows Rob and me on our journey through life, cheering and screaming, obsessing over us from heaven and if anything gives me comfort it is the thought that in the fifteen years he’s been gone, he’s always been present.

So when it comes to Rob and I, and all the things we’ve endured, it’s a struggle to find the words to convey that history. In my parent’s understated language, the term “life long friends” comes to mind whenever I consider my friendship with Rob. Especially considering our shared witness of the endless pandemic of AIDS, the wave of cultural shifts, and the rise of compassionate conservatism, each witnessed from a unique vantage. We’ve experienced both sweet and sour and a horrific and wonderful history. Looking back on all this, it would seem our accounts seem almost transient, shifting back and forth between hope and hopelessness. I’ve also come to realize that a two decade long relationship equals thirty centuries in gay years.

The HBO series Six Feet Under brilliantly understood the fleeting nature of our tenuous bonds. Concluding a five year run, the final show “Everything Ends” stands as the understatement of humanity. Everything Ends is the brilliant foundational magic of “lifelong friends”, allowing those relationships to shine brightest.

In my case, “lifelong friends” can mean any relationship that lasts over a week. How deeply the effects of any random individual on a single life can be is a marvelous blessing.

~ ~ ~

Clicking my cell phone shut at the conclusion of my call with Rob, I sat in silence. A certain dread and horror fell over me as I stared at the ceiling. The mental afterglow of our shared narrative remained long after the call ended.

I also had a new sense that I’d achieved a most noteworthy milestone. I’d perfected the art of going nowhere fast while being on the verge of setting a new land speed record-For pause.

Welcome to my first “middle age” conversation! I used to say the perspective of age would never happen to me. I mean seriously, I can still hear that voice, my outside voice no less, and it’s still young, bold and imagines anything is possible. So why was I talking to someone in my age bracket about Gasp!- retirement, safety nets, and life’s lessons learned?

People from the Depression/World War II Generation are known for these sorts of conversations. Not me.

But the truth is, most of my gay peers in this generation, at least Gay Generation X, are gone. Vanished. Forget about a collective last stand chorus of “Holy Shxt What in the Hell was THAT about?” There aren't that many of "us" left to remember it. So many who were once "there" to document those events, well they just aren’t here anymore. I still see their faces, dancing next to me at the Pleasure Dome or at Heaven or sitting across from me in a truck stop or any number of places I used to spend time. Now when I see these images, they are ghosts. For most of my life now, it seems that the majority of the people I've known are already gone. I am too young to have been to so many funerals. And its not just AIDS. Add in two murders, several cancer deaths, and more than a few truck accidents, and its a most unsettling reality.

History-and in Rob’s and my case, a lot of very intense history, seems to define our version of World War II survival stories. Only no one is waiting at home port, cheering our arrival on the dock, as we stand safely at attention. No one seems all that grateful for our survival on this latest tour of duty.

Still we share nostalgia, our collection of slightly bent war stories. On the surface, they sound like the same one’s I used to hear my grandfather tell. Told with that far away look in his eye, the softness and amazement in his voice. Oh the romance of it all-the struggles and the miracles of survival.

But in our case, the recollected battles of the Pacific Fleet and my great uncle’s successful bombing raids over Germany are replaced with shared memories of ACT UP! Demonstrations, the miracle of the Names Project or the hyped boldness of Queer Nation, “Kiss In” Actions. Maybe the memories aren’t so much about our individual participation, but in how they still represent a time in our youth and so many people that we once knew.

My grandparent’s stories glowingly recounted “getting by with little”, those golden, big band era memories, and living on the edge of tragedy. Each day might be the last as the Germans and the Japanese threatened everything good. Yet through all that hell, those of that era seemed to have kept their innocence, and their optimism. Or at least they seemed to as they retold their stories.

The innocence of those times compared with the history I know stands as the starkest contrast. I’ve felt a certain hardening toward history that I’ve come to acknowledge. If anything, resolved detachment has became the fuel powering the combustible engines of my life.

~ ~ ~

Laying in the darkness, I kept replaying our conversation. Our reconnection seemed synonymous with watching familiar and beloved clothing tumbling in the dryer. We’ve both survived this prolonged, unexpected wash and wear life. The non-gentle cycled one, a history that’s bleached, spun, and doubled rinsed. Now that we’re a little more faded, a bit tighter, and way less white than we used to be, now what?

I have no plan B. I don’t even have plan A. Neither does Rob. People that know us both wouldn’t be surprised that I’m clueless. But certainly they’d expect Rob to have things planned out.

Worse, we’ve somehow both effortlessly achieved that state of directionless momentum that I’d always romanticized successful poets create for themselves. Inertia without concern, rationalized through artistry and stellar wordsmithing, and better yet, completely enabled through the generous support of enlightened patrons of the arts.

Yet neither of us can claim generous patrons of the arts. I don’t know that the rest of society is all that eager to hear what we have to say either. I’d even offer that the speaking engagements for World War II Vets are in far greater demand.

I used to have a plan. So did Rob. We had our lives laid out so perfectly. Then life happened and our plans turned insolvent. In Rob’s case, ailing parents and his obligation to them sidetracked his plans. In my case, a job related head injury turned everything inside out and upside down.

In both cases, these unplanned events made life somewhat awkward. Where society measures success via net worth, our value must be quantified using other standards.

My adopted family in Pend Oreille County values success using currency exchange models nearing extinction. Success isn’t so much determined by the clichés of flawless career paths, perfectly executed stock options, or equity trades, as it’s measured in the accumulated worth of the humanity that surrounds you. Life coaches have little place in an environment overflowing with grandparents, neighbors and friends. Here accomplishment is measured in one’s value as a neighbor, one’s character, and one’s consistency.

For the last several years, I’ve felt as if I’ve been living in a whirlwinded irrelevent universe separate from many of my peers. Rob’s in a similar place.

Giving up an urban San Francisco lifestyle to take care of his ailing parents, when they passed, Rob stayed in Virginia to settle their estate. For many years, the most important concern has been his family. He’s bonded with nieces and nephews, and grown closer to his siblings. Living in the familial moment rather than speculating on a fast lane future, his is a path that is foreign to many urban gay men. In a self-absorbed, me-me-me culture, many of our peers are completely estranged from family or the process of ageing.

It's awkward subject matter, especially when potential dates ask about future plans. As they’ve pursued their careers, retirement options, accumulating lofts, condo’s, and vacation time shares in Palm Springs, or worse, tried to stay young with face lifts, pec implants, and butt tucks, Rob’s been the loyal son, brother and uncle. He’s out of the "A List" gay loop.

Where I’m going with all of this translates into the following reality. Sometimes I feel like I’ve stepped off the escalator everyone else is on. Any attempt to jump back on seems hopelessly futile. As if I could ever catch up. I’ve adapted to a new set of priorities, learned a new language and found a very measured and sorted way of life. Living uniquely in the moment, without a plan, I still go back and forth about my place in the world. Talking to Rob brought this full circle, and we seem to once again be on a parallel track resulting from entirely different circumstances. The future remains uncertain in light of our shared derailment. But in looking at where I’ve landed and where Rob’s landed, the futility of well made plans seems completely planned. And I’m ok with that.

I bet Steve is too.