Brett Capone’s name popped into my head today and I lit up
with smiles remembering our times together. How many years has it been? Wonder
where he is. Still in Rhode Island? What an accent that man has. An inflection
as tough as the waterfronts of New Bedford, Providence and Fall River combined,
infused with just enough of his grandparents’ Italian to hold his own in an
argument at table.
Brett was hot. Hazel eyes alternating between mischief and kindness over a
thick biker stash. A short lean build that never acquired the paunch that is
everyone else’s destiny. I wondered if he’s still got the butch little body
that drove the boys wild at that dive on Weybosset Street. I realized as I
opened the Mac that I never had any idea of Brett’s age. Probably in his late
40s by now. Didn’t he stay with us more than once at our place in Montreal? Of
course he did. How could I forget? As I tell Chris that I am about to google
him, he reminds me of the time when Brett was our guest in Montreal and spent an
entire morning sipping coffee while meticulously and ritualistically ironing
his thickly ribbed wooly socks that comprised the keynote of the costume of that
season. Black baseball cap. Dogtags over white wifebeater. Tight denim shorts
rolled up to mid thigh, and hellishly heavy black work boots over those tall gray socks. We had
never heard of anyone ironing his socks! Brett looked beyond us and blissfully
ignored us while we laughed our heads off at the spectacle of the princess
revealed at the ironing board obsessively preparing her gown for yet another crazed
night out at K.O.X., the Aigle Noir or Le Stud and ending up in just a short
white towel at the St. Marc’s with a bottle of Rush in his hand and sitting
next to me in the sauna, where we whispered into each other’s ears the
hilarious accounts of the fantastic men we had just encountered. I counted on
Brett for those moments. We both shared a delight in the telling of the story
that far surpassed the actual adventures in which we trespassed, often just to
acquire new material and newer more lurid details. We were like little boys
embellishing ghost stories by flashlight in the backyard tents of our
childhood. Sometimes, in the discharge of our supporting roles in the course of
a night’s revelry, we would tag team unsuspecting men. We’d pull a script out
of thin air. Brett would do this. I would say that. We’d pretend to be strangers. We’d work in someone named
Sylvain or Serge or Stephan, and we’d always leave them laughing. That is, we’d
leave laughing. Hyper-attuned to the sweaty slapstick of men in heat, Brett and
I would sometimes break into giggles at inopportune moments. I suspect we
derailed many an otherwise erotic passage of choreography just because neither
of us could ignore the humor of what men do and say when inflamed with desire.
As you may have suspected by now, a quick search of his name
informed me that Brett died several years ago. A memorial post was embellished
with great photos and mentioned a partner, a search of whose name led me to the
fact that he died not long after Brett.
I wish I did not know this. I wish I had not searched for
him. What is the point of knowing someone’s current status when you haven’t
felt strongly enough about him to keep in touch? Is there some injury to thinking
a man is still alive when he is not? Wouldn’t it be better to assume he was
still in Rhode Island? Still bitching about some employer who wouldn’t approve
enough time off? Still bubbling over about some amazing guy he encountered just
yesterday? Still carefully ironing his socks for the thrilling night to come?
