He was way too skilled for the administrative assistant job he had at the American Bar Association in Chicago. Carl was smart and funny and connected to people easily. You could imagine him in the role of a researcher. He loved discovering facts and sharing them, whether it be about a Chicago politician or an actor at Second City. He was a natural born investigator.
His memory is endearing. He often typed the word “the” as “hte.” And you had to proofread your pages carefully to find that! I don’t think he did it on purpose, I think he typed quickly, maybe out of boredom, and the error just made its way into our work. When you pointed it out to him, he smiled a devilish grin and promised to do better.
When you think about someone you might want to write about, you think of famous people, those with some universal message. But AIDS didn’t pick just the famous, it picked the everyday person, someone like Carl.
Carl was just an ordinary guy, a guy who came to Chicago looking for more. But anyone who met him realized there was something extraordinary about him.
Born in Kalamazoo, Michigan, Carl loved old movies and collecting memorabilia. While still living in Kalamazoo, he worked at the Bijou Theatre, which closed in 1981. Its final film was the poorly received Deadly Blessing, featuring Ernest Borgnine as a murderous Amish-like minister. Carl loved to say how much he felt at home in a movie house, and how he had easy access to lobby cards he could add to his collection.
When he moved to Chicago, Carl found his way to the ABA, where he worked with an eclectic group of editors. We quickly knew he was one of us. He had a snarky sense of humor, but there wasn’t a lot of malice there. He was just funny.
When he wasn’t stuffing envelopes for the editors, he was stuffing ones filled with photos and lobby cards, and sending those to the celebrities from whom he sought autographs. He would mail photos to movie stars and include a stamped, self-addressed return envelope and 9 out 10 times, he’d get the signed photos returned. I remember him telling me, “Most celebrities are good people. Only once in a while do they just keep the photos.”
What do you do then? I asked. “I send them more and ask them to return them.”
Not surprising, Carl had an encyclopedic knowledge of old movies, the old black and white ones starring the classic movie stars like Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and the B-movie femmes and scream queens. He was the kind of guy you’d want on your team on trivia night.
Carl loved adventure. When a virtual gaming place opened at North Pier, he was practically first in line to try it out. I went with him along with our friend, MaryAnn, and we were so disoriented afterwards, I think we walked sideways back to the office. He was gleeful. “Let’s do it again!”
Carl was a small man, probably 5-foot, 3-inches tall, and he loved to wear vintage shirts. It wasn’t unusual for him to wear an old cowboy shirt to work. He was a kid at heart. It’s not surprising that back in Kalamazoo, he had worked in a shop called Kazoo, Inc., which sold trendy clothing.
One day Carl came to work remarkably upset. Somebody had broken into his apartment and, oddly, had stolen his clothes. We told him the thief was likely a girl or a small man. He ended up finding some of his shirts at the Brown Elephant resale shop and had to buy them back. Oh, he was mad!
When my daughter was born in 1992, Carl came to a special lunch I sponsored and I have a photo of him holding my baby Catherine. There’s a lot of love on his face in that image. It’s one of the last photos I have of him.
At some point after that, Carl told me he wasn’t feeling well. He confided that he thought he had “the illness.” I arranged for him to see a physician friend, someone who specialized in patients with AIDS, but Carl never scheduled the appointment. I called again and asked if my friend would see Carl. Again, Carl blew off making the call.
He started getting thinner and his face began losing some of its luster.
Before he got any more ill, he wanted to finish a dream: a move to California to open a movie memorabilia shop.
And he did. For a very short time.
He quit his job at the ABA and started making plans. Carl asked if I would buy his treasured television set, a huge console TV I didn’t really need. But I bought it and we ended up having it in my family for many more years. It made me feel good knowing I had a little bit of Carl in my home. I also took possession of a very large metal file cabinet, which was stuffed with a lot of his movie memorabilia. “Take care of it for me,” he said. “I’ll send for it.”
He never did. He became too ill.
Upon his return to Chicago, not a year later, Carl was in bad shape. Still, he wouldn’t see the doctor I again set up for him. I offered to go with, but he told me he didn’t want to see any doctor, but wanted instead to live as much as he could on his own terms. He disappeared for a short time, but not before moving most of his worldly possessions into my basement. When he finally did call, he admitted he had met a German “sugar daddy” and was having a great time.
He then asked for a favor. Should anything happen to him, would I contact his stepmom, whose name was Gloria. Carl’s own mother had died when he was just 14. His father had remarried, but even he had died by the time Carl was 36.
Of course I would, and I knew Carl sensed he didn’t have much more time.
I went on vacation with my family in August of 1993 and invited Carl to stay at our condo, knowing he might enjoy just relaxing there. We had central air and a VCR and he could watch all the old movies he wanted. He said, no, but thanks for the offer.
He was then living at the Lake Hotel, a flophouse on Broadway, just south of Addison. That’s where his body was found in September 1993. He was 40 years old.
I drove to Kalamazoo with some of our ABA cohorts for his service. The minister who officiated clearly knew nothing about this lovely friend of ours who loved comic books and old movies and photographing nature.
The minister, a man named Larry, told those attending that he felt like he and Carl had much in common. “Both of us enjoyed shooting in nature,” the minister said. “Of course, I use a gun and Carl used his camera,” he added. We knew Carl would be rolling in his grave had he not been cremated.
Minister Larry then told the young gay men in the church that they could still repent their wicked ways and be saved. I guess he thought he had to toss that in. I turned to look at these sweet-faced boys behind me and rolled my eyes.
After the strange ceremony, I found Gloria, Carl’s stepmom, and let her know I had his belongings. She asked me to send only what was of a personal nature, “photos, things like that.”
I started to go through the envelopes of photos, setting them aside for her.
But then I found his singles ad and the responses, including a naked photo of a man who worked at the ABA and who I saw in the elevator frequently. I figured Gloria didn’t want that. And I would never look at that guy in the elevator the same way!
Carl’s stepmom didn’t want his clothing, his bedding or any furniture.
I put his blankets and pillows into the trunk of my car and that winter found a homeless woman living near the Jewel Food store and asked if she needed anything. She took my hand after I gave her the pillows and blankets and said to me that a great change was coming in my life. Something involved in writing. She had no idea I was a writer. It felt to me like Carl was standing nearby.
I still have the file cabinet stuffed with movie memorabilia. One of these days I’ll go through it.