SHARED by MELISSA

SCOTT & CON

I met my friends Scott and Con in Chicago, 1990, and the three of us would remain friends until Con died in 1994 and Scott in 1996, both from AIDS-related complications.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them and miss them. I have pictures of them and items that belonged to them – look at the photo of the Art Deco vanity chair that Scott found in an alley and had reupholstered in pale mint green. But even though having memories of them is comforting, when you lose someone that young, it’s not enough – just like why I eat chocolate chip cookies so often instead of remembering what they taste like.

But this Story Archive, like the Quilt, helps to remind us of the enthralling personalities of people, like my friends, who no longer exist.

Scott nicknamed me M Lotion because he said that I was, like that Clinique skincare product, friend to gay men. When he threw a dinner party, he wanted me to arrive early so we could spend time alone together. He also relegated me to “first coats only” when it came to painting each other’s apartments. And he’d make fun of gay men who spoke with the sibilant “s” by asking, “How many “S’s” are in the word “concerto”?

And when he got sick, and was in and out of the hospital with excruciating eye procedures, he remained stoic – he’d complained more about not being able to get black pepper in Italy than about what he was going through. 

Scott and Con shared a lot of etiquette tips with me -

• For Scott, it was the importance of the host’s duties. He and I attended a backyard BBQ. When we arrived, the host pointed to the chips and dip, told us to help ourselves to drinks at the bar, and then went inside. When I dropped Scott at home after the party, he said, “The party was OK but it got off to a bad start when our friend relinquished his host responsibility prematurely by leaving us to get drinks for ourselves.”

• Con wrote thank you notes on his engraved notecards. He would always use a three-item format, choosing three things to highlight about the dinner or visit. 

I had a BBQ to attend in the suburbs and asked Con if he wanted to join me. “If there’s potato salad and kids to pick up and put on my shoulders, I’m there,” he said. He was the hit of the party as the older women loved that he was a teacher (Professor of Romance Languages and Literature), liked to cook, and was getting the recipe for the chicken marinade. Speaking of food, Con detested raisins – or “dried cockroaches” as he referred to them. So, when he picked up pumpkin bread from a friend, looked forward to eating it, got home and unwrapped it, sat down with a cup of coffee and sliced a piece only to discover RAISINS! - he had to throw it out. Because it should have accurately been described as pumpkin raisin bread.

At first, Con didn’t describe himself as a feminist, but as “pro-feminist,” because he’s a man. But one day I received a brochure in the mail from a workshop on gender he had attended. And on the brochure, he attached a post-it note that read, “My pet, I think I’m a feminist 🙂”

I visited him toward the end and agreed to make egg salad he had a craving for. He was lying on a couch in another room and told me an inordinate amount of time to boil the eggs. I listened, but only to a point, and when I checked on them the water had evaporated. I picked up the eggs in the Le Creuset pot and brought it to the sink and turned on the faucet – only to experience an explosion of egg shells that sounded like a cannon being fired. This woke up Con and I told him not to come into the kitchen as I was picking up egg shells that had scattered all over. I told him he’d laugh about this one day, and he replied, “I won’t live that long.”

Even though I knew my friends were dying, it’s similar to expecting a baby inasmuch as you can prepare, but when it happens, your life completely changes. In opposite ways, of course. My friends ceasing to exist is as devastating as welcoming a new life is full of joy, wonder, and hope.

SHARED by MELISSA

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