My Old Friend

That song always brings a tear to my eyes. It makes me think of my oldest friend. Not age, but how long we’ve been friends. Going by simple age I have two friends who are tied at 94 years old. But I’m thinking of Wayne, who I’ve known my entire life. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.

Our great grandparents were siblings, our grandparents were first cousins, our dads were second cousins and best friends. They built their houses in our small community separated by about 200 yards. Wayne and I were born about a year apart so it was only natural that our families put us together. Whether through nature or nurture, it worked; we clicked. Where you saw one, you always saw the other. We were best friends, co-conspirators, partners in crime, whatever you want to call it. Growing up, I was in his house as much as mine and vice versa.

There was little to hold me to rural eastern NC so after high school I went off to college and Wayne joined the military. We kept in touch with letters, this being the days before the internet. After his tour he lived for awhile with his mother and I settled in a city a hundred miles away. I’d always stop in to see him when I visited family. It is amazing how within minutes we’d fall into the same old patterns, our friendship fitting like an old shoe. We’d talk about everything and nothing. Reminisce about the things we got away with and the times we got caught. We’d spend most of the time laughing.

I remember in May of 1979 he made the trip to visit me on his birthday. I was sharing a house with two other guys, but Wayne said he wanted to talk with me in private. We went outside and leaned against his car. He told me he had decided to give himself a 21^st birthday present. He was coming out. Then he said, “I’m gay.” My first thought was, “And…?” This wasn’t exactly a news flash. I’d figured it out long before but knew he’d tell me when he was ready. Although the rural South 1979 wasn’t exactly flying Pride flags, it didn’t bother me. When I didn’t immediately say anything he took a defensive tone, “Are you going to drop me like everyone else has today?” I’m not sure what hurt more, that he thought I’d drop him or that so many apparently had.

I said, “You’re my friend and I love you. Nothing can change that.” Since he looked like he needed it, I pulled him into a hug. He clutched me tightly for a second, and pulled away with a sniff.  He muttered, “It’s a sucky way to find out who your real friends are.” He said he’d lost many so-called friends with his admission that day, including his dick head brother. I assured him I’d always be his friend.

Wayne was a stubborn guy and went back to our rural community and lived proud and out loud. He forced people to see him. It may sound cliché, but he took a job with a florist. He had a flair for it and eventually opened his own shop. His artistry made him a success, and he was fully booked every holiday to custom decorate houses. I couldn’t have been more proud.

The little community where he lived was a dead zone for anything social for gay people. There was a gay club in the city where I live that he liked to frequent. He’d make the couple hour drive every weekend. He’d sometimes stop in to see me when he arrived in town or more often, just before he left. Late one Saturday night, after watching SNL I’d gone to bed, when I heard pounding on my door. Wayne was disheveled, red-eyed, and in a state of general distress. I got him some water and sat him on the couch to talk. He and the man he was seeing had a huge falling out and he felt lost. I helped him calm down and figure out his next steps. I offered him my couch to sleep on but he wanted to go and confront his friend. The next morning there was a note on my door that said they had worked it out, deciding to part and remain friends. The last line of the note touched me deeply. He said, “Thanks for being a friend when I needed one.” I can’t think of any greater compliment.

Time went on and life got in the way. Wayne and I saw less and less of each other. We kept in touch via email and Facebook. I’d stop by his house when I visited my family.  The last time I talked with him was about a month before he died of a heart attack. He told me he was having health problems and had to quit working. Then a month later my aunt asked me had I heard he had passed away in his sleep. I was shocked into silence. I was a year older than him. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. We’d often joked we’d end up in the same rest home and race our wheelchairs.

Although I talked with him rarely, the opportunity was always there. Now that opportunity was gone. There were things I still wanted to say to him, memories I wanted to relive, laughs I wanted to share. But he was gone. Full stop. At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that at the end of his life, we had reconnected again, and he knew I cared. And that’s what matters.

Wayne was no big Pride demonstrator or gay advocate. He simply lived his life the way he wanted and said fuck you to anyone who had a problem with it. He also inadvertently changed the minds of some of the people in our neighborhood. The boy they had known and loved all his life was gay, so maybe gay wasn’t that bad. My parents were virulent homophobes but he had an effect on them. They loved him dearly, he was part of our family. After she learned about him, my mother’s attitude changed and she was open to gay people. My dad was better at compartmentalizing. He could still hate all gays, but exempt Wayne as one of the few “good ones”. It fit well with his racism. I loved my dad but he was a product of a different time.

As June is Pride Month, I’ve thought about Wayne often. The adventures we shared are forever locked in my memory (where some need to remain out of sight). We lived, laughed, and loved. And that’s enough.