Randy and I had spent the majority of our time at the hotel’s beach bar and restaurant, enjoying elaborate meals and drinking ourselves sick. When we got ready to check out, I went down to the front desk to get a copy of our charges. I was shocked. It was more than twelve hundred dollars, and I knew my credit card couldn’t stand that kind of bill.
I went back to the room and told Randy. We pooled our cash but came up about five hundred dollars short. I told Randy I had a plan. He would leave the hotel and take a taxi to the airport. I would leave from the terrace of our room and walk on the beach to the hotel next door and catch a cab from there and meet him at the airport.
“Have you lost your mind, bitch?” Randy asked.
“What? You don’t think it will work?” I asked.
“What do you think people are going to think with you walking across the beach fully clothed and carrying a full set of designer luggage?” he said, laughing.
“Then what are we going to do?” I asked, realizing how stupid my plan was.
“Visualize the clerk punching in your credit card number and the approval coming across the machine,” Randy said.
I was thinking, Yeah right. We would probably end up in a Barbados jail for theft of services, and I didn’t know a single soul I could have called to send me the money. But Randy had been right, I told his friends. My credit card was approved. In fact, Randy and I had used our visualization technique to buy Baccarat crystal and upgrade our coach tickets to first class for the flight to New York with the same credit card that I knew was past due everywhere except, apparently, in Barbados. I ended my story by telling everyone how we got drunk on champagne during the flight. Once we arrived at the airport, we were so proud of our tans that we rushed to Randy’s apartment, dropped off our luggage, and headed straight to the club. As we entered the subway station, Randy looked at me and said, “We look so good with our tans, men are going to be lining up to buy us drinks. We’ll be the most hated bitches in the club tonight.”
Everybody laughed and said almost in unison, “That was Randy.”
Our trip to Barbados was not the first time I had encountered Randy’s visualization theory. Randy shared a few of his beauty secrets with me and told me the most important one was visualizing meeting the finest man available that night. So whenever Randy was going to the club, he would look into the mirror after getting dressed, and tell himself, “You’re smart, you’re handsome, and tonight you’re going to meet your king.” Randy always had his choice of good-looking men, and I dreamed of being as confident as he was.
There were whispers that maybe he had committed suicide, but those of us who knew Randy didn’t believe it. At the time of his death Randy had completed his first novel and had shot a television pilot with good friend Lajoyce Hunter Warlick, who also spoke at the party. It was a black version of Entertainment Tonight and was the big break for which Randy had been waiting.
Months after Randy’s death I was still walking around in a daze, trying to figure out what had happened to my friend. I found it difficult going to some of the bars Randy and I had frequented in the district. I tried desperately to piece together information about his last days. The card I had sent him had been found with the money still inside. The only person I knew who had seen Randy was Mario.
He called about a month after Randy had died to offer his condolences. “Even though I didn’t like him, I know how important he was to you,” he said. He told me how he had seen Randy at Keller’s on Valentine’s Day night. When I asked how Randy looked and what he was doing, he said, “I didn’t speak to him, but he looked fine to me. He was just being Randy, flirting with some man and drinking.” No one else, including his building superintendent, recalled seeing Randy after Valentine’s Day.
I TRIED TO GET ON WITH MY LIFE, which continued to change daily. Much to my surprise, Richard had decided to marry his longtime girlfriend, Stephanie, which meant I had to find an apartment of my own.
When I asked Richie why he was getting married, he told me simply that he was tired of being alone. With his family and good friends, I had never thought of Richie as being lonely. I was happy for him and Stephanie, and nervous and excited about having my own apartment once again. I wanted to get a place in the heart of D.C. near the clubs, but Richie talked me out it, reminding me of the danger in the city and his concern that I would revert to my old Chicago ways. He pointed out that Randy’s recent death should be reason enough for me to stay in the suburbs. Richie was convinced that Randy had been killed by some rough trade. I didn’t believe this, because Randy dated only good-looking and usually responsible men. Still, I took Richard’s advice and found a two-bedroom apartment about five minutes from Richie’s house.
Even though I lived near Richie, I didn’t see him that often and just assumed that he was settling into married life. But one evening I decided to pay him a visit, and I was shocked when I saw that he was losing weight and walked like he was in a great deal of pain. Naturally, I got worried. When I asked Richard about his health, he told me his car had been rear-ended in an accident—thus the pain he was experiencing in his back. I believed him.
About a week later, Robin Walters, a very good friend of mine from my college cheerleading days and IBM, called to express her sympathy about Richard. When I asked Robin what she was talking about, she paused. I told her that Richard had been in a car wreck but was okay.
“I don’t think so, Harris,” Robin said softly. “I have a friend who works in IBM benefits who told me Richard is out on disability because he has cancer.”
When I told her she was wrong, she told me she was certain. Robin was not the kind of woman who gossiped just for the sake of it. I knew she was calling me out of concern because she knew I thought of Richard as a big brother. I hung up the phone and went to my car and headed to Richard’s house. When I arrived I used my key, and I was on my way upstairs to Richard’s and Stephanie’s bedroom when I heard Stephanie ask, “Where are you going?”
“Upstairs to see Richie,” I said.
“He’s not here,” Stephanie said.
“But I saw his car in the garage,” I protested.
“He’s not here. I’ll tell him to call you when he gets home,” Stephanie assured me. There was a strange look on her face like she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t. I’d always gotten along great with Stephanie and couldn’t understand why she was lying to me. Richard never went anywhere without his prized gold Mercedes, which he didn’t allow anybody to drive.
Later that evening I called Richard’s house, and for the first time in several weeks, he answered the phone. He sounded like Richie, with his strong and forceful voice. We talked a few minutes about my jobs, and he joked about how many I had had since leaving IBM, which when I thought about it had been numerous.
“When are you going to find out what you’re really supposed to being doing down here?” Richard asked.
I laughed, and then I asked Richard if he was really all right, and he very firmly said, “Yes, I’m fine.”
I said good night, and when I hung up the phone I wanted to believe Richie, I needed to believe him, but I sat on the floor and cried. I became numb with fear that I couldn’t bear to lose another close friend, one who had become a part of my family.
The following weekend, I returned to Richie’s house determined to see my big brother. I came under the guise of needing to wash my car. Again I saw Richie’s car in the garage, but there was no sign of him. It took me about two hours to wash my car, and afterward I went into the house to talk to Stephanie. She was in her usual perky mood, talking about her new job and how Scotty, her pre-teenage son, was adjusting to his new school and neighborhood.
When I asked about Richie, she told me he was upstairs sleeping. In all the years I’d known Richard, I couldn’t recall his ever taking naps. Now I was convinced something was wrong.
I was trying to figure out how I could go upstairs to Richie’s bedroom, when suddenly I heard his cheerful voice almo
st singing, “Is that Lynn Harris I hear? Come on up here and talk to me.”
Stephanie and I exchanged a quizzical glance and I moved slowly toward the stairs.
When I entered Richie’s sanctuary, the master suite complete with wet bar and fireplace, I saw him sitting in his maple canopy bed propped up by several pillows. I was shocked by what I saw. He looked like he had lost fifty pounds since the last time I had seen him, which had been just the month before. Only his smile and killer green eyes made me certain it was Richie. I walked over to his bed to give him a hug and felt tears forming. As I pulled back, Richard saw my tears and quickly said, “If you’re going to cry, then you can’t stay up here.”
“So what are you telling me? That I’m going to have to grow up?”
“Yep, you’ve got to grow up, ’cause it doesn’t look like Richie is going to be here to keep you from doing dumb shit.”
I tried to stop the tears, but when I realized I couldn’t, I raced out of Richie’s room and into the bedroom I’d called my own for more than a year. I tried to pull myself together, but every time I thought of the way Richie looked, the tears would return. Only a short time before, in that same room, I had drunk myself to sleep when I found out that Randy had died. I thought about how much I missed Randy and how badly I would miss Richie.
About a half hour later, I walked back into his room and asked Richard if there was anything I could do. He said he was fine and asked how I was doing.
“I’m fine,” I said. Then I asked, “Does it hurt?”
“I have a little discomfort, but I’m a Coleman, and we come from tough stock,” Richie said with a smile.
I smiled back, but I was heartbroken.
IT WAS JULY WHEN I LEARNED of Richie’s illness. He told me the doctors had given him a couple of months to live but he wanted to make it until October and his fortieth birthday. I decided I didn’t want to miss any of Richie’s last days, so I quit my job so I could spend as much time with him as possible. It wasn’t like he needed me. Stephanie and his family made sure Richie didn’t want for anything, but I would just sit on the edge of his bed and watch television with him and talk whenever he felt like it.
Every time he coughed or had difficulty breathing, I would jump. At that point I was very squeamish and had never really been around anyone so seriously ill.
Surprisingly in a place where death loomed, the Coleman household was like a Fourth of July celebration most times. Many of Richie’s friends, nieces, and nephews would come and spend the weekends. There was a lot of cooking, card playing, and laughter during those days. That’s the way Richie wanted it.
Richard’s illness taught me how short life can be and the importance of friendship. I wanted him to know how much his friendship meant to me, so almost every day I would leave him a card or a letter. The letters were always written on expensive paper, and I would remind Richie of some of the good times we had shared and what I had learned from him. Sometimes I would see tears trickle down Richie’s face, and he would ask me to finish reading the letter aloud.
One day after reading one of my letters, Richie looked at me and said, “You know, you write great notes and letters. You should give up this sales bullshit and write a book.”
“What kind of book?” I asked.
“You could write about us. Not just me and you, but all the children. You should tell our story,” Richard said firmly.
“You think I can do that?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Richard placed his hand on top of mine and looked at me and said, “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I will.”
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, Richie and I replayed the many wonderful moments of our friendships. He thanked me for introducing him to college football and many of my southern ways, and I thanked him for being the big brother I always wanted.
One afternoon when the house was quiet and the two of us were talking and laughing about something in our past, he looked at me and said, “You know, I feel okay about leaving now, because I know you’ll be okay. I’ve seen you grow up so much these last two months, and it makes me proud. I know you’re worried about how you’re going to make it without me, but you’ll be just fine.”
I didn’t know if I believed Richie, but I did feel as if I had grown through his illness. I realized the world didn’t revolve around me and my search for love and self-esteem. I learned that I could face the tough obstacles of seeing someone I loved dying and still maintain my faith in God. I was reminded of the power of family, and the lie that black families were homophobic was dispelled by the love and support every member of Richie’s family showed him every day, not because he was dying but because he was their son, husband, brother, uncle, cousin, and friend.
THE FRIDAY BEFORE Richie’s birthday, we watched Dark Victory with Bette Davis. It was a sad movie I had never seen, but Richie said he had watched it many times. Afterward we watched the pilot of In Living Color. Donald Gasden, one of Richie’s best friends, was a lawyer for Fox television and had left the tape after one of his visits from the West Coast. We laughed so hard, we would rewind the tape after every sketch. Richie especially liked the “Go On Girl” sketch and the gay film critics.
One Saturday something amazing happened. When I went into Richie’s room he wasn’t there. His car was gone, and nobody seemed to know where he was. We were all worried, but about an hour later in walked Richie with a smile on his face. Everyone wanted to know where he had been, and his mother fussed at him about getting everybody worried.
Richie told us he had gone to McDonald’s because he wanted a hamburger and a Filet-O-Fish sandwich, and he had had his car washed. Then he walked upstairs and back to his bedroom. He told me he wanted to get some rest so that maybe he could dance at the fortieth birthday party Stephanie and his family had planned for him on Sunday evening.
I WENT TO CHURCH Sunday morning and prayed for God to perform a miracle on Richie. Afterward I went to Richie’s house, where everybody was either cooking or putting up decorations for Richie’s birthday celebration. There were three generations of Colemans there, and many of Richie’s close friends. Many, like Donald, had flown into town for the celebration. It was a happy day, almost a combination of Thanksgiving and Christmas in terms of the amount of food prepared.
When the evening ended, I went up to say good-bye to Richie, who had been excited most of the day but now looked exhausted. I sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed the blankets. Richie’s once-powerful runner’s legs now felt like bones. But I didn’t care; I just wanted to be close to him.
“So we made it,” Richie said, smiling.
“Yeah, we did. Now let’s see about staying around until Christmas. Maybe I’ll start that story for you,” I said.
“You promise?”
“Yeah, what else do I have to do?”
I kissed Richie on his smooth face and whispered that I loved him. I heard him tell me that he loved me too. When I got to the door of his bedroom, I looked back at him. He smiled and gave me the okay sign, and I returned the gesture.
It was the last time I would see Richard “Richie” Coleman and his wonderful smile. He died the next day, early that Monday morning—peacefully, I am told, in his sleep.
CHAPTER 13
After Richard died, things got worse for me. He had warned me against moving into D.C. because he knew I would continue to allow people to take advantage of my low self-esteem. But a couple of months after his death, and after his family had sold his house and returned to upstate New York, that’s exactly what I did.
I leased an apartment in the Northwest section of D.C., within walking distance of the White House. It was a neighborhood of splendor and squalor, a perfect setting for a novel. The three-story walk-up where I lived was brand-new. I was the first resident. The apartment had marble fireplaces in the living and bedroom areas, parquet floors, and a washer and dryer in each unit.
A few doors away was a four-s
tory tenement that had to be among the worst in the District. Some of the windows had screens covering them, some didn’t, and many were cracked. People went in and out of the building constantly, and I soon found out one of my neighbors was selling crack. I was told by the leasing agent that the area was “slowly changing,” but most of my suspect neighbors didn’t seem aware of the change.
Right outside my apartment was a gas station where several homeless men and addicts would offer to put gas in your car or wash windows for a price. I became friendly with a couple of them, and they always made sure my Mercedes was protected when I was in a hurry and parked it on the street.
Later two men, a Harvard-educated lawyer and a Georgetown law student from the West Coast, moved into the building. Both were nice enough, but I didn’t spend a lot of time getting to know them, especially after the Georgetown law student wanted to know why I wanted to watch a bunch of fairies when I bumped into him on my way to see the Dance Theater of Harlem at the Kennedy Center. I didn’t respond, but I made a mental memo to never get into any deep conversations about sexuality with him.
I became a frequent patron of the Brass Rail, a bar-diner located on Sixth and K. The Brass Rail had strip shows on Friday nights and drag shows on Sundays. The bar attracted all types, from drag queens to professional working men to rough trade, selling their sex for drugs and dollars. The bar was always packed on the weekends, and was the site of a few stabbings and barroom brawls.
I was drinking more than ever. By now my craving was more than a simple thirst for a glass of wine to relax me. It was a penetrating, irrational need to get me from moment to moment. It was amazing that I even got home several nights and wasn’t stopped for DWI. Sometimes when I felt the depression returning like a ghost from a Toni Morrison novel, I would take a taxi so I wouldn’t have to worry about driving.
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted Page 20
